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Wolfland

By Dirk Budwill

Wolfland
Copyright © 2008, Dirk Budwill

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright © 1973,
1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All
rights reserved. • Scripture quotations marked NRSV are from the New Revised Standard Version of
the Bible, copyright 1989, by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the
Churches of Christ in the United States of America, and are used by permission. All rights reserved.

Some scenes and times throughout the novel Wolfland may not accurately reflect place or history. All
characters in the novel Wolfland, unless otherwise indicated, are fictional. Any resemblance in name
or character to any person living or dead is coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-55452-326-9

For more informatio please contact:


Dirk Budwill
dirkbudwill@gmail.com

To Rochelle: Thank you.

Acknowledgements

The following people and resources provided fact and inspiration:


The Budwill, Heuer, and Franke families.
Parallel Journeys by Helen Waterford and Alfons Heck
The Two World Wars by Susanne Everett and Brigadier Peter Young
Maus 1 and 2, by Art Spieglemann
The Nazis (The Resistance), by Robert Erwin Herzstein
The Nazis, Robert Edwin Herzstein
Seduced by Hitler (The Choices of a Nation and the Ethics of Survival) by Adam Lebor and Roger
Boyes
In My Brother’s Image, by Eugene L. Pogany
The Wall Came Tumbling Down (The Berlin Wall and the Fall of Communism), by Jerry Bornstein
Berliner Illustrirte, December 1989

Introduction
Several centuries ago, when the land now known as Germany was a wild patchwork of kingdoms,
principalities, and thick forests, a couple of hunters pursue a buck to the edge of the Ebene River.
Despite the Ebene’s strong current, the pursuit carries on through the river’s dark waters and onto an
island that rises spectacularly from its depths.
Later, after the two hunters fail to return to their village as planned, a hastily assembled search
party is sent out, by the village’s elders, in an attempt to discover their fate.
On the second day of their quest, the intrepid searchers come upon footprints, indented deep
into the soft, muddy, western bank of the Ebene. It is obvious that they are pointing towards the
magnificent island that lies in the middle of the steadily moving river. The search party wades over,
and, shortly thereafter, one of the members discovers the hunters’ skeletal remains in the island’s
meadow. Horrified, the men attempt to make a hasty retreat from the grisly scene but are suddenly,
viciously attacked, by wolves.
The survivors, bloodied and severely traumatized, can barely tell others what has happened. The
island becomes known as a place of terror, which is to be avoided at all costs. It becomes known as
Wolfland.

Decades pass…

A hostile military force prepares to invade the kingdom of Rupert der Grosse (The Big).
Informants relay this information to der Grosse, and he is immediately overwhelmed with feelings of
dread. His army is not large or well equipped enough to withstand the impending assault. Rupert
frantically summons a trusted baron named Heinrich von Held and orders him to find a place of
safekeeping for himself, his treasures, and his most valued subjects. The baron, quickly grasping the
gravity of the situation, considers seeking refuge on the nearby island of Wolfland. Surely its chilling
reputation will keep the invaders at bay? Von Held sends his greatest and most fearless warrior, Karl
Jaeger, to scout the “place of terror.”
Within a day of his departure Jaeger arrives on the west bank of the Ebene and is initially
awestruck by the size of Wolfland. It is at least five kilometres long and a half-kilometre wide, ideal for
sustaining a sizable human population. Jaeger wades across the river and gingerly steps on the island,
armed with his sword and a torch.
Using his considerable tracking skills he hunts down the wolves; and after a harrowing and
lengthy battle, he ruthlessly kills the alpha male with a lethal slash from his sword. He then quickly
fires up the torch and drives off the remaining wolf pack into the Ebene River, thereby allowing the
baron to fulfill his master’s wishes.
Five days later the loyal subjects of Rupert der Grosse dedicate the island to Jesus Christ by
erecting a giant cross on Wolfland’s most northern point, a 200-metre-high rocky bluff. They also
name the towering cliffs Rupert’s Berg (mountain), in honour of their benevolent earthly master.
Shortly thereafter the new inhabitants of Wolfland withstand a nighttime attack from the hostile
invasion force by howling and snarling like wolves. This, along with some selective maiming of the
invaders, scares the would-be conquerors into a hasty retreat. The legend of Wolfland and its “vicious
wolves” spreads to neighbouring lands and keeps the island safe from any further human attack. It
becomes the last remnant of Rupert der Grosse’s kingdom.
Rupert’s subjects build him a fortress of stone on top of the Berg, but a few years later,
despondent over the untimely deaths of his wife and son plus the loss of his once vast kingdom, Rupert
der Grosse dies, broken-hearted.
Baron von Held takes over the fortress and becomes the ruler of the island. Like Rupert he is a
good and benevolent leader and has a strong faith in Jesus Christ. Von Held transforms the southern
slope of the Berg into a vineyard, and it produces marvellous grapes, which are used to make a wine
called Wolfland Weiss (white). He trains Karl Jaeger in the art of winemaking, and he in turn passes on
the skills to his own sons.
To house themselves, the baron’s subjects build a well-fortified village just below the vineyard.
Karl Jaeger, however, builds a quaint white cottage on the edge of the island’s forest. The people of
Wolfland are amazed that he would rather live isolated and unprotected, but the old warrior values his
peace and quiet. The cottage’s front room has a massive fireplace, and over the years it becomes an
important meeting place for the leaders of the island. The cottage, like all the homes on Wolfland, is
eventually passed onto the oldest child. Thus it remains in the family for generations.
The baron’s subjects turn the island’s large meadow into a flourishing garden, wheat field, and
pasture for livestock. A lush forest of beech, fir, and birch trees that covers the southern third of the
island provides enough wood and game for everyone. It also contains a lake, later named Frieden See
(Peaceful Lake), a few hot springs, a ridge of birch trees, known as Margarita’s Ridge (after the baron’s
wife), and caves, which were once inhabited by wolves.
New generations are born onto Wolfland and replace those who came before them. They live in
seclusion until finally, when faced with a rapidly increasing population and lack of food supplies, the
reigning baron decides to make contact with the outside world. He sends out two intrepid men, who
successfully establish ties with the nearby village of Koenig’s Tal (King’s Valley). Commerce and
movement of people off the island to the “King’s Valley” compels the baron to have a bridge
constructed from Wolfland to the western bank of the Ebene. A few years later a dock is also built on
the eastern side of the island so that watercraft can come and go with wares. New trade, a population
that is easy to sustain, and the Reformation bring prosperity and peace to Wolfland.

