Thomas Gerber was destroyed. Fredi’s death sucked any life or love or joy out of him. The vitality and mirth he’d once been known for disappeared. Franka never heard him laugh after that. It was as if he didn’t know how to anymore. He lost his job soon after and retreated into a drunken stupor. The depth of agony was beyond anything Franka had ever felt. She cried for days, unable to eat or sleep, the hatred for the Nazis burning like molten glass inside her. Fredi’s murderers were glorified as heroes, and the man ultimately responsible deified. There was no escape—Fredi’s murderers were everywhere. They were everyone who wore the Nazi armband or sported a Nazi pin. They were every SS man, and every loyal Aryan. They were every Hitler Youth and every wild-eyed hysteric screaming the Nazi salute at countless rallies. Who knew how many thousands had been slaughtered under the National Socialists’ euthanasia program or subjugated because they were Jews, Gypsies, communists, trade-union leaders, political dissidents, or just citizens caught saying the wrong thing? Franka realized that a line had been drawn in German society between the perpetrators and the victims. There were thousands to share in the collective guilt that Hans wrote about, but there were so many more victims of the regime—those whose families had been sent to concentration camps or murdered as “unworthy of life.” Their whole lives were lived in the open prison that was Nazi Germany under the rule of those who had committed heinous crimes against them.
They had no body to bury, and no one would ever face prosecution for Fredi’s death. Franka went back to visit the institution, hoping for some closure. The nurses broke down upon seeing her. Franka’s friend who’d called her fell into her arms, begging forgiveness for something she had no power to stop. Franka didn’t stay long. The place was haunted now, and the staff reckoned it was only a matter of time before the SS came back for the rest of the patients. Franka returned to Munich, tried to immerse herself in music, work, anything to distract her from the ever-present pain inside her, anything to stop remembering. She met Hans. He understood, and they joined together in outrage, willing to die in service of the German people.
Fredi never left her. She saw his face every day, heard his laugh everywhere she went. He had been too good, too pure for the sewer of prejudice and hatred this country had become. This country wasn’t for angels anymore. Only those twisted by hatred and fear could prosper here now.
The wind rattled the windows, then died down. A wordless two minutes had passed since she’d finished her story, and only the sound of her crying filled the air.
“I said too much,” she said. “It’s time I left you to get some sleep. There’s nothing to be gained by—”
“Franka?”
She was walking toward the door but stopped at the sound of his voice.
“My name is John Lynch,” he said. “I’m from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and I need your help.”
Chapter 9
The island of Guadalcanal, November 1942
The wind brought some respite from the relentless heat, and John took his helmet off and brought his wrist up to his forehead to wipe away some of the sweat that seemed to cover his entire body. The men around him took off their backpacks and rifles, many using their helmets to sit on. The long grass on the hill above them hissed and danced in the breeze. John reached for the canteen on his hip. His hands were dry, cut to shreds, and shook as he held the water to his lips. He drank just enough to quench his thirst and screwed the cap back on. They hadn’t been resupplied in several days, and water was running low. It didn’t seem to be a priority for the top brass. A thousand tiny agonies wracked his body, and even crouching down seemed like a luxury after the day’s march. He let his rifle rest against the wall of the ridge his platoon sat on. Some of the men peeled the tops off tin-can rations and dug in with filthy fingers. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted past. Men groaned. Few spoke. They knew what was coming. They knew that this was only a brief respite. This hill had to be taken.
Albert King, a farmer from Kansas, offered him a cigarette. John shook his head.
“Too good for my smokes, are you?” King said. “And that silver spoon up your ass’s preventing you from sitting down, I see.”
“I’m just waiting for the valet. It’s so hard to get good service these days.”
They heard the major’s voice before they saw him stalking the line of exhausted soldiers, eyeing them each in turn. He stopped where John and King were sitting.
“I need volunteers,” Major Bennett said. “I need five men to go up and take a look at what’s up on that hill.” He walked on a few feet, the weight of his stare on each of the men. “We’re sitting ducks down here. If the enemy has a gun up there, which I think he does, he’ll cut us apart like a scythe. I need five men to take out whatever’s up there. The artillery came through earlier, so there’s a good chance the only thing you’ll find is a bunch of yellow bodies. Who wants the job?”
Tired, reluctant hands went up, John’s among them. Bennett picked him first. The five men corralled around the major. “Lynch is going to lead you. If there’s a gun up there, take it out. Report back to me.”
The men followed John as he stuck his head up over the ridge. Waves of grass flowed with the wind three hundred feet up to the crest of the hill. The sun was setting. The sky turned orange and gold, daubed by some celestial painter. The light seemed to be thickening, as if they could reach out and feel it. John wiped sweaty palms on his faded fatigues and motioned for the others to follow him. He crouched, his eyes barely above the line of thick grass that hissed all around them. The men fanned out, King and Carpenter on his left, Smith and Munizza on his right. They moved in silence, their legs pumping through the thick grass. A hundred yards separated them from the rest of the company now. He motioned for the men to stop. They crouched as one, instantly invisible. He took binoculars from his belt. Nothing. The crest of the hill was just beyond his view, hidden by a ridge.
John motioned for the four men to follow him as he rose to his haunches, inching forward. The men were level with him, spread out thirty yards on either side. The company behind them was invisible now, hidden by the slope of the hill. John, his breath stilted and ragged, felt his heart beating faster. Each footstep was more painful than the last. His feet were blistered and raw, his socks crusted with blood. There was nothing here. They could signal the others to come up. He just had to see over the ridge in front of him. The crest of the hill was almost in view. He turned to look at the men with him, and in that split second they reached the ridge first. The clatter of machine-gun fire ripped through the air, and Munizza’s chest opened up and sprayed a fountain of crimson. Rifle fire cracked, and Smith’s head spurted blood, his body flopping backward. John threw himself to the ground. Bullets chewed the dirt in front of him, and he rolled to the side, where King was lying ten yards away. John crawled to him, the rattling of the machine gun filling his ears.
“I’m going to die here,” King said. He was lying on his back, the fatigues on his chest stained red.
John took his hand. “You’re not going to die, Al. I’ll get you out of here.”
John raised his head again, just enough to see the bunker a hundred yards away. He held the binoculars to his eyes, could make out the gun spewing fire. The ground in front of him erupted again, and he dropped his face to the dirt. A few seconds passed before he dared raise his head again. The others were dead. Carpenter’s body was lying thirty yards to the left, Munizza beside him. Smith had rolled down the hill, his body punctured and pouring crimson blood. A bead of sweat ran down John’s face as he opened up King’s shirt. The wound was on the right side of his chest, below his lung. It wasn’t a death sentence if he could get him some attention. How was he going to get him back down the hill? That machine gun would open up on them the second they moved. He could have crawled back down himself, but what about King, and the men who’d be cut down by this same gun later? They had to take the hill. There was no getting around it.
He took King’s hand. “I have to go up and take a look. I’ll be back. I’m going to make them pay for what they did to you and the others.”