“Yes, another hundred or so, but only former local cops and no SS or Gestapo.”
“Are you sure?” asked Tom.
Diggs shrugged. “Not really, Colonel, but they are all I have. We checked them all out and nobody’s got an SS tattoo. Get me some more people and I’ll get rid of them. Otherwise, I’m not ashamed to use them and I feel they are necessary to maintain order.”
“I’m confused,” said Jessica. “If these people are refugees why are you treating them like prisoners?”
Diggs laughed mirthlessly. “Because, if I let them loose, they and the local Germans would be at each other’s throats in a heartbeat. All the German refugees have been moved to local households and the French ones have been shipped back to France. The ones in this camp are the Czechs, the Poles, and God knows what else. They hate the Germans because they were kept as slaves and now a lot of them want revenge. A number of Germans have been murdered and the women raped by rampaging gangs of refugees and I can’t let that happen.”
“And you can’t send them home until their homelands have been liberated,” Jessica said, understanding. “How many are Jews?”
“Out of the twenty-five thousand in this camp, maybe three thousand, and most of them want to go to Palestine. Of course, the Brits don’t want them going there and upsetting things in that mess of a country, so we can’t move them anywhere for the time being. I understand this new United Nations is trying to set up better camps in France, but I haven’t gotten any direction regarding sending anybody anywhere.”
“Nor will you anytime soon,” said Tom. “The French are overwhelmed with problems themselves.”
Tell me about it, Jessica thought, thinking of the chaos and fighting she’d seen. “In the meantime, can we get them more food and other supplies?” she asked of her uncle.
“Jessica, I will try, but you have to understand that our fighting men have absolute priority, and that includes those men in hospitals and the thousands of American prisoners who are being liberated as we advance. Like it or not, the refugees come last.”
“It’s my understanding, Colonel, that supplies for civilians and refugees are coming into Europe,” said Turnbull.
“They are,” answered Jessica’s uncle. “However, much of it is being diverted by the French, Dutch, and Belgian governments to feed their own people who are starving as well. And that doesn’t take into account what is being stolen by criminals and making its way into the black market.”
Jessica winced at that comment. It reminded her too much of Monique and her sergeant. Monique was recovering from her wounds and would be tried in a French court. If found guilty, which was extremely likely, she would be lucky if she wasn’t hanged.
Jessica shook her head. “The American public won’t like it when they find out that refugees are starving.”
Tom glared her down. “They’d like it less if they knew our boys lacked food and ammunition for the coming battle.”
“You’re right, of course,” Jessica admitted. “But can we buy food and other supplies from the locals now that the rules have been eased?”
Major Diggs shook his head. “We could, but the local Germans don’t have much food or supplies to share, and, assuming we could buy supplies, how would we pay for them? The Nazi Deutschmark is can’t be used, and Germans aren’t allowed to have American money.”
“Then how is any commerce being done?” Jessica asked.
“With illegal money exchanges or, at the very local level, with cigarettes,” her uncle explained.
“And women are selling their bodies for food, aren’t they Major Diggs?” Jessica asked, wondering if the camp commandant was one of those in the trade.
“Wouldn’t surprise me at all,” he said, unfazed. “But don’t paint everybody that dark. Our own men eat in the mess hall and have more than enough to eat, and some of the good guys are giving leftovers to kids and the sick, but there’s just not enough of it to make a difference.”
Outside, screaming was heard. Diggs swore and ran outside and into the camp. Several dozen people were fighting over the shredded and bloody pieces of what might have been a chicken. Camp guards, American and German, waded into the throng with cudgels and clubs and quickly broke up the fight. A few refugees had bloody heads, but no wounds seemed serious. A woman sat on the ground and wailed in emotional pain. She’d been the first to grab the chicken and considered it hers. Now all she had left was feathers.
“Someone threw it over the fence,” said a grim Diggs, “and not out of charity. Some of the locals think its great fun to start a riot.”
They left Diggs with a promise to do what they could to ease the situation. Diggs thanked them but said he wouldn’t hold his breath. “No disrespect, but it’ll be a long time before we get this under control and a lot more people are going to die. Oh yeah.” He laughed harshly. “If you think this is bad, check out the German prisoners of war. They get what food the refugees don’t want.”
They left Diggs with the understanding that there was no solution to his problem. Jessica was angry, perplexed and frustrated, but understood the helplessness of those like Diggs who were trying their best.
“Going back to Aachen?” her uncle asked. “I can give you a lift.”
“No, but you can take Florence. I plan on staying here a few days and surveying the situation.”
“Surveying?” he laughed. “Is that what you call it? I ain’t stupid, Jess, I know where the 74th is stationed.”
“Then wish me good luck.”
Her uncle kissed her on the cheek. “Make your own damn luck, Jessica.”
Margarete listlessly poked at the food on her plate. It was no longer as inviting as it had been, although she would ultimately eat it. She would need it to keep up her strength for whatever ordeals were coming.
They were reaching the end of what food had been stored up for winter and there were serious questions regarding planting crops in the spring. Simply put, would the war let them? The specter of starvation was beginning to haunt them. Her aunt and uncle scoffed at her doubts. The Reich would be victorious well before food became an issue. Neither Margarete nor her mother felt that confident and she suspected that her aunt and uncle had unspoken doubts of their own. Meal portions had been reduced, and would shrink again. Still, one must eat. Food could not be wasted. What little they now had was much more than the people in the cities had.
The stress of waiting for the inevitable conflagration to sweep over them was sapping everyone’s emotional strength. The weather was definitely warming up and each day brought them that much closer to “Armageddon on the Rhine” as Margarete liked to call it. Her uncle referred to it as the final German victory. Margarete was too polite to laugh at him and, besides, she really did like the pompous old man. If he didn’t love the memory of Hitler so much, he would be quite charming.
Uncle Eric spoke softly. A new problem had arisen and the police had sent a notice. “Once upon a time I liked to go for walks in the woods. The forest was and is still thick and, when spring comes, it will be lovely again. However, it is now a place of death. The police fear that a number of bandits, deserters, refugees, and escaped workers are hiding in its depths and, when the snow is gone, we will be sweeping the place to get them out before they can emerge and attack us.”
“Who is we?” Margarete asked.
“Every man who can walk and carry a gun,” Eric said. “It will be a motley army consisting of the very old and the very young, but we must get the criminals out of the woods.”
“Is it that bad?” Magda asked.
Eric nodded solemnly. “Just the other day a man’s body was found. It was badly decomposed and eaten by animals, but bodies should not be found in the forest, and not our forest. Once upon a time it was such a friendly place.”
Bertha sniffed. “And we should not talk of dead bodies at dinnertime.”
“And why the devil not?” Eric said. “All we’ve had for all these years is war and death. Hitler’s dead. The Allies should negotiate an end to this.”