Centuries Pass…

During the 1800s the descendants of Baron von Held die out, and shortly thereafter several bolts
of lightning from a violent storm destroy their old fortress on top of Rupert’s Berg. The cross, however,
remains standing as tall and solid as ever.
The old feudal system that has governed Wolfland for hundreds of years passes with the death
of the von Helds, and private land ownership becomes the norm. The remaining wealth of Rupert’s
kingdom is invested into the vineyard, which has been run for generations by the Jaeger family. The
wine they produce becomes renowned for its excellence and is sold throughout southern Germany,
allowing the villagers to enjoy steady financial gain.
The peace and prosperity that Wolfland enjoys abruptly ends during World War I (1914-1918).
Tragically, the island loses several of its brightest and best citizens to the conflict. Shortly after the
war’s ceasefire, an influenza epidemic kills several more people on the island. The survivors sink into
despondency as they bury far too many of their dearly departed.
The agony on Wolfland is lifted somewhat on December 24, 1920, with the arrival of two boys
born just a few hours apart. Wolfgang Jaeger is the first child of Jens and Marie Jaeger while Johann
Liebermann is the firstborn of Doctor Dietrich and Krista Liebermann. The boys represent a new
beginning for the island, and as other babies are subsequently born, the people of Wolfland move out of
their mourning and into the important task of bringing up the newcomers.
Wolfgang and Johann grow up together like brothers. At an early age they are included in their
fathers’ Sunday afternoon walks around the island with Pastor Andreas von Himmel. The pastor, an
elderly man well into his sixties, started the weekly walks several years earlier with Dietrich’s and
Jen’s fathers. The men included their sons, and a healthy tradition was established. Unfortunately, war
and influenza killed Pastor Andreas’ only son and the fathers of both Jens and Dietrich. The pastor, in
despair over losing his child and good friends, discontinued the Sunday walk for several years, until
Jens and Dietrich insisted that they start again.
For Wolfgang and Johann the walk with their fathers and the pastor is the highlight of their
week. They learn about God, nature, the history of Wolfland, and how to howl like wolves from Jens.
Howling becomes the boys’ signature greeting and farewell to each other.
During one Sunday walk Jens brings the doctor, pastor, and the boys to some well-hidden caves
near Frieden See. Wolfgang and Johann are excited as they enter the dark caverns. There are three
interconnecting chambers, and a hot spring is located in the middle one. What makes the caves even
more intriguing to the boys is the evidence of wolves, petrified bones and droppings, and a narrow
tunnel off the third cavern. Jens forbids the boys to tell anyone of the caves or to go in them alone,
especially into the tunnel. No one knows where it leads.
Wolfgang and Johann are formally educated in the one-room schoolhouse located on the edge
of the village. Their teacher is Adolf Steinkuhler, a dedicated bachelor and strict authoritative
taskmaster whose black leather strap always hangs ominously at the front of the class. The teacher’s
attire consists only of funereal black clothes, and his dark hair is slicked down with oil. Adolf’s long,
stick-like body and hooded eagle eyes completes his highly intimidating appearance. He is always
addressed as Professor Steinkuhler, even by the adults, and almost everyone is deathly afraid of him.
One young lad who does not fear Steinkuhler is Wolfgang, who protests against the teacher’s
harsh tactics by working well below his academic potential. The professor tries to make the young
Jaeger a better student by punishing him with detentions, straps on the hand, and verbal abuse. This
hardly affects the stubborn Wolfgang. Steinkuhler then tries to shame his defiant student by putting him
at the back of his grade’s row. This indicates where Wolfgang ranks compared to the other students in
terms of marks, but considering that only Johann and the lovely blonde Hannelore Schafer are in his
grade, this does not deter the young Jaeger from his steadfast determination to work underneath his
abilities. Johann, on the other hand, loves to learn. He ignores Steinkuhler, excels in his work, and finds
himself in front of Hannelore.
The years pass quickly, and as Johann and Wolfgang enter adolescence, in the early 1930s, they
suddenly go through a physical growth spurt. Wolfgang develops into a solid, dark-haired lad with
sharp, piercing eyes. Like his father he is quiet but exceedingly loyal to God and his friends. Johann
turns into a blond strapping young man with strong, handsome Nordic features. He is exceedingly
bright and gregarious.
The boys also become much more aware of the girl who has sat between them for several years
at school. Hannelore has become a beautiful young lady and starts driving both Wolfgang and Johann
crazy. She hates both, loves both, loves one and hates the other, all within one school day. This goes on
and on, but thankfully it does not create too much friction between Johann and Wolfgang. After school
the boys couldn’t care less about academics and Hannelore. There are chores and new skills to learn
from their fathers. Dietrich teaches Johann how to play the violin while Wolfgang learns how to
manage a vineyard from Jens. The boys also learn from their fathers how to shoot rifles and become
quite proficient at it. Later they join their elders on annual autumn hunting expeditions. Meanwhile
Wolfgang’s and Johann’s mothers provide them with new siblings. Little Martin joins the Jaegers in
their white cottage on the edge of the forest, while the Liebermanns welcome the twins Uwe and
Ulrike.
It is a happy time for the Jaeger and Liebermann families, and indeed, the rest of the people on
Wolfland are also enjoying good days. Most of the villagers inhabit ancient but well-built wood and
stone houses that are located near Main Street, which is the centre and hub of Wolfland.
The street reflects prosperity, as every building is well painted and maintained. On the north
side, Udo Herzog’s restaurant and inn proudly anchor the left end. Beside it, going to the right is the
Mullers’ bakery, then the Schneiders’ tailor shop, followed by Herr Kupferschmidt’s blacksmith
business, and ending with the butcher shop, run by the Fleishmann family. The opposite side of the
main street contains three grand buildings. The Rathaus (town hall) lies directly across from Herzog’s
inn. Next door, to the right, is the post office, and then beside it is the Liebermann building. On the
ground floor of this stately structure is a clinic and pharmacy while above are the living quarters for the
doctor’s family.
The Liebermann building borders a large plaza dominated by a well, which is available to
everyone. A memorial to those who died in World War I also stands nearby. Every morning, except
Sundays and holidays, the plaza is bustling with the villagers selling their homebuilt or homegrown
wares to one another. It is also a time for people to visit and catch up on the news. Rising dramatically
over the plaza is Wilhelm’s Kirche (church), so named for the pastor who led Wolfland through the
Reformation. On the south side of the church is the graveyard, while on the opposite side is the brick
manse, which houses the von Himmels. Attached to the manse is Anna von Himmel’s greenhouse.
Anna, the wife of Pastor Andreas, helps her husband’s ministry by providing flowers year-round to
everyone in the village.
The most important industry on Wolfland is the vineyard run by Jens Jaeger and Dietrich
Liebermann. Jens makes the wine and Dietrich sells it. The business provides steady work and income
for the villagers. Finally, due to the efforts of Pastor Andreas and his wife Anna to share the gospel of
Jesus Christ, there is also relative peace amongst the villagers.
However, the rest of Germany during the 1920s and the first few years of the 1930s do not
share Wolfland’s good fortune. The Treaty of Versailles signed by the country at the end of World War
I stipulates that it pay war reparations. This hurts economic growth, and Germany becomes ripe for
political extremists who promise great things for the country. One of them is a man named Adolf
Hitler, who starts a political organization called the National Socialist Party (National Sozialist Parti,
“Nazi” in German).
The Great Depression intensifies Germany’s economic problems, and therefore interest in Hitler
and his party grows. Hitler’s speeches are passionate, hypnotic, and powerful. He promises to end both
the massive unemployment and the poverty that is gripping Germany. Hitler talks about restoring pride
in the country and getting rid of those who he believes are at the root of the nation’s problems: the
Jews. The removal of the Jews is, incredibly, endorsed by millions of Germans, including Doctor
Dietrich Liebermann. His friends, Jens Jaeger and Pastor Andreas von Himmel do not agree, and this
causes tension between them.
In January of 1933 Adolf Hitler and his Nazi party become the rulers of Germany. Dietrich
celebrates with many of the other villagers on Wolfland. Jens and Andreas do not. Hitler quickly
consolidates his power by taking control of the military, and in short order he becomes the dictator of
Germany: der Fuehrer (the leader). Within a few short years the Nazis also pass several new laws to
fulfill their evil mandate. The most infamous are the Nuremberg Racial Laws. Jews are no longer
considered “racially pure,” and thus they officially cease to be citizens of Germany. Jewish shops are to
be boycotted by Germans who consider themselves “good Aryans.” They are also told not to see a
Jewish doctor or lawyer. All across Germany, Jewish teachers are fired from schools and universities.
No Aryan German is permitted to marry a Jew.
The Nazis create a secret service police called the Schutzstaffel (SS) to ensure that their policies
are carried out…
1935

The weather on Wolfland that November day had been cold with wind-whipped rain. In the evening,
the conditions became even more wretched, but it did not prevent a black sedan from driving over the
bridge onto the island. The vehicle sloshed along the muddy road leading into the village before rattling
on the slick cobblestones of its main street. The driver grimaced at the thought of the cleaning and
possible repairs he would have to do on the car later. Mercifully, the dirty, jarring ride ended in front of
Herzog’s inn.
The driver, a trim, dark-featured man of average build and height, attired in formal Nazi
military dress, stiffly got out and opened the back door, releasing a short, plump forty-five-year-old
man dressed entirely in black. The obese man stood for a moment looking scornfully at the
surroundings until suddenly a gust of wet wind blew the fedora off his fat round head, exposing a bald
dome. As a result, the rain streamed, unfettered, over the pudgy man’s face. Cursing, he staggered
through the door of Herzog’s inn, but his round glasses immediately fogged up in the comfortable
hearth-warmed air of the restaurant, rendering him temporarily blind.
The patrons, who included Jens Jaeger and Dietrich Liebermann, looked up and watched the
rotund man crash into a chair and table. The door flew open again, and the driver came stumbling in.
He was thoroughly drenched but had the runaway fedora gripped in his left hand. The spectacle of the
men’s entrance induced some laughter and smiles amongst the guests of the inn.
A squat man meandered up to the two wet Nazi officials and introduced himself. “I am Udo
Herzog, proprietor of this quaint establishment. Not a great evening to be travelling, gentlemen, but it is
always a pleasure to have new people visit us. And whom might you be?”
The man in black glared back. He was obviously annoyed with the innkeeper’s jovial tone of
voice, since one side of his pencil-thin moustache reared in time to his quivering upper lip as he replied
in a low growl, “I am Schutzstaffel [SS Nazi secret service] Lieutenant Egon Kratzer, and this is my
adjutant, Herr [Mr.] Georg Lutz. We are here for a few days to discuss certain government regulations
and expectations with the leaders of this village.”
Those who had overheard the brief exchange murmured with some interest.
Herzog, in his usual eagerness, asked, “What kind of government regulations and expectations
would you want to discuss with us? We are law-abiding citizens who pay our taxes.”
Kratzer looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Let’s just say that we are here to discuss a few of
the new laws so that there may be no misunderstandings in the future. Now, Herr Herzog, first we
would like a beer each, some accommodations for the next few days, and information on where we
could find the mayor of this village.”
Herzog quickly led his two new guests to an open table, motioned to Jens, and then scampered
away to retrieve a couple of beers for his new guests.
A hush fell over the restaurant as Jens strode over to SS Lieutenant Kratzer and announced,
“My name is Jens Jaeger, and I am the mayor.”
The two men shook hands impassively with one another, but underneath they were trying to get
a read on what they were dealing with. Jens did not bother for an invite from the two SS men and
promptly sat down on the extra chair at their table.
Herzog came with the beers and quickly drifted away as he became aware of the stress that now
hovered around Jens and Kratzer. Everyone felt the same unease, and the patrons became quiet.
However, as Jens spoke with Kratzer in hushed tones, the conversation level throughout the inn
gradually returned to normal levels.
Egon Kratzer and Herr Lutz remained in the village for two days. After their first lengthy
conversation with Jens at Herzog’s, they turned their attention to other men in the village. It soon
became very apparent, by the way Kratzer behaved around them, that Dietrich Liebermann, Udo
Herzog, Franz Fleishmann, and Adolf Steinkuhler had gained special favour with the SS lieutenant.
The last stop for the Nazi visitors was with Pastor Andreas, who had been briefed beforehand by Jens
about what to expect from the two officials.
Kratzer and Lutz came to the church office and introduced themselves to Andreas, who
welcomed them heartily. The pastor bade his guests to sit down and poured them each a cup of coffee.
Once that was settled Andreas pleasantly inquired, “Well, what can I do for you two gentlemen?”
Kratzer did not waste any time with further pleasantries and immediately embarked on the
purpose of his mission. “We are here to tell you, Pastor Andreas, that the government is expecting co-
operation and loyalty from all its citizens for the establishment of the Third Reich.”
“My loyalty is to the Lord, Herr Kratzer, and one of His commands is to respect the
government.”
“Excellent. Yes, our government will be expecting your continued compliance, but there are a
few other matters where we will need your help.”
“Such as?”
“The Third Reich needs your blessing, pastor. It is God’s will for our country to become great
again. It is God’s will that our country becomes a home and haven for Aryans. The Fuehrer [leader],
Adolf Hitler, has been ordained by God to complete this great mission. It is important that all people
agree with this, that there be no dissension, so that we are all marching forward together, one people
completing what God has commanded us to do.”
Kratzer paused and stared menacingly into the pastor’s eyes. Herr Lutz stood beside him with
his arms crossed, face expressionless, eyes hard as steel. Pastor Andreas sighed and turned his face
away from the two SS men. Their words had been strong, but much more strength and intimidation had
been communicated through their eyes and body language.
Without looking at the two SS men the pastor responded gently, “I am here to do God’s will,
and He will guide me, gentlemen. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some work I must attend to.”
This startled Kratzer for a moment, and he gave a quick perplexed look at Lutz before saying,
“Of course, by all means.”
Kratzer stood up in unison with Herr Lutz, and together they lifted their right arms up and
bellowed, “Heil Hitler.”
Pastor Andreas stared at them blankly.
Kratzer, with a hint of agitation in his voice, said, “Pastor Andreas, when two officers of the SS
stand in front of you and say, ‘Heil Hitler,’ you are to do the same! God has ordained Adolf Hitler as
our Fuehrer, and to not show respect to him is the same as not showing respect to God!”
Pastor Andreas slowly stood up. He raised his right arm and in a quiet voice uttered, “Heil
Hitler.”
Kratzer, clearly agitated, started turning red, his right temple pulsated, and beads of sweat
appeared on his forehead. Sternly, he demanded, “I did not hear that! Again, pastor!”
Pastor Andreas did as he was told. “Heil Hitler!”
The two Nazi officials glared once more at the pastor and then stormed out, slamming the door
to the office shut. The sound echoed for a long time afterwards as the stunned Pastor Andreas collapsed
onto his chair.
Nazi flags and pictures of the Fuehrer arrived at Wolfland’s post office. Kratzer appointed Udo
Herzog as his main Nazi liaison, and it was the innkeeper’s job to distribute the pictures and flags to all
the villagers. This Herzog did with great seriousness and pomp. By law, a picture of the Fuehrer had to
be displayed prominently in every home and business in Germany. On special days and holidays the
flags had to be hung from doorways and windows. Professor Steinkuhler, Franz Fleishmann, and
Dietrich Liebermann were enlisted as Herzog’s deputies to carry out and enforce Nazi directives on
Wolfland.
A month after his first visit to Wolfland, Kratzer, with great fanfare, officially inducted Herzog
and his deputies into the Nazi party. The rest of the villagers were encouraged to attend the ceremony
at the Rathaus (town hall). Most did. Mayor Jens Jaeger and Pastor Andreas did not. Their absence
from the ceremony was duly noted by Kratzer. Later, once everyone had gone home, he had a long
private discussion with the “new Nazis” from Wolfland.

