e of village elders who had been close to the von Wachtsteins, there had been a little bite to eat and a glass of beer after their funerals.
The people of the village had come to the Schloss in their Sunday best to dance to a five-piece band—piano, accordion, tuba, trumpet, and drum—gorge themselves on food laid out on ancient plank tables, and drink beer from a row of beer kegs on another table.
Somebody always got drunk and caused trouble. Fathers went looking for their nubile daughters who’d sought privacy with their young men in dark and distant parts of the Schloss. There was usually at least one fistfight. And always there was a good deal of singing.
The three stone-floored rooms branching off the entrance lobby were now lined with white metal hospital beds, one row against each wall, another row in the middle. Each bed was separated from its neighbor by a wall locker and a small table.
Peter quickly saw that most of the men in the long lines of beds had been injured beyond any hope of recuperation. They had lost limbs, or their sight, or been badly burned, sometimes in a horrible combination of mutilations.
They should call this place War Cripples Warehouse No. 15, Peter thought, not Recuperation Hospital No. 15.
The Graf stopped at each and every bed and said a variation of the same words to each man: “I hope you’re feeling better.”…“Are they treating you all right?”…“Is there anything you need?”
Peter walked two steps behind his father and—with an effort—smiled and gave to each what he hoped was a crisp nod.
Peter thought: Some of them wouldn’t know if their visitor was the Führer himself.
But some actually tried to come to attention in their beds, as a soldier is supposed to do when spoken to by an officer.
The tour went on and on, but finally it was over and they went back up the stairs to the family apartments. Peter went directly to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a stiff drink of cognac.
“I’ll have one of those, too, I think, please,” the Graf said.
Peter poured a drink for his father, and then another for himself. They touched glasses without comment.
“Oberstleutnant Reiner and some members of his staff will be dining with us,” the Graf announced.
Peter nodded.
What the hell is that all about? Because he feels it’s expected of him? Or because he doesn’t want to be alone with me again at dinner, as we were last night, with the ghosts of the family looking over our shoulders?
Dinner was very good, roast wild boar with roasted potatoes and an assortment of preserved vegetables, everything from the estate. Peter wondered what the patients of Recuperation Hospital No. 15 were having, then wondered who was asking. Flight Corporal Peter Wachtstein (for he had not used the aristocratic ‘von’ until he was commissioned)? It had been Pilot Cadet Wachtstein and Flight Corporal Wachtstein and even Flight Sergeant Wachtstein, winner of the Iron Cross First Class. As far as he knew, he had been the first von Wachtstein ever to serve in the ranks (much to his father’s embarrassment).
Or was it Major von Wachtstein asking? He had learned as an enlisted man that a good way to judge an officer was by how deeply he was concerned with the men in the ranks, and had tried to remember that, and practice it, when he had become an officer.
Or was it Baron Hans-Peter von Wachtstein, the Graf-to-be?
Their guests at dinner were four doctors in addition to Oberstleutnant Reiner, as well as the two senior nurses and two administrative officers, all of whom seemed very impressed with the privilege of dining with the Herr Generalleutnant Graf von Wachtstein and the heir apparent.
The Graf made polite small talk, and took nothing to drink but a sip of wine. A glare from him when Peter reached yet again for a wine bottle was enough to make it Peter’s last glass of wine.
That night, Peter had a little trouble getting to sleep. His mind was full of Alicia, and memories of his mother and brother, and the uncomfortable feeling that this might be the last night that anyone named von Wachtstein would ever sleep in Schloss Wachtstein.
They left early the next morning. Frau Brüner packed a large wicker basket with ham and cheese sandwiches, cold chicken, and a bottle of wine and two of beer. They drove as far as Frankfurt an der Oder the first day. There were virtually no private automobiles on the highway, and they passed through Feldgendarmerie checkpoints every twenty-five kilometers or so.
They spent the night with an old friend of his father’s, Generalleutnant Kurt von und zu Bratsteiner, who was in the process of reconstituting an infantry division that had suffered heavy losses in the East. They had dinner in the officer’s mess, and Peter noticed that his father and his old friend carefully avoided talking about what was happening in Russia, what had happened to von Arnim in Tunisia, or what was likely going to happen in the future.
In the morning, very early, they set out again, the gas tank of the Horch full, and with four gasoline cans in the trunk.
To Peter’s surprise, his father had very little to say between Wachtstein and Frankfurt an der Oder.
And about all he said between Frankfurt an der Oder and Munich was that General von und zu Bratsteiner had learned unofficially that the Wehrmacht had not yet contained the rebellion of the Jews in the Warsaw ghetto. “Putting the rebellion down will apparently take more troops than was originally anticipated,” the Graf said without emphasis. “It is apparently also going to be necessary to bring in tanks and more artillery. The issue is not in doubt, of course. It’s just going to be more expensive than anyone would have believed.”
“What’s going to happen to the Jews when it is over?”
“Well, inasmuch as they are not entitled to treatment as prisoners of war, I would suppose that Reichsprotektor Himmler will order the survivors transported to the concentration camps in the area. There are six, if memory serves: Auschwitz, Birkenau, Belzec, Chemlno, Maidanek, and Sobibor.”
“And what will happen to them there?”