“How much more can the army take?”
Zhukov understood the question. It was not a matter of dead and wounded, it was a question of possible mutiny by the masses when confronted with the likelihood of slaughter. The Russian peasant had fought desperately to save Mother Russia, but now Russia was safe and the Germans were slowly falling back through Poland, killing large numbers of Russians as they retreated. It was not a question of if the army would shatter, but when. If victory was unlikely and the primal urge to live perceived as hopeless, the army might revolt and communism go the way of the Romanovs.
“Unless something dramatic and unexpected happens, Comrade Stalin,” Zhukov continued, “I would estimate a couple of months at best before the army either cannot or will not move forward.”
“What do we need?”
Zhukov exhaled. Stalin was listening to him. He might make it through the afternoon without a bullet in the back of his head.
“A rest. A pause. A very long pause to build up our strength and train our armies. We must also weed out the defeatists who would poison our new recruits.”
“How long?”
“At least a year, Comrade Stalin, preferably two.”
Another purge, Stalin thought, with more people sent to the gulags. So be it. “Continue to push the Germans,” he said and turned to Molotov. “While you, comrade, contact the Swedes. We will see what Himmler has to offer.”
Life on the farm agreed with Margarete. After only a few days, she realized that she was eating better, losing weight, and gaining muscle. Of course, her mother said it might just be the natural shedding of baby plumpness, but it didn’t matter to her. She only knew that she was well on her way to becoming a woman.
Aunt Bertha’s farm was south and west of Hachenburg, which put it only a few miles east of the Rhine. The farm was prosperous. Bertha and her husband Hans grew wheat, raised cattle and pigs, and made a modest attempt to grow grapes to turn into the white wine that was grown so successfully elsewhere. Their pigs and cows prospered; the wine was ordinary at best. Magda whispered to her that some of the poorer versions could be used as paint remover. Hans and Bertha were stout and looked the part of wealthy farmers with more than enough to eat. As in contrast to the people in Berlin where fresh food was always short.
Margarete had taken with pleasure to milking the cows and feeding the pigs. There were cats and dogs everywhere demanding to be petted. It was almost possible to forget there was a war going on someplace and that people were being bombed to pieces. She could breathe deeply and think clearly. There was no smell of smoke and burned things in the air to choke and nauseate her.
No sirens went off when the American planes flew overhead, which they did quite frequently. Sometimes, she would just look up and watch the precise bomber formations and their fighter escorts as they headed eastward towards Berlin and other major cities. Sometimes she would say a short prayer.
Only two things bothered her. The first was petty-Bertha insisted on calling her Magpie despite Margarete’s protests. The second was far more serious-the depressing presence of foreign laborers at the farm. Large numbers of prisoners of war had been pulled from the POW camps to help out on farms, freeing up German men to fight the enemies of the Reich, and the Mullers had three of them.
It was clear from their sullen expressions and the hatred in their eyes that they despised their situation and everything German. One prisoner in particular, a man she knew as Victor, gazed at her family with barely concealed loathing. Bertha noticed it too and simply told Magda and Margarete to stay away from him. They could send him back to the prison camp, but what if anything would they get instead? They need him to do the work, so they would endure his silent insolence.
Bertha shook her head. “I cannot understand why the prisoners don’t realize that they are so much better off with us than back in the prison camp. Here they get good food and decent living conditions. Why are they so hateful?”
Because they are nothing more than slaves, Margarete thought. They might as well be Negroes working on the southern plantations in America that she’d read about. Since seeing the death train and the dead Jews, Margarete had become more attuned to what was happening around her. Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich had more than a few warts, she’d concluded, and Himmler was doing little to change matters. When she’d mentioned it to her mother, Magda had simply told her to be still. Hans and Bertha were devout Nazis and still mourned Hitler’s death. According to them, he was the greatest man in Germany’s history.
Everyone glanced up as a dozen American fighters flew low overhead. They were so low they could see the outline of the pilots’ heads in their cockpits.
“The arrogant yanks are doing that to annoy us,” Bertha sniffed.
“I think they are looking for trains to attack,” Margarete said, again thankful that they’d come by the automobile that was now locked away in a small barn.
Bertha agreed. “As long as we don’t do anything to annoy them, they will leave us alone. Someday soon we will launch our super weapons at them and then they will learn humility.”
Germany was a very large country and there were still whole sections where the war had scarcely touched them. Most of the major cities had been savagely bombed, but not little farms or villages like theirs south of Hachenburg. The war, however, was far from abstract. The enemy planes flying overhead prevented that, as did the feeling of dread when the mail came for those families with loved ones in the military. Far too many announcements had arrived saying that young Johan or Fritz had been killed, wounded, or was missing in such places as North Africa, Italy, Russia, and now in France. The war was an omnipresent dark and brooding background.
That evening, Magda showed Margarete a piece of paper that had just arrived by mail. Magda was clearly unhappy.
“We have been drafted,” she said.
Margarete at first thought it was a joke. “Where?” she laughed. “Into the Luftwaffe? I’ve always wanted to be a pilot.”
“No, you silly child, into one of the labor battalions that are being organized to develop defenses along the Rhine. All eligible German civilians between fourteen and sixty, male and female, are to participate, according to Himmler and Speer. Since we are not the farm’s owners or laborers, we are eligible. We will be trucked to the appropriate areas on Friday mornings and be returned on Saturday night so we can spend the Sabbath either praying for Germany’s success or salving our sore muscles.”
Bertha huffed. “You’d think that having a husband as a high-ranking officer in the OKW would be enough to exempt you.”
Magda declined to tell her sister that Ernst wasn’t all that high ranking and that he most likely wouldn’t permit special favors even if he had the power Bertha thought he had. She did wonder if the policeman who’d scolded her for protesting the deaths of the Jews had found out who she was and had been behind the conscription notice. No matter. She would serve the Reich.
Margarete understood Aunt Bertha’s dismay and shared it, but only to a point. Working to defend Germany would be an adventure and might help erase the lingering memory of those dead and rotting Jews. She stepped outside, away from bickering adults, and into a clear refreshing night filled with stars. She stiffened. Victor was slouching against a fence and staring at her. His hand reached down and briefly touched his crotch. She gasped and he walked away. She thought about telling Bertha, but what had she actually seen? Perhaps it was nothing more than a middle-aged man scratching himself.