After his official entry into the Nazi party, Dietrich gave up walking and talking with Jens and
Andreas. He insisted that he had Nazi party functions in Koenig’s Tal to attend to, but his friends knew
better. Their conflicting political beliefs had caused a rift between them. The boys, Wolfgang and
Johann, also stopped going on the weekly walks. They were getting older, and walking around the
island with aging men didn’t appeal much to them anymore.
Jens and Andreas, however, continued their Sunday march around Wolfland. Much of the time
was spent in prayer. It was obvious that Nazism was settling over the island, and they were both highly
sensitive to the changes that were occurring.
During one walk Pastor Andreas finally asked Jens what he had said to Egon Kratzer at
Herzog’s Inn.
The mayor took his time in responding. “Well, let’s just say the SS were looking for my
support.”
With that he went silent.
Andreas probed further. “Come, come. What did you tell them?”
Jens smiled. “I told them I supported the Nazi government by paying several thousand
reichsmarks in taxes every year and by providing employment to several of the Reich’s citizens. That
was not good enough for the lieutenant. He just kept scowling at me and said, ‘You must pledge
allegiance to Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party.’ I pulled out a reichsmark from my pocket and threw it
on the table. I told him, ‘I give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and I give to God what is His.’ After saying
that I stood up and walked away. In my opinion the conversation was over.”
Pastor Andreas nodded his head and said, “Not bad.”

Despite the unravelling of their personal relationship, Jens and Dietrich continued their business
partnership. Marie and Krista refused to take sides with their husbands and continued meeting, as did
the children. Yet, both women were well aware of their husbands’ views and the stress it had created.
Occasionally, Jens and Dietrich broke their silence about politics with one another. Dietrich
pointed out that Hitler’s programs, such as the building of the autobahn (highway), provided much-
needed employment. During his business travels he saw the new-found pride and hope people had. Due
to this new optimism, the Wolfland Weiss wine business was growing and flourishing.
Jens responded that he did not like the quasi-religious nature of Nazism: the flags, marches,
uniforms; the rhetoric of establishing a German reich (empire); and the almost god-like worship of
Adolf Hitler.
The verbal exchanges between the men were always fast and furious and left them both feeling
irritated with one another. Long periods of silence mixed in with only absolutely necessary business
conversations followed for several days. It was not pleasant for either Jens or Dietrich.
However, as the Jaeger bank account grew, due in part to the doctor’s efforts, Jens put his
political views behind him and dutifully focused on his many duties on Wolfland as mayor, land
manager, and producer of Wolfland Weiss.
Despite the improving German economy, Pastor Andreas became deeply concerned about
Nazism. Church leaders all over Germany were endorsing Hitler and blessing him. Some went as far to
state that Hitler was the new Christ and should be worshipped as such! This appalled Andreas, and he
resolutely refused to endorse a system that he saw as idol worship. He made general and passing
references to the Nazi government in his sermons, but he continued to focus on the love of Jesus. The
words, though, were falling mainly on deaf ears, and for the first time in Wolfland’s history, people,
including Dietrich Liebermann, were actually missing church on occasion, due to Nazi functions
planned on Sundays. Pastor Andreas and Anna noticed that the villagers were becoming more flippant
and less reverent to God and each other. As a result they started spending many more hours in prayer
together.

1936

A new year arrived with clear blue skies and frigid temperatures. The schoolhouse on Wolfland was
reopening after a two-week break. Wolfgang and Johann had just celebrated their fifteenth birthdays,
and despite their tender years they both were easily the smartest and most athletically gifted at school.
Yet Wolfgang still quietly battled with his teacher, Professor Adolf Steinkuhler, and would not work up
to his potential. This infuriated the schoolmaster and guaranteed Wolfgang his end position behind the
handsome Johann and the lovely Hannelore. The boys were both madly in love with the girl sitting
between them but had learned to be more discrete about their affections—a wink here, an innocent
inquiry there, a casual look from the side, offering to help with homework or the carrying of books.
Hannelore for her part couldn’t help but fluctuate between love and hate for either one during the
course of a week. It drove the boys mad, yet they suppressed their emotions with macho determination.
The rigid schoolmaster Steinkuhler welcomed his students back to school from the Christmas
break with his usual surliness. As the students plodded to their desks, they immediately noticed a new
framed photograph and flag at the front of the classroom. The photograph was a grim head shot of
Adolf Hitler and it hung high on the wall above the blackboard. A red Nazi flag, emblazoned in the
center with a black swastika set in a large white circle, was strapped to a sturdy flagpole and stood
prominently beside the professor’s desk. The students couldn’t help but murmur their observations to
one another as they looked at both the picture and flag.
The school door slammed shut, and the chatter of the students stopped immediately. They all
stood straight at attention beside their desks. Slowly, with measured steps, the cold, drab Professor
Steinkuhler walked through his domain to the front of the classroom and stepped onto the podium. He
turned around with a dramatic spin on his heel and ordered the children to sit. As they sat down the
students came to the startling realization that their taskmaster was showing some emotion. He was
excited! It was amazing!
With a dramatic arm gesture Steinkuhler pointed to the picture of Adolf Hitler. Secretly it
thrilled him that he shared the same first name as the Fuehrer. The schoolteacher and aspiring Nazi
could barely suppress his glee when he started addressing the students with a loud, clear voice.
“Students, when you look up at our Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler, consider his greatness. Since the end
of the Great War, Germany has suffered unemployment, poverty, and the loss of territory. We have
been humiliated! However, our Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler, is restoring Germany to its rightful place in the
world. Twice in German history our nation has been a great empire and then fallen. No longer!
Germany is becoming an empire again. The Third Reich will become the greatest era in German
history, and our nation will rule the world for a thousand years!”
Steinkuhler paused for effect and gazed down at the wide-eyed students. With his voice
quivering in excitement he declared, “You are members of a great race. The Aryan race! It is the master
race! Dear students, you must give your heart, mind, and soul to Adolf Hitler because he is creating a
wonderful and exciting future for you! Your destiny is to rule the world!”
Steinkuhler moved to the chalkboard, and suddenly his face contorted into an ugly, angry mask.
His voice became a nasty hiss, dripping with venom. “But there are some who do not want Germany to
be great again! These heretics, these Jews, will be crushed! They are evil, greedy, and responsible for
all the difficulties and troubles that have occurred in Germany! Death to all Jews!”
For the rest of the day Steinkuhler taught the students to hate Jews. He drew several vulgar
Jewish caricatures on the blackboard. A picture of a Jewish man had a big hawk nose, large sad eyes,
and long, frizzy hair with a skullcap perched on top of it. The students were required to copy the
picture of the man into their notebooks. Steinkuhler also made his class copy lists of Jewish crimes and
how they (allegedly) controlled the world and made life miserable for everyone else.
From that moment on Professor Adolf Steinkuhler daily instructed his students about Nazism
and to hate Jewish people. Parents at home heard about the teachings. Many encouraged it; some were
indifferent; others, like Jens Jaeger, were upset. He conferred with Pastor Andreas, who agreed with
Jens that Steinkuhler’s teachings were ungodly. Together they confronted the schoolmaster and
expressed their disagreement with what he was doing. The teacher defended himself by saying he had
been ordered to do so from the Nazi government and was just doing his job. Undaunted, Jens and
Andreas approached Dietrich Liebermann, Franz Fleishmann, and Udo Herzog with their concerns
about Professor Steinkuhler. The three party functionaries made it very clear that Steinkuhler had to
teach about Nazism and the party’s philosophies. It was the law. The teacher was doing nothing wrong,
and any further protests would be considered a criminal act towards the Nazi government.
Disgusted by the response to their concerns, Jens and Andreas vented their frustrations to each
other, about how the Nazis were poisoning the villagers with their diabolical beliefs, on their mutual
walks around the island. They felt helpless in doing anything about the Nazi influence and prayed
fervently to God for help and guidance.

