“However, Hoffman, Nazi ideas have been alive in the German people for twenty centuries.”
It was as though they had all been doused with cold water. For many moments a stunned silence prevailed until Herr Bach, the most innocuous member of the council, spoke up mousily. “I always thought there was something wrong with that poem,” he said.
“Then why in the hell didn’t you speak up?” Sean demanded.
“But, Major, one does not speak up against tradition.”
“That is precisely the point. Your tradition demands blind obedience. So long as you are willing to be led like sheep your minds will be captured by another madman. Perhaps in a year or five or twenty some priest will deliver a sermon from the pulpit denouncing the legend or some teacher lead a group of students to protest it ... only then will it be safe to read Hinterseer.”
Falkenstein, who had remained completely out of it now spoke. “You do have tradition in America, do you not, Major?”
“If the President of the United States were to read the Declaration of Independence before the Lincoln Memorial on the Fourth of July there would be someone in America to protest and to question.”
Falkenstein nodded his head, as if to say “touché.” A slight smile crossed his lips as he saw the utter confusion among the council. Here they had believed themselves to be the “good” Germans. The failing then was partly theirs too; there was an iota of Nazi in them all.
“There being no further business before this council I am advising you that I will be at Supreme Headquarters in Frankfurt for the next several days. Captain Duquesne will be in command during my absence. You are dismissed,” he said, eyeing Falkenstein to remain.
Sean stuffed his notes and papers into his briefcase. The two men were alone in the great hall. The legend blared down at them from the faded tapestry. Sean snapped his case shut. The coldness between him and Falkenstein was like that of the stone fireplace. “They hate me, don’t they, Falkenstein?” Sean found himself saying.
“On the contrary, Major O’Sullivan. You have earned the position as their father and their leader. Those are two things a German understands. You see for yourself how well they obey you. Once the German is defeated he is quite manageable.”
“But they don’t even know what the hell I was talking about.”
“I think you are far too impatient, Major. We may be ancient in our traditions but we are infants in the democratic experience. Our first venture with a republic, the Weimar, ended in disaster. The subtleties of democratic process are beyond their comprehension.”
“But they do understand father and obedience. So we’re in for another cycle of it when another father leads them to destruction.”
Falkenstein straightened up a bit. “You conveniently forget the great things the German people have given the world. These are the Germans I love and believe in. This is the Germany I fight for.”
Sean was tempted to argue the point. Yes, there were great contributions in literature and music and science. However, there had never been a lasting German ideal of freedom and damned few of the dignity of man. Even their greatest reformer, Martin Luther, was a dogmatic tyrant. And here, Ulrich Falkenstein, who had suffered untold brutality at the hands of this society, stubbornly refused to give up his identity or his faith. It was admirable nonsense to Sean. To believe so strongly was good; but it was beyond any man’s vision to feel the German people would change. They both sensed the conversation had hit an impasse.
“We all fear,” Falkenstein broke the ice, “that you have committed your last official act in Rombaden?”
“That may be so,” Sean said.
“That would be a shame. You have been hard but you have never been unfair. You see, Major O’Sullivan, there are subtleties of democracy that even I cannot comprehend. For example, why does a man of your stature throw away a brilliant career in the protection of an Emma Stoll?”
“It seems to me, Heir Falkenstein, that is a strangely put question from one who was convicted by a Hitler court.”
“Surely you do not intend to compare me to Emma Stoll.”
“Of course not. But I do challenge a Hitler court to exist in the name of my country.”
“It is a pity you won’t be going to Berlin with me when I am able to. Frankly, we both have a lot to learn. On the other hand, I have a feeling that you don’t really want to know that there are good Germans.”
Sean shot him an angry glance, then stifled his anger. “You said yourself, I have been fair.”
“Fair, yes. Like a dog trainer. But even an animal can smell when he is hated.”
“Herr Falkenstein,” he said, “I have written a full report for the incoming commander in case someone other than Captain Duquesne is selected. I have strongly recommended that he place full trust in you in all matters.”
They shook hands with great reservation and completely without affection. Yet, an undeniable mutual admiration existed between the two men.
“Good luck, Major,” Falkenstein said, and left the great hall.
And then, Sean was alone.
Sean found himself wandering through a maze of narrow streets. He had arranged that there would be no farewells, no sentimentality. In the morning he would leave, supposedly on a routine trip to Supreme Headquarters ... no more, no less.
A battalion of laborers, prisoners of war, with Polish guards hacked into the endless rubble piles at one of the intersections. As they saw the commander the Germans stopped their work for an instant, stared, doffed their caps, and bowed as he passed. The Poles greeted him with formal salutes and smiles, but Sean was oblivious to them.
Now was the time to make one’s balance sheet. There could be a balance sheet for Liam and Timothy O’Sullivan. There was one for Nan Milford ... losses, gains, happiness, sadness. But there would be no balance for either Rombaden or Sean O’Sullivan.
A few dim, hopeful signs rose curiously in the sunlight in the sea of ruin. The people of Rombaden were working with amazing energy. They had used great ingenuity in the creation of jobs and in using rubble for raw material for a dozen enterprises.
But the digging out would continue for months, perhaps years. A single classroom had been opened without Nazi teachers or Nazi textbooks. A single four-page newspaper and a twenty-five-watt hand-generated radio station represented the press. Half the population had filled out the dreaded Fragebogen. Many of the Nazis were reduced to common labor. Now there was an application to form several trade unions and even a request to begin a political party ... these were signs, however small.
On the other side, the scales weighed heavily. Sean knew now that de-Nazification, in reality, would never work. One does not kill two hundred thousand forming the heart of the Nazi cancer and punish sixteen million others without oneself becoming a Nazi. In the British Zone it was becoming apparent that only the top Nazis would be tried, these trials for showcasing. The French, who realistically had to continue to live next to the Germans, could only pay later for vengeance now.
Nonfraternization was starting to break down. The new troops who had not seen combat were not so hostile toward the Germans, and the good old generous Yankee hearts began to show. American soldiers could not resist giving chocolate to children. And why not, Sean wondered? Were we ever taught to let children starve? Is it our way?
Also, soldiers are men and men needed women—and they would find them, nonfraternization notwithstanding. Certainly, as commander, Sean could make it dangerous, but never dangerous enough to stop it.
Only yesterday he saw something at his own residence that set him thinking. Two of his guards were helping his old servants, Alfred and Heidi Oberdorfer, repair their shattered cottage.
“Goddamn,” Sean whispered aloud, “we are lousy conquerors.”