Freedom

Western Germany, 1938. 1

Knives. They were his passion, what he had devoted his life to. Strong handles and sharp blades; cleanly cutting, precisely slicing, neatly carving. He was good at what he did. Knives were what put food on his table. His work set him free and kept him strong, in spirit and in form. Though middle-aged he was handsome. He had broad shoulders, fair hair, blue eyes. People told him he looked like his father. In the morning, when he looked in the mirror to shave, bare-chested, he knew he looked like a German.2

Never in his life had he made a weapon. His trade, his blades, were used in the kitchen, to feed hungry children; never on the battlefield. The business had been his father’s before the war. He was proud of his work. These days, the only thing that seemed to be worth anything was his pride. These days, a new crest fluttered from every flagpole and blood spattered between the lines of newsprint. Soldiers stood on street corners with their hands on their guns and glares frozen in their eyes, searching frightened faces for signs of dissent. Behind closed doors, people whispered. The work camps for Jews; some said they were places of death and torture and the terrified eyes of the damned. The occupation of Austria; some said it was only the beginning, that Hitler had bigger plans for Germany. Those who were endangered tried to escape. In 1938, the world held its breath.3

The dog had lived in the yard outside of his home for years. It had belonged to a 17-year-old boy whom he no longer acknowledged as his son, and who was now marching among the ranks of thousands of soldiers somewhere in Austria, his right arm raised high in salute. The boy had left, but the dog had stayed. A mutt. It had become attached to the boy’s father, its new master. It was a faithful animal, and sometimes it helped him to forget the loneliness just a little. His wife was dead, his son was gone, and his daughter had gotten married and moved away. All he had left was the dog. 4

The dog was there when the soldiers came. Two of them, both younger than 30, both Aryan, both swaggering with brainwashed overconfidence, cigarettes between their lips, bought with the same senseless propaganda as his son. Two of the Master Race, following orders. They had been taught well. It was obvious they thought of themselves as superior. Even to him, the German blood pure in his veins, they spoke with derision and disdain. “My name is Behmann,” one of them, the older one, introduced himself. “My colleague and I are with the SS. We’re here on orders from our superior, Reichsfuehrer Heinrich Himmler. We hear you have quite an operation.”5

“Operation?” 6

“Yes. Your knives. According to some of your customers, you do some very good metalwork,” Behmann continued, blowing a lungful of smoke across the threshold. “We’d like to see you put that talent to better use.”7

“What do you mean?”8

“We need people like you working on the warfront. The Nazis need weapons, and we think you’re the perfect man for the job.” There was a threat in the soldier’s lowered voice now. “We are millions strong, and growing daily. But we are not stupid. We know that the world may not be behind our efforts yet. But we will prevail. The world is very ill, and Germany is the cure. Our goal, our purpose, is to fight the infection. And destroy it.”9

The knifemaker looked at the young man with a sadness, knowing that he must also fear him for what he was a part of. This man, he was sure, would not hesitate to end his life if he did not cooperate. But to work for the Nazis, to fuel a war and possibly the genocide of millions of innocent people, including children, went against everything he believed in. Although he pitied these people for their mindless indulgence, he was also disgusted by them, and the ease with which they accepted their own supremacy over others who had different blood and different beliefs but were plainly just as human as they.10

“Think about it,” Behmann said. “We’ll be back tomorrow to hear your decision.” His hand slid casually to the gun that rested at his hip. “You know what we are capable of.” His eyes probed him, searching for agreement or denial. “And… keep up the good work. Heil Hitler!”11

The knifemaker and his dog watched the soldiers’ backs as they walked away. Behmann stamped out his cigarette butt on the front step; his younger colleague aimed a kick at the dog, sitting harmlessly on the edge of the yard, as he passed. The dog remained silent. 12

He went to his kitchen and opened a drawer. He saw sharp blades gleaming at him; he had crafted each one with devotion. He knew that he would rather die than work for the SS. 13

~14

Morning found two soldiers knocking over and over on a familiar door. “Hello? Hello! Oh, God dammit…” Behmann swore.15

“Better bust it,” his partner recommended. 16

Behmann sighed, then coughed. “Alright. If it’s absolutely necessary. I thought he was a smart one too. He had a look about him… Well. If a door won’t open for us, I guess it’s our duty to force it open.”17

“Truer words were never spoken, sir. I’ll get the crowbar.”18

A few minutes later they were inside. A hallway led to a small but cozy kitchen. One of the drawers was open, and lay on the floor. Empty. “What the hell is this guy up to?” Behmann muttered.19

The second soldier was pushing through doors, looking for a clue as to where the house’s lonely occupant could have gone. “No sign of him!” he called. “It doesn’t look like anything’s been disturbed either… if I didn’t know better I’d think…”20

“Did you check the attic?”21

“Not yet, sir.”22

“Check it, will you? Gotta cover all our bases.”23

“Yes sir.” He pounded up the stairs, much louder than necessary. Then stopped short. “Sir… I think you’d better come look…”24

Behmann walked, slowly and calmly, up the stairs, lighting another cigarette. His eyes slid over a painting of a woman, and up to the rafters. A rope hung there; hanging from the rope was the lifeless body of the knifemaker. 25

The soldier sighed. “I did think he would make the right decision. Guess you can’t really trust anyone.”26

“Yes sir… what do we do with the body…?”27

“Notify family. Have a funeral. The usual. I mean… he was German, after all. He deserves a proper burial, at least.”28

They left the house empty, the breeze finding its way in through the broken front door and mingling with the smoke that had been left behind. “Hey, what happened to that dog?”29

“No idea. Probably split when its master died. Animals will do that.” Behmann shook his head. “You know, in a way I feel like I’ve failed. I’ve failed Hitler and failed Germany.”30

His younger colleague looked uncertain. He had never been spoken to in this kind of personal way before by a superior officer. He said what he knew would always be true. “Heil Hitler.”31

“Heil Hitler,” Behmann echoed.32

~33

The boy was crying. He didn’t remember having cried, not since he was a small child, but he was crying now, at the age of 17. He was an orphan. He regretted his hasty decision and the fact that he had never gotten to say goodbye. His tears blended with the fog and vaporized on his skin, leaving him with a cold and clammy feeling.34

He turned to his sister. “Do you think he ever forgave me?”35

Claudia was thoughtful. “He was always against Hitler’s ideas. But you were his son. He loved you. I’m sure of it.”36

They stood for a moment, hand in hand, gazing at the headstone. Then they turned together and walked back toward the car.37

“Back to the city,” Claudia told the driver. “I’ve got to get home to Erich and the children by tonight.”38

The boy looked back out the misty window, through the gloom toward his father’s resting place. A shadowy figure padded along the grass beside the grave. The boy stared for a moment, then shouted excitedly. “Look! It’s my old dog!”39

Claudia turned back toward him. “Don’t be silly, nobody’s seen that dog since… oh my God, you’re right!” She wiped a gloved hand quickly across her eyes. “I guess he wanted to say goodbye too…”40

Her brother, the young soldier, did not stir from the window, but kept his face pressed against it until everything familiar was out of sight.41