As she and the young soldier passed out the last of what she had brought, she said, “I may have to appeal to a higher authority than these guards.”
“God?” he asked, puzzled.
“No, the German commanding officer.”
Chapter Thirteen
Her mind made up, Sister Anne Marie hurried down the street, dodging glances from the German soldiers she passed. Reluctantly, she had come to the conclusion that she must see the German commanding officer. The prisoners were short on supplies, lacking everything from food to blankets to basic medical attention. Ultimately, the prisoners were his responsibility. Sister Anne Marie could not provide for them, but perhaps he could.
Before crossing the street, she had kept an eye out for the sniper who had harassed her at the church. Sister Anne Marie liked to believe that there was good in everyone, but she had serious doubts about that particular soldier. She spotted a group of soldiers smoking cigarettes, bouncing on the balls of their feet to stay warm in the cold, and approached them.
“I am looking for your commanding officer,” she announced to one of the young soldiers who appeared more cordial than the others.
“He is in that big house there,” said the soldier, pointing to what Anne Marie knew to be the mayor’s home before he fled. A look of concern crossed the soldier’s face. “Is everything all right, Sister?”
“I am going to see your commanding officer on behalf of the American prisoners,” she said.
“Are you sure that you want to do that?”
Nearby, one of his companions guffawed. “You won’t get very far with Colonel Lang. He doesn’t like civilians — or nuns.”
But she remained undeterred. “Why wouldn’t I go to see him? He is in charge, isn’t he? I must discuss the care of the prisoners with him.”
“In that case, I wish you luck,” the young soldier said, shaking his head. “But if I were you, I would not argue too hard on behalf of the Americans.”
The young soldier’s comments had not been encouraging, but she continued toward the mayor’s house, apparently now occupied by the commanding officer. Looking more closely, she could see two soldiers standing guard beside the door.
The mayor, along with the priest and the two town constables, had fled ahead of the Germans, leaving the villagers to fend for themselves without their leaders. Considering that the house was the grandest in the village and centrally located, it made sense that the German commander had moved in.
She approached the guards, who had been slouching against the wall, but now stood up straight as she walked toward them.
“What is it sister?” one of the guards asked brusquely.
“I am here to see your commanding officer.”
“Colonel Lang is busy.”
“It is important.”
The soldier stared at her for a long moment, but she did not lower her gaze. She suspected that if she had not been wearing a nun’s habit, she would have been sent on her way — or worse. He had not lowered his weapon.
“Wait here.”
“Bless you,” she said.
The soldier glanced at his companion, as if silently warning him to keep an eye on her, then went inside. He was back a minute later.
“Colonel Lang said he can spare five minutes for you, and no more.”
She followed him inside. Immediately, she was struck by the transformation of the mayor’s house, which had once been a respectable middle-class home with fine furniture and carpets, and even a few oil painting on the walls, valuable old landscapes that had been handed down through the family. Much of the village’s business had been conducted there in the home’s comfortable atmosphere, usually in the mayor’s study on the first floor.
Now, the mayor’s house was a shambles. Snow and mud had been tracked across the floors and carpets. Equipment and even cartridge boxes covered the tables and chairs. Windows bristled with machine guns, some of the glass broken out. The oil paintings were all gone, stolen along with anything else of value.
She was ushered into the mayor’s study, where some of the furniture had been broken up and was now burning in the fireplace in an attempt to keep the winter chill at bay. That wasn’t an easy task, considering that one of the windows was open to the cold air, telephone lines snaking through it to a pair of field telephones on what had been the mayor’s desk.
Colonel Lang turned out to be a tall man of no more than forty years of age. His thinning blond hair was slicked back against his scalp. His boots were covered in slush and like his men, he wore several days of stubble on his face. He looked cranky and exhausted.
He shouted one last order into a telephone as she entered and then turned his attention to her.
Sister Anne Marie noticed the other men in the room. There was a young officer holding some papers who might be an adjutant of some kind, along with a clerk. With a tiny gasp of recognition, she saw that the sniper was also present. The man seemed to be everywhere, like the Devil himself. He looked at her with an expressionless face.
“What is it, Sister?” the officer demanded. “I only have a few minutes. I have to admit, I would not see you at all except that you represent the church.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” she said. “I have come with concerns about the prisoners.”
“The Americans?” His eyebrows raised in surprise.
“You are holding two hundred and fifty-two men in the church.”
“That’s a very exact number. How do you know?”
“I counted them.”
“Ah. What about them?”
“Many are wounded and need medical care. They need medicine and bandages that I do not have. They need food and water. They need blankets. I am asking you to provide for their care.”
“Why trouble yourself about them?”
“They are in my church!”
“Where is the priest? Perhaps he could talk some sense into you.”
“The priest ran away.”
“He did, eh? He’s a smarter man than many.”
“Sir, I am doing what I can to help them, but the prisoners are your responsibility.”
The colonel glanced at the sniper, who stood near the fireplace, warming his hands. “Do you hear that, Hauer? This nun is telling me my job. Apparently, I am to care for prisoners. I thought my job was to fight the war.”
So the Devil had a name, she thought. Hauer.
Hauer flexed his broad shoulders. “Do you want me to throw her out, sir?”
The colonel stared at her and seemed to think over Hauer’s offer. “Not yet. Sister, I would like nothing better than to shoot these prisoners and be done with them.”
“You cannot!”
“Who says? You? God?” He shook his head. “Don’t worry, Sister. We are not monsters. Besides, the Americans are very sensitive after what happened at the Malmedy Crossroads. As ridiculous as it seems when we are in the middle of killing one another, there are rules in war. The lives of German POWs hang in the balance. So you see, no harm will come to the prisoners because of the repercussions to our own men being held by the Allies.”
He moved to the open window and gestured for her to join him.
“Sir?”
“Look out the window, Sister. Do you see that warehouse across the street? It is filled with wounded. My men. Good men. They need bandages and medicine and food that I do not have to give them. If I cannot help my own men, how can I possibly help the prisoners?”
Sister Anne Marie was surprised. She had assumed that the Germans were well-supplied. “I did not know.”
“Find what supplies you can in the village,” he said. “I can’t help you, but I won’t stop you. That is all.”