“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Freeman and the sergeant said in chorus.
[FOUR]
Headquarters, Detachment 231
Office of Military Government
Kreis Paderborn, American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0615 29 April 1946
“Hit the siren, Sergeant,” Cronley ordered when the main building came into sight.
As they drove up, a paunchy, middle-aged U.S. Army officer in his shirtsleeves came out of the building.
The M8s stopped, and the howl of sirens died.
“What the hell?” the officer growled. “You guys lost?”
“I’m Captain Cronley. And you must be Mr. Wynne.”
“I am. What can I do for you?”
“Somebody with enough clout to get me out of my very nice office in the Farben Building has got the idea that there’s at least one Nazi hiding out here on your farm.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’ll ignore that, Mr. Wynne. Mostly because I believe you are probably correct. Be that as it may, here I am with my little army. So, please point out the Nazi, or Nazis, to me so that we can go back to civilization.”
“No Nazis to point to, Captain. But I can give you a cup of coffee. And point out the mess hall to your men. Come on in. You, too, Lieutenant.”
* * *
—
There was a middle-aged German sitting at a typewriter in Wynne’s outer office.
Why do I think I am about to catch my first Nazi? Cronley thought.
He said, “I’m going to have to check your employee’s Kennkarte.”
Cronley noticed that that got the German’s attention.
“Can you take my word that they all have one?” Wynne said. “I checked on that personally.”
“I’m getting the idea, Mr. Wynne, that you don’t know how the system works.”
“Please tell me, Captain,” Wynne replied, his tone more than a little sarcastic.
Cronley met his eyes, and thought, I’m within a hairsbreath of standing you tall, you bastard, and reading you the riot act according to Cronley.
Instead, I’m just going to generalize this so you get my point . . .
Cronley said, “Certainly. In the good old days—that is, during the eleven years of the Thousand-Year Reich—everybody over the age of fifteen had a Kennkarte. When you went in the Wehrmacht or the Luftwaffe, they took it away from you and gave you an Army or Air Force identification. Got it, Mr. Wynne?”
“I got it.”
“Good. Now, with those exceptions, everyone had one, from the peasant on the farm to the highest levels of Nazi officialdom. If you were in jail—or, worse, a concentration camp—they took away your Kennkarte.