•••

After a few months of teaching Nazi philosophy and doctrine to his students, Steinkuhler began
to see some fruits from his efforts. In particular, Wolfgang and Johann constantly expressed their
excitement about ruling the world some day. It made them feel important and more grown up. The
prospect of leaving Wolfland and gaining independence while doing some great things for themselves
and Germany was also very alluring.
One morning Steinkuhler announced to his class that a Hitler Jugend (youth) camp was to be
established in the forest of Wolfland. It would be open during the summer holidays and provide young
Nazis opportunities for philosophical discussions, use of firearms, hiking, and many other activities.
This was thrilling news to the students, yet Steinkuhler made it clear that only those who were working
hard on their studies would be allowed to attend the camp.
Wolfgang’s schoolwork improved dramatically, and he stopped clashing with the professor.
Steinkuhler noted the improvement and the excellent attitude of his former nemesis with great
satisfaction. Finally, after scoring outstanding grades on several tests and assignments, Wolfgang’s
desk was placed in front of Hannelore’s. The rest of the class observed the promotion with amazement,
and news of it raced around the village.
Although Jens and Marie were pleased with Wolfgang’s improvement at school, they were
more concerned about the philosophical changes that were occurring with their son. Jens was furious at
Wolfgang for even considering that Nazism was the will of God and that Hitler was ordained by the
Lord to lead Germany. The arguments between father and son went on for weeks. Marie finally pleaded
with Jens to stop. In response he withdrew from Wolfgang. Jens still loved his son deeply, but the
disagreements were driving him crazy. Wolfgang drifted from his father and family as well and spent
more time with the Liebermanns.
Nothing that Marie said could stop the breakdown of her family. Wolfgang did his chores
quietly and efficiently at home, in the forest, and at the vineyard. Barely a word was said between him
and his father. Once the work was done, Wolfgang immediately went to visit the Liebermanns.
Dietrich and Johann always had deep and lengthy conversations with Wolfgang about both the
benefits of Nazism and following Adolf Hitler. The boys also became friends with the other Nazis on
Wolfland, such as Herzog and the Fleishmanns, who treated them like adults. Wolfgang and Johann’s
new-found respect for their schoolmaster, who was easily the most fervent and devoted Nazi on
Wolfland, continued to grow.
Despite being close in age, being christened together, growing up together, getting married on
the same day, saving each other’s lives in war, being business partners, and at one time praying with
and for one another; Jens and Dietrich’s disagreement over Nazism had severely weakened the
common bonds that they shared. Now, the influence Dietrich had over Wolfgang, coupled with the
corresponding lack of influence Jens had on his son, only compounded the feelings of anger and
frustration the men had for each other.
Communication between Jens and Dietrich deteriorated to the point where they only talked
curtly about issues related to the wine business. Both men tried to dissuade their wives from meeting
socially. Marie and Krista would not hear of it. They continued to meet every day at the well and
market. Anna also had them visit her once a week at the manse. Many tears were shed. Many prayers
were sent out.
The smaller children of the Liebermanns’ and the Jaegers,’ Uwe, Ulrika, and Martin, seemed
unaffected by the madness swirling around Wolfland. They continued to meet and carry on with their
playing as if nothing was happening. This gave both Marie and Krista some hope and joy.

•••

Wolfgang’s and Johann’s new admiration for Professor Steinkuhler increased near the end of
the school year when the old schoolmaster announced that he, personally, had been elected to lead
Wolfland’s Hitler Jugend. Anyone over ten years of age could join, and they did not need their parents’
permission. This caused most students to gasp in disbelief, for it was totally unheard of for children to
join clubs or groups without first gaining parental approval. Yet Steinkuhler insisted that this was the
law, and he laid out several registration forms on his desk for the students to sign. Wolfgang and
Johann, plus all the other students who were old enough to join the Hitler Jugend, immediately filled
out the forms with the required information.
Wolfgang headed home afterwards with a gleeful smile on his face. He was a member of both a
great people and nation. Someday they would rule the world. As Wolfgang came up to the cottage he
could hear his father chopping wood in the backyard. Filled with pride he walked up to his elder, intent
on telling him what he had just done.
The older Jaeger looked up, stopped working, and gruffly asked, “Old Professor Steinkuhler
kept you in after school again? What was it this time? Didn’t finish your math assignment?”
Wolfgang looked his father squarely in the eye and defiantly said, “No, I’ve been getting my
assignments in on time for months.”
“Well, what then? Why are you late for lunch? We have eaten already.”
Jens stuck his chin out and proudly declared, “I am late because I joined the Hitler Jugend.”
“You what?”
“Professor Steinkuhler is the leader of the Hitler Jugend, and he asked us to sign up.”
“Oh he asked you to sign up, did he? Did he think of asking the ones who feed you, clothe you,
and love you, or are parents no longer necessary in the Third Reich?”
“Professor Steinkuhler said that we didn’t need parental permission to join.”
“Is that so?”
Jens suddenly dropped the axe and, with his eyes on fire, lunged forward and grabbed his son
by the arm. Wolfgang tried to resist, but he was no match for his robust father.
Through his teeth Jens snarled, “We’re going to see Professor ‘Idiot’ Steinkuhler right now!
Let’s go!”
Marie, upon hearing the commotion, came out of the house in a fright, followed by little Martin.
“Jens, what is going on?”
“Well, our big son has chosen to join the Hitler Jugend without our permission.”
“Is that so, Wolfgang?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jens bellowed, “I’m going to go with the kaiser here to see Steinkuhler and get this straightened
out.”
Wolfgang spat out, “You’re taking me nowhere. I’m part of the Nazi Jugend, and you can’t do
anything about it!”
The words were barely out when Jens attacked. With one swift slap on Wolfgang’s left cheek
he sent him sprawling to the ground.
Marie gasped and screamed, “No, Jens, no!”
The proud forester hovered over his prostate son, who stared up at him with fearful eyes for
several long seconds. Jens abruptly turned and headed to the schoolhouse, leaving Wolfgang filled with
hate and the rest of his family crying.
A small agitated crowd had already gathered in front of the schoolhouse when Jens arrived.
Pastor Andreas stood alone behind the mob. His face was furrowed in lines of worry. Steinkuhler stood
arrogantly with Dietrich on the front steps of the school, glaring with disdain at the people. Jens’ and
Dietrich’s eyes locked onto each other’s. Nothing but hatred and anger for one another blazed from
them. They became oblivious to the milling people around them.
Udo Herzog strode up and stood beside the teacher and Dietrich. He held up his arms for
silence, and once things calmed down he spoke. “My dear fellow citizens, it is obvious that some of
you are a little upset about the decision made by some of our students today.”
“You mean the decision that Steinkuhler made for them,” grunted Jens.
Some in the crowd nodded and murmured their agreement. All the while Jens’ and Dietrich’s
eyes kept boring into each other’s.
Udo raised his arms. “Quiet, quiet, now listen to me. According to a new law—and I have the
edict at home if anyone wishes to see it—the youth in Germany are permitted to join the Hitler Jugend
without parental permission. Also, if any parent forbids their child to join or disrupts any meetings,
they themselves are then liable for arrest. SS Lieutenant Egon Kratzer will be visiting Wolfland next
week to clarify any laws that you may be having trouble understanding. My advice for you is to
comply. The children will be well supervised, well disciplined, and will perform good, wholesome
activities. Our wonderful Fuehrer wants them trained and prepared for the glorious future that is in
store for them. Look here. One of our leading citizens, Doctor Dietrich Liebermann, fully supports
what has happened today! Say something, doctor!”
Dietrich kept staring at Jens as he spoke. “The future is now! It is time to give Adolf Hitler and
the Nazi party our unquestioned loyalty and support! Now! Our children deserve a great life and future!
Now! For much too long Germany has been oppressed by Jewish conspirators and countries to the west
and east! I say no longer! Join us, or you will eventually be swept aside like filthy swine!”
Udo could not suppress the smile on his face. He stepped in and declared to the group, “I order
you to return to your homes and never question the authority of our Fuehrer and the Nazi party again.
Heil Hitler!”
Only Dietrich, Steinkuhler, and a few others responded with outstretched arms and a bellow of
“Heil Hitler.” That was not good enough. Again, Udo Herzog raised his arm up and sternly said, “Heil
Hitler.”
Everyone, except Jens Jaeger and Pastor Andreas, raised their right arms and bellowed, “Heil
Hitler.”
Pastor Andreas had his head bowed while Jens kept his eyes on Dietrich’s.
Udo became angry. Ominously he declared, “Herr Jaeger and Pastor Andreas, you must always
say ‘Heil Hitler’ when greeting and departing from someone. Refusal to co-operate in these matters can
prove to be very costly to yourself, your family, and also your business!”
The rest of the people stood frozen in silence.
Slowly and silently Jens walked straight up to the Nazi representative. He then turned to the
crowd and in a loud voice asked, “So how much are the Nazis paying you, Herr Herzog?”
The innkeeper fidgeted nervously. Jens shifted his eyes to Steinkuhler. “What about you, Herr
Professor? How much are they paying you?”
Jens moved and stood face to face with Dietrich. “Come on, speak up, how much is it worth to
sell your soul to the Nazis? Is it worth losing both your respect and friends?”
“Now listen here,” blustered Herzog. “The Nazis are in power, and they have brought honour
and respect back to Germany. We are all doing well here. You and Liebermann, particularly, are both
doing well. What is your problem with the government? Are you not rich enough?”
“Wealth has nothing to do with it. I have big problems with governments taking away parental
authority. I have big problems with governments that insist on meeting Sunday mornings during
church. That is sacred time, to consider what is really important. It is quite obvious, though, that some
of you consider the Nazis more important than God. You are selling yourselves out for a few shekels.
Heil Hitler: nonsense. Auf wiedersehen [goodbye], Herr Herzog, Professor Steinkuhler and Doctor
Liebermann. Mark my words, too much power in the hands of fools will lead to this country’s
downfall.”
With that, Jens gave one last glare to the men on the front steps, turned away, and walked off.
Herzog yelled after him. “You are going to pay for this, Jaeger, just wait and see!”
Jens ignored him.
Looking over to Pastor Andreas, Herzog demanded, “So what is your excuse, pastor? You are
to bless the government because God ordained it. Am I not right?”
The pastor gazed at Herzog, Liebermann, Steinkuhler and the rest of the villagers. “Always
make God your first priority in life and give to Caesar what is Caesar’s,” he uttered.
With that Pastor Andreas raised his arm and said an unconvincing “Heil Hitler.”
The men were silent when Andreas turned away with a heavy heart and headed home.
The confrontation with Herzog, Liebermann, and Steinkuhler was still very much on his mind
as Jens stormed back to the cottage. Marie met him on the porch.
“Where is Wolfgang?” asked Jens.
“He is at the Liebermanns’.”
Jens buried his head in his hands. With a shaking voice he said, “I can’t go on like this. Losing
a friend like Dietrich is one thing, but losing your own son is an absolute disaster.”
Marie responded, “Our son will be back. Of that I am certain. You have taught him too well.
This madness will end soon enough. What happened at the schoolhouse?”
Jens told her everything. At the end Marie sighed and responded with resignation, “You must
think about our future. To not comply can hurt us all. So we have to say ‘Heil Hitler.’ So what? Let’s
just play their games. I am sure that deep down they know where we truly stand. But at least it will ease
the tension somewhat.”
Jens responded with irritation. “What are you saying, Marie? That you can live a lie and just
pretend to go along with what is going on? What about the new Nazi laws, which are undermining our
parental authority and the power of the church? You witnessed what happened today. Did you know
that Herzog is constantly harassing Pastor Andreas so that he will give his blessing to the Nazis? Yet
Herzog barely goes to church anymore. He’s always off to some party function. And SS Lieutenant
Egon Kratzer is constantly meeting with Herzog, Liebermann, Fleishmann, and Steinkuhler. They are
clearly being paid off. All four are selling their souls to the very devil himself.”
Marie looked downcast. “Yes, Jens, I believe you. What can we do, though? It seems that
people have either become devout Nazis or are too scared and complacent to fight back. But people are
getting jobs and are well fed. Most attribute that to the Nazis. Even our wine business is prospering like
never before. We’re healthy and wealthy. Despite the Nazis, God has been good to us.”
Jens stared at Marie and smiled grimly. He spoke softly with a hint of sadness. “Sure He has,
but how far is this new religion of Nazism going to go, Marie? How much more are we going to give
up to the Fuehrer and the nation of Germany? It is obvious they want our children. The Fuehrer and
Nazism are replacing God and the traditions that have served us so well here on Wolfland for centuries.
It’s happening much too quickly. I’m scared, Marie, and you know I don’t scare easy. I fear God will
allow a lot of suffering to happen before this is all over. There are too many people in Germany not
trusting Him anymore.”
Marie reached over and held Jens’ hand. They sat in silence for a long time.
Wolfgang did not come home that night. Jens went to the Liebermanns’ to get him, but
Wolfgang refused to obey. Dietrich intervened and told Jens to leave. The two old friends ended up
having a fierce shouting match. Only the timely intervention of Pastor Andreas and Dietrich’s promise
that he would bring Wolfgang home the next day prevented the men from coming to blows. With a
heavy heart Jens returned home alone and sought solace in prayer and time with Marie. Both barely
slept that night.
The next morning Wolfgang returned home. He did not come alone. Dietrich, Egon Kratzer,
Georg Lutz, Udo Herzog, Adolf Steinkuhler, Franz Fleishmann, and four armed Nazi soldiers were
with him. They came unannounced, entering the cottage without bothering to knock on the front door.
The soldiers assumed positions at the doorways.
Kratzer took charge by sending Martin to his bedroom and ordering Jens and Marie to sit beside
each other on the sofa in the living room. A chair was placed in front of the nervous couple, and Egon
Kratzer calmly sat down on it while the others remained standing in a semi-circle behind the Nazi
official. The lieutenant then coolly eyed the Jaegers with an ugly smirk on his lips. Wolfgang stood
still, avoiding eye contact with his parents.
Considering the terrifying tactics the Nazis had used to enter the Jaeger household, Kratzer’s
serene and pleasant voice as he spoke to Jens and Marie seemed absurd and patronizing.
“According to Professor Steinkuhler your son Wolfgang has great intellectual and physical
abilities. Congratulations. However, according to the schoolmaster, Wolfgang was not working up to
his potential before the Nazis came to power. But now your son is doing very well with his studies. A
coincidence? I think not. So it is thus my pleasure, Herr and Frau [Mrs.] Jaeger, to be the first to
congratulate you on the nomination of your son, Wolfgang, to attend the prestigious Adolf Hitler
School in Koenig’s Tal this September. I am sure that without the influence and distractions of parents
and family commitments the Adolf Hitler School will develop your son’s talents better than here on
Wolfland. Don’t you agree? Oh, and by the way, Wolfgang won’t be going alone. Johann Liebermann
has also shown great intellectual and physical abilities and as a result will be attending the same school
as your son.”
Jens sat stoically without responding.
Unflustered by Jaeger’s demeanour, Kratzer continued with his dialogue, but the tone of his
voice became harsh. “As a consequence of your obstinate attitude towards the Nazi leaders of
Wolfland, your son Wolfgang will live with the Liebermanns until the day of his departure to the Adolf
Hitler School. You and your wife may talk with him only in the presence of Doctor Dietrich
Liebermann at predetermined times and places.”
Jens looked at Wolfgang, but he did not look back. Then he shifted his gaze towards Dietrich,
who did not look up either. Without emotion Jens declared, “That is not possible.”
Kratzer responded loudly. “Oh yes it is, Herr Jaeger! Let me make something very clear! I
could have had you arrested yesterday for your insubordination towards my colleagues at the
schoolhouse! Think of your family, Herr Jaeger! Can they afford to have you arrested? You must
become aware of the new laws and the will of our Fuehrer! I am for the most part a tolerant man, Herr
Jaeger, but I will not tolerate this again!
Kratzer paused, and his tone became patronizing again. “Herr Herzog, Professor Steinkuhler,
Herr Franz Fleishmann, and Doctor Liebermann have been entrusted to guide the people of Wolfland
into the ways of the Third Reich. We have all decided that as of this morning, you are relieved of your
mayoral and forestry duties. Herr Udo Herzog is now the new Burgermeister [mayor] of Wolfland.
Professor Steinkuhler and Doctor Liebermann will be his deputies, and Herr Fleishmann will be the
land manager. Your primary objective, Herr Jaeger, is to serve the Third Reich by producing wine and
investing the profits in an account set up by Burgermeister Herzog. That is the only reason you are not
being arrested. Make sure that your profits are healthy, Herr Jaeger. Burgermeister Herzog will review
expectations with you later.”
Jens stared blankly ahead, desperately trying to suppress the turmoil within.
Egon Kratzer continued. “You are expected to support your son’s decision to join the Nazi
movement by providing a generous financial donation to the Hitler Jugend camp this summer.
Burgermeister Herzog will review that with you as well.”
Kratzer stood up and looked at Herzog, Steinkuhler, Fleishmann, and Liebermann. Sweeping
his hand at the unresponsive Jens and Marie he declared with a smile, “See, gentlemen, I knew Herr
and Frau Jaeger would come around to our point of view.”
With that the Nazis, including Wolfgang, snapped their heels together, lifted their right arms,
and in unison yelled, “Heil Hitler!”
They did not move afterwards but stood staring down at Jens and Marie. Slowly, Jens Jaeger, a
godly man with a proud heritage and a proud name, a name that once commanded respect from
everyone on Wolfland, stood up with his wife. The couple raised their right arms together and both
firmly said “Heil Hitler” at the same time.
In response to their victory over the Jaegers, Kratzer smiled slyly, Herzog’s eyes danced with
delight, Fleishmann grinned impishly, and Steinkuhler kept scowling. Wolfgang and Dietrich stared
impassively ahead.
With that the Nazi entourage trooped out. Wolfgang looked back for an instance, and his eyes
met Jens’. Dietrich gripped Wolfgang’s right elbow and ushered him out of the cottage.
For the longest time Jens and Marie sat together in the dim light of the living room. They were
both too stunned and grief-stricken to move. Finally, Marie broke down in tears.
Much later, in the gathering darkness of the day, Jens and Marie headed to the manse. Pastor
Andreas and Anna listened with utter disbelief as their dear friends took turns recounting the events in
their home that morning. After they had finished there was much weeping and praying.
It was well into the night when Pastor Andreas and Anna finally walked the Jaegers back to the
cottage. It was extremely dark outside, and the cross could not be seen on top of Rupert’s Berg.
At breakfast the next morning a boy brought a message that Jens was to go immediately to the
Rathaus and collect his things. Burgermeister Herzog wanted to attend to his new position promptly.
Jens glumly got up and made his way to the village. As he walked he could not help but reflect that in
the whole history of Wolfland there had always been a Jaeger as a land manager, forester, or mayor. It
had all abruptly ended the previous day. He shook his head in despair.
As Jens came onto Main Street gusts of wind blew paper onto his body. They were his. A
window from the second story of the Rathaus was open, and Herzog could be seen heaving Jens’
former documents out the window. The portly new Burgermeister saw his predecessor walking below.
In an arrogant tone Herzog yelled at Jens, “You, Jaeger, hurry up and clean your papers off the street.
Then get up here and remove the rest!”
Two more heads poked out the window. The young adult sons of Franz Fleishmann, Tobias and
Hanzi, laughed boisterously as Jens started bending over and picking up the papers. The laughter grew
louder as the wind kept blowing the papers out of reach.
Later, Jens went to the vineyard. Udo Herzog had come earlier and informed the workers what
the new arrangement was. They had always treated their employer with great respect, but now as Jens
talked to them they responded curtly and without eye contact. Some outright ignored him.
Jens met Marie for their daily shopping time in the market. There was a sickening quiet in the
market as the Jaegers went from stall to stall. No one spoke to them; no one looked at them. The
exchange of money and goods was done without words or expressions, without eye or physical contact.
Near the well, Jens and Marie crossed paths with Krista Liebermann. A quick look from Krista, and
then she bowed her head and headed off in the opposite direction.
Jens and Marie met the von Himmels in the plaza. Pastor Andreas and Anna made a point of
talking to the Jaegers. Anna gave them a bouquet of flowers. Several pairs of eyes watched them from
afar.
Jens and Marie walked home and encountered villagers along the way who normally would
have greeted them with a hearty hello. Instead, their “friends” walked by with lowered heads and
silence.
That evening a fire raged in the cottage’s hearth. The two couples sat in front of it, letting the
warmth and glow waft over their discouragement.
Pastor Andreas spoke quietly. “The villagers are like sheep. The wolves have come, and they
are a herd running scared. They are thinking only of their own survival. Yet, as difficult as their fear
and cowardice is to bear, the real challenge will come later.”
The pastor paused and let the words sink in.
Anna spoke with a touch of irritation. “Look at us. We are suffering, and you can only give us
vague declarations, which makes it worse.”
“No, no, my dear; let me elaborate. Jens and Marie are doing the right thing. We must follow
their example and stay strong as well, no matter how tempting it is to join the herd. No, the challenge
will be to forgive the sheep once they come back to the fold. Especially those who will think they have
done nothing wrong.”
Jens and Marie hurt too much to even consider forgiving. Another log was thrown on the fire,
and the couples began to pray fervently.
Several days after the Nazi intrusion into their home Jens and Marie found the strength to meet
with Wolfgang at the Liebermanns’. They did not really want to converse with their old friends. They
just wanted to see their son.
Jens and Marie met with Wolfgang in the Liebermanns’ kitchen. Dietrich hovered nearby
listening to every word, watching every movement.
Wolfgang spoke once again about the Third Reich and how the youth of Germany were training
to become the future leaders of the nation and then the world. He spoke about how Herzog,
Fleishmann, Steinkuhler, and Dietrich had given him special attention and had told him that he had
great intelligence and physical abilities. He was going to be a leader, and he was excited. Jens tried to
remind Wolfgang again, about the traditions of Wolfland and how faith in God and the influence of
Wilhelm’s Kirche had been at the centre of creating an atmosphere of peace and godliness on the
island. Wolfgang retorted by saying Nazism was now the new reality in Germany and Wolfland. It was
everyone’s duty to obey this. Church was a tradition that he, personally, would continue to uphold, for
now, anyways. At that point Jens stormed out of the meeting with Marie in tow.
It angered Jens deeply that Dietrich and the other Nazis had more authority over his son than he
did. Yet, Jens was still responsible to provide for his family, and he needed to stay in control and not
lose his livelihood. There could not be any more outbursts in front of Nazis. Jens and Wolfgang
avoided each other. Jens forced his anger inwards, where it simmered and boiled ready to explode at
any moment.

•••

Summer arrived, and the Hitler Jugend camp was established on Wolfland near the edge of the
forest. The campers, who came from the island and Koenig’s Tal, first went up onto Rupert’s Berg and
set a huge Nazi flag on a pole that towered over the ancient cross. An attempt to cut down the cross was
made by the Hitler Jugend. Impossible. It was much too hard for any axe or saw. So it remained. On
windy days the Nazi flag would flutter, and the huge black swastika could be seen for kilometres.
The Nazis provided uniforms for both the camp’s leaders and the youth. They all wore them
with arrogance. Professor Adolf Steinkuhler taught Nazi philosophies to the campers while Franz
Fleishmann and his two sons, Tobias and Hanzi, led the boys daily through various sports, military
drills, and hand-to-hand combat. Although extremely busy with his practice and the wine business,
Dietrich came to the camp on weekends and taught the boys how to shoot rifles.
Right from the start of camp Johann and Wolfgang were well ahead of everyone in terms of
physical skills and their knowledge of Nazi doctrine. Although the crusty old schoolmaster never
praised anyone, Steinkuhler was most impressed with Wolfgang’s and Johann’s efforts. The boys knew
this, because he never criticized them and was constantly holding them up to the other camp members
as models of what an ideal Hitler Jugend should be like. It was a major change from the usual constant
criticism Steinkuhler meted out at school, and it made both Wolfgang and Johann extremely happy.
The Hitler Jugend kept the young men busy from morning until night, which caused Wolfgang
to rarely think of his family. Occasionally though, Jens and Wolfgang saw each other from afar, but
they refused to acknowledge one another.
The only link Wolfgang and Johann had to the village was going to Wilhelm’s Kirche on
Sunday mornings to sing in the choir. For the boys, attendance at church was a normal habit, instilled at
an early age in their lives. A “tradition,” as Wolfgang had pointed out to his father. Yet the boys regular
appearance at church did not sit well with Steinkuhler, who believed Christian services were a
distraction and unnecessary for Nazis. The professor himself had stopped attending Wilhelm’s Kirche
several months before for that very reason.
One Sunday morning Steinkuhler insisted that Wolfgang and Johann had to wear their Hitler
Jugend uniforms to the church service. His rationale was that loyal Nazis needed to be in proper gear at
all times to serve the Third Reich.
At Wilhelm’s Kirche Pastor Andreas immediately noticed the Nazi outfits under the boy’s choir
robes and confronted them in private. “Boys, why are you wearing your uniforms to church?”
Wolfgang retorted, “Is it a problem, pastor?”
“They are inappropriate for church.”
“Professor Steinkuhler ordered us to wear them. Why are they inappropriate?”
“They represent allegiance to a political power and not God.”
Johann spoke up. “We have a duty to our country first, Pastor Andreas.”
Andreas frowned and said, “It is time for worship. We will talk about this later.”
Fifteen minutes into the service, while the choir was still singing, the church door opened and
Professor Steinkuhler, clad in a formal Nazi officer’s uniform, walked up the middle of the aisle. He
stopped near the front and kept standing there with arms crossed and a scowl on his face.
The choir stopped singing, and the church became deathly quiet, all eyes fixed on the
schoolmaster. Steinkuhler pointed to Wolfgang and Johann and waved them to come over. The boys
obeyed.
Steinkuhler looked at the pastor and said, “These young men have a critical Hitler Jugend
meeting. Now!”
Despite his advanced age, Pastor Andreas was still an imposing figure. His pastoral robes, long
snow-white beard, and tall frame gave him a dignity and air of authority that rarely was questioned.
Slowly he walked up to Steinkuhler, until he was towering over him. The congregation watched in awe.
Pastor Andreas gently led the Nazi leader by the arm to the back of the church, out of earshot and away
from inquisitive eyes. The choir and congregation started singing a hymn.
Pastor Andreas spoke softly. “Professor Steinkuhler, it is wrong for you or anyone else to
interrupt a service honouring the Lord and His people. You have shown great disrespect in doing so.”
Steinkuhler shrugged his shoulders and stared up at the pastor with a sneer on his lips.
Pastor Andreas fought down a feeling of anger and continued, “It has also come to my attention
that in the past year you have spoken poorly about me, Anna, and the church. You have not visited us
at our home during that time either. Tell me, professor; have my wife and I offended you in any way?
Has anyone in this congregation hurt you? Please tell me now so we can forgive and reconcile.”
Steinkuhler responded with cold disgust, “I am offended with the church and its desire to have
people believe old irrelevant beliefs! Wake up, pastor! The days of the church’s authority over people
are done! You and the rest of your pastoral colleagues are out of touch with the world! Look at you in
those ancient robes—an ancient man, telling us ancient stories, in an ancient building! It is laughable!
Now, out of my way, you ancient man!”
Steinkuhler stormed to the altar while Pastor Andreas watched in shock. Wolfgang and Johann
came up to their ardent Nazi leader, took off their robes and threw them onto the floor. The
congregation gasped at the Nazi uniforms and the defiant air of the boys as they strode down the
middle aisle with Steinkuhler. Jens suddenly stood up and reprimanded the schoolmaster and the boys
for their disrespectful behaviour.
Steinkuhler yelled back, “You are to remain quiet, Herr Jaeger! Or have you forgotten that I
could easily have you arrested?”
Marie touched Jens’ arm, and he slowly sat down.
Steinkuhler glared at the rest of the congregation. “The church is unimportant!” he screamed.
“The Nazis are in control of Germany, and it is their will that is to be obeyed! Not some old preacher or
some God that no one can see!”
Steinkuhler spat on the floor of the church and, with Wolfgang and Johann following closely
behind him, stormed out. The church door slammed shut, and its crashing noise echoed throughout the
sanctuary for several seconds.
Jens slowly walked up to Andreas and put his arm around the shaken pastor. Turning to the
congregation he asked, “When will this Nazi evil end?”
No response.
Jens spoke louder. “Why are you not protesting against the Nazis? They are taking away our
children! They are forcing us to give up our beliefs and values. Why do you cower? ”
The congregation responded by hurriedly leaving the church in groups of two or three with their
heads bowed. Within a few minutes only Pastor Andreas, Jens, Marie, Anna, and Martin remained.
Together, they came up to the altar and prayed and lamented before the Lord.
Suddenly pistol shots could be heard, along with yelling and laughter. Martin looked up.
Jens said, “Ignore it, Martin.”
They continued to pray.
It would be many years before Wolfgang and Johann attended a service at Wilhelm’s Kirche
again.

•••

It was on a clear, beautiful late-summer morning that Doctor Liebermann, Professor


Steinkuhler, the Fleishmanns, and Burgermeister Herzog led the members of the Hitler Jugend up to
the top of Rupert’s Berg and had them sit by the flagpole. The men, imposing in their full military
dress, stood in front of the boys.
Steinkuhler spoke first, his voice rising up and going down on waves of emotion. “Youth are
our nation’s most precious guarantee for a great future. You are destined to be leaders of a glorious
new order under national socialism. My dear boys, you are members of a superior race, and it is your
destiny to rule the world. Over the last eight weeks here at camp I have taught many things, but the two
most important are that pure Aryan Germans are better than all other people in the world and that your
primary duty is to Germany and its leaders. Your Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler, comes first, above family,
above friends, and above God. You have all shown great loyalty to the Nazi cause this summer, but the
two that have excelled the most are Wolfgang Jaeger and Johann Liebermann. As a result these two
will become full members of the Jungvolk” (Young Folk, an elite Hitler Youth organization).
The boys applauded heartily as Herzog stepped forward with a smug smile on his face. He
ordered Wolfgang and Johann to kneel before them all. Then, in utmost seriousness, he had them
repeat, “I promise in the Jungvolk to do my duty at all times in love and faithfulness to the Fuehrer. His
banner means more than death.”
Herzog then reached into his tunic and with great flourish pulled out two daggers. Inscribed on
the blades were “Blood and Honour.” He gently pressed the blades on the boys’ heads and had them
rise. With the others cheering loudly, Wolfgang and Johann each took a knife and put it in the sheath
attached to their belts. It was an extremely proud moment for both of them.
A day later the Hitler Jugend leadership dismissed its charges from camp. September was near,
and the youth had to return to school. The island soon emptied of the aspiring Nazis. Wolfgang went to
the Liebermanns’ and made last-minute preparations with Johann for their departure to Koenig’s Tal
the following morning. After packing and eating with Dietrich, Krista, and the twins, Uwe and Ulrike,
Wolfgang and Johann went into the forest. They had deceitfully announced to Dietrich and Krista that
they wanted one last walk around the island that had been their home since birth. Instead, the young
men headed directly for the hot springs and climbed the grassy cliffs nearby. After some difficulty they
found the opening to the caverns and entered with two flashlights blazing through the blackness.
Wolfgang and Johann had up to that moment heeded Jens’ warning about never going into the
caverns alone and keeping their knowledge about them a secret. They had been too busy with growing
up and becoming part of the Hitler Jugend to ever go against Jens’ wishes. But the real truth as to why
they had kept the caves a secret and had never explored the old wolf lair on their own was that they
were deathly afraid of them.
Yet the experience of entering the caverns years earlier was never forgotten, and they had
become an almost mythical place for Wolfgang and Johann. The thought of entering them alone some
day and challenging their fear had grown so large, it was irresistible. Now, flushed with youthful zeal
and the reckless propaganda of the Nazis, Wolfgang and Johann dared each other to not only enter the
caves but also explore the narrow tunnel that led off from the third cavern. Jens himself had said he was
too afraid to explore the tunnel. This made the challenge even more intriguing.
Wolfgang and Johann shivered in the cold, dank air as they gingerly made their way through the
three caverns to the mysterious passageway. Seeing the gnawed bones once again, lying helter-skelter
on the cave’s floor, gave each of them a rush of adrenalin. Soon enough they came to the opening of
the tunnel. Wolfgang flipped a coin. Johann won.
Tentatively he went first into the pitch-black passageway. Wolfgang followed with his heart
beating like a snare drum. The tunnel got steeper and narrower. On and on the boys went. They went
around a sharp bend and could hear the sound of rushing water. Unfortunately, they did not point the
flashlights down at their feet but aimed them up ahead, looking for the source of the sound. Suddenly,
Johann slipped and fell down a steep embankment, landing roughly on a sandy plateau. Wolfgang came
right behind. They fell so fast neither boy had time to yell. Fortunately the drop was onto soft sand and
no bones were broken. Groaning in some pain, however, Wolfgang and Johann picked themselves up
and regained the flashlights. They were in a large cave. An underground river came out of an opening
on one end of it and disappeared through a hole on the other side. The steep incline they had slid down
was at least five metres high. Slick with water, it was impossible to climb.
Johann stated the obvious. “Should have brought a rope.”
Wolfgang looked at him with annoyance. “Any other bright ideas on how we can get out of
here?”
Johann shrugged his shoulders and looked at the black water rushing nearby. “Looks like we’re
going for a swim.”
Wolfgang shook his head and wryly declared to his friend, “You’re crazy.”
Johann retorted with sarcasm, “We could remain here and wait to be rescued. That could take a
while, considering we didn’t tell anyone where we were going. We are also probably the first people
who have ever come through the tunnel to this river. No, I think we will be quite dead before they ever
find us here.”
“Yes, yes, I see your point.”
“Even if we are ever found alive in this cave, do you think they’ll accept us at the Adolf Hitler
School? No. I think if the school administrators knew about this stupid stunt our future service to the
Reich will be hauling manure and cleaning toilets. We have only one choice to save our lives and
reputations. We jump in that water and hope it will take us into the Ebene. If we make it, we just carry
on as planned and never tell anyone about this. If not, considering the alternatives, I’d rather be dead.”
Wolfgang heaved a sigh of despair. Quietly, with resignation in his voice, he said, “Yes, I
agree.”
The two friends walked up to the edge of the black river. Wolfgang flipped a coin. Johann won.
He turned to Wolfgang and said, “Why are you so lucky tonight? Listen, if I’m not back in three
minutes, I’m either drowned or safe.” He shook his friend’s hand, picked up the waterproof flashlight
and then immediately plunged feet first into the watery abyss.
The sound of the splash echoed throughout the cavern for several seconds. It slowly died out,
and the sounds of the current-driven river lightly splashing against the rocky walls of the cave took
over. In his anxiety Wolfgang had forgotten to count. Not that it mattered. The rhythmical sounds of
the rushing river plus fear paralyzed his mind, and he couldn’t put a rational thought together.
Wolfgang kept standing, transfixed, at the edge of the water for several minutes. His flashlight
suddenly lost power, and the white glare that had sliced through the darkness so effectively before
turned a sickly yellow. The sudden change snapped Wolfgang’s mind to the situation at hand. He had
no idea how long he had been standing there, but no doubt it was long enough. Johann was either dead
or alive.
It was time to go. Wolfgang took three deep breaths; on the third he jumped feet first into the
river. The freezing temperature of the water hit him like a sudden kick in the head. His boots and heavy
clothing filled with water, and he sank like a stone. Suddenly the current slammed into him, causing
him to lose his flashlight. Now in complete darkness, the rushing water hurtled Wolfgang through a
tunnel. He had no idea whether he was up or down. His brain and lungs screamed for air, and a blood
vessel burst painfully in his left ear. The current shot him backwards into the Ebene. For a moment
Wolfgang hung suspended in the slow moving river. Thankfully there was a full moon that night, and
its beams refracted through the water, giving Wolfgang a direction to swim towards. With his last bit of
strength he pulled up to the light. His head burst out of the oily, black river with a loud, desperate gasp
for air. Panting and flailing mightily to stay upright, Wolfgang was carried by the Ebene to the western
bank of the river near the bridge. It was shallow, and he was finally able to stand. He stumbled and
crawled out of the river and collapsed onto the rocky shore. Suddenly he heard Johann’s voice. “What
took you so long? I got out of the river at least a half hour ago.”
Wolfgang was too cold to respond as Johann passed him a blanket. The young Liebermann’s
voice was a mixture of irritation and relief.
“I waited for you here until I nearly froze to death. Finally I left for home to get warm. I thought
you must have died, but I came back on the chance that your corpse might have washed up on shore.
No worries—I would have given you a decent burial.”
“You are so kind,” stuttered Wolfgang through chattering teeth. “Do you have another blanket?
I am absolutely frozen.”
“No, but come on, let’s get going. I made it home in time for my parents not to start worrying. I
told them you were in bed already and wished them a good night before I snuck back here. It won’t
look good if they check up on us later and we’re not there.”
The next morning shone bright and clear. Wolfgang and Johann woke up exhausted from their
adventure and lack of sleep. They got into Dietrich’s car, and the doctor slowly drove off towards
Koenig’s Tal and the Adolf Hitler School.
Jens did not say goodbye to Wolfgang. In fact, he did not even see his son off, for he was in the
forest stricken with grief about him. At the bridge, Marie, Martin, Krista, and the twins said their
goodbyes with tears and heavy hearts. Most of the villagers, including Pastor Andreas and Anna, were
also there to bid farewell. Dietrich stopped the car and smiled at them, but the boys were cold and aloof
and didn’t return the farewells. Anna passed bouquets of flowers to the boys through Dietrich’s open
window. They accepted them with a look of disdain and not a word. Dietrich pressed the accelerator,
and as the car crossed the bridge Anna watched her two bouquets fly out of the back door windows into
the Ebene River. The boys looked back and snickered. Pastor Andreas and Anna sadly walked back to
the church arm in arm. Wolfgang and Johann kept looking back. Eventually all they could see was the
pole with the limp Nazi flag against it and the cross nearby. Then they were gone.
Wolfgang turned to Johann and gave him a knowing look. Johann nodded slightly in response.
It had been a horrible last night on Wolfland. They were lucky to be alive.

1937

On January 30, 1937, Adolf Hitler announced to the world that the Treaty of Versailles, which
Germany had signed after losing World War I, no longer applied to the Third Reich.
A major stipulation of the treaty had been that Germany pay fines, called “reparations,” to the
Allies, for the loss of material and life that the war had caused them. Most Germans considered the
reparations far too harsh, because their nation experienced severe economic and political instability in
the years after the war due to the exorbitant financial penalties they were forced to pay the victorious
nations of the Great War. The treaty also forced Germany to give up large tracts of its territory and to
have a severely reduced military.
Now, after Hitler’s declaration, there were no longer any payments from Germany to the Allies.
In the upcoming months former German territories like the Sudetenland were “reacquired” by the
Nazis, with the backing of an army that far exceeded what had been stipulated in the Treaty of
Versailles.
The reaction of the Allies to the Nazi assertiveness was passive and posed no threat to them.
Hitler and his National Socialist Party interpreted the lack of response as weakness, and it emboldened
them to think of greater conquests. The Nazi successes also increased their popularity and power in
Germany.
To maintain that power and to ensure that the future leaders of Germany would be devoted to
the Third Reich, numerous “Adolf Hitler Schools” were established by the Nazis throughout Germany.
Set up exclusively for boys, subjects at the schools included math, history, language, Norse mythology,
Aryan history, military tactics, Nazi doctrines, and, of course, the writings of Adolf Hitler.

At the Adolf Hitler School in Koenig’s Tal the mandated subjects were taught with pragmatic
efficiency, and as a result there was room in the schedule for gun use and hand-to-hand combat. These
were the favourite subjects for the school’s best students, Wolfgang Jaeger and Johann Liebermann,
and their incredible marksmanship with the rifle garnered them plenty of attention from the leaders at
the school. They dutifully and enthusiastically sent monthly reports of their two prize students’
progress to several prominent men in the Nazi army’s sniper division. The reports were reviewed with
great interest.
On weekends and holidays Wolfgang and Johann were picked up by Dietrich at the school and
taken back to Wolfland. The young Herr Jaeger was still not allowed to stay with his parents during the
visits but instead remained at the Liebermanns’. During his time on Wolfland he had nothing to do with
his father and only granted one midday meal with his mother and Martin, at the Liebermann home. At
times during the mealtime with Wolfgang, Marie was able to break through her son’s hardened Nazi
exterior, but those moments of real vulnerability were only fleeting. Jens, meanwhile, wandered in the
forest, loudly pleading with God to intervene and save his elder son from the Nazis.
In contrast to the Jaegers, Johann and his proud father always had a warm reunion. Krista was
also happy to see her son during the visits, but she noticed that he, like Wolfgang, was becoming
distant, even arrogant and harsh around her. This she kept to herself because it was clearly evident from
Dietrich’s demeanour and words that he was extremely pleased with Johann’s attitude. Dietrich
believed it showed both strength and loyalty to the Nazi cause.
While Wolfgang’s affection for his home island was strained, owing to the poor relationship
with his family, he nevertheless always returned with Dietrich and Johann. The real reason was
obvious, even though he would never admit it. Simply put, seventeen-year-old Hannelore Schafer had
grown into a beautiful young woman, and both Wolfgang and Johann were madly in love with her.
They sent her romantic letters and tried to gain her attention while they were on Wolfland. As usual,
Hannelore could not decide whom she liked better. Wolfgang or Johann, Johann or Wolfgang?
This made the competition between the two young men for the beautiful girl’s affections even
more heated, and a few suppressed tensions arose. Thankfully, holidays and weekends were much too
short, and the boys’ emotions were quickly brought under control once they got back to the Adolf
Hitler School. Yet it did not take much to rekindle the fire. Returning to Wolfland and seeing
Hannelore, who was now apprenticing as a seamstress, was all it took.
The passage of time, only marked by attendance at the Adolf Hitler School, Jungvolk camps,
and occasional visits to Wolfland, fled by for Wolfgang and Johann.

1938

Ferinard Lung had been a chimney sweep in Berlin before Hitler came to power. He did not
particularly like the job. It made him filthy, and working high on a roof was dangerous; the money was
not good either. Lung’s greatest passion was genealogy, and he spent every spare hour he could on it.
His methods were simple. Go to a church in an area where a family’s forefathers had, or may have, at
one time resided and look through the registries that dated back for centuries. Names, dates of birth
and death, marriage partners, professions, and places of residence were usually recorded in great
detail in the registries. Herr Lung was diligent, meticulous, and highly skilled in interpreting German
writing from the Middle Ages. It was rare that he did not find what he was looking for. After
discovering relevant information, Herr Lung dutifully copied it down in his most prized possession: a
thick black book. He became so good at researching family history that once his own relatives had
been thoroughly studied, he also got himself commissioned to find the histories of friends and
acquaintances.
No one in Germany could possibly have had the patience or passion for genealogy like
Ferinard Lung, and eventually his work became renowned in Berlin. Yet, despite all the research he
was doing, the money from the commissions was poor, and he still had to sweep chimneys.
That all changed when the Nazis came to power. Herr Lung was, because of his skills, quietly
hired to become a genealogy expert for the Third Reich. He was ordered by the Nazis to be discrete
about his new position. Ferinard readily agreed, for the wages to work with the Nazis were excellent
and he could also give up being a chimney sweep. Lung’s mission was to find out the religious
backgrounds of certain individuals who were being either entrusted or trained to lead Nazi Germany.
If he found something interesting he was to report it at once to Corporal Kriegermann, head of the
government’s genealogy department in Berlin. Ferinard Lung loved his new position, and it gave him
great pleasure discovering religious backgrounds that were “undesirable” in Nazi Germany.

The autumn air was crisp and clear, and the colours of the forest were an incredible
kaleidoscope of orange, red, yellow, and brown. Wolfgang and Johann, who had just started their third
year at the Adolf Hitler School, were taking a break from their studies to be in Wolfland for the annual
harvest fest. The boys, as usual, sought the attentions of Hannelore, and she had acquired two
passionate letters plus several bouquets of flowers from them. This was noted, with some amusement,
by a few astute observers from the village.
When evening settled over Wolfland, the villagers gathered around a bonfire in the middle of
the meadow. Johann began playing his violin in front of the crackling fire, which sent hundreds of
sparks up to join the billions of stars dancing overhead.
Hannelore, like many others, sat with her family nearby, listening. Tonight her love was for the
violin player. Wolfgang, who was sitting with the Liebermanns, well back from his own family, whom
he had barely acknowledged during his visit, sensed Hannelore’s interest in Johann and felt both a
wave of envy and resignation come over him.
Yet, as the strains from Johann’s playing cut through the cool air like a knife and echoed off
Rupert’s Berg, Wolfgang and the rest of the villagers lost themselves in the music. They let their
emotions go up and down with the buoyant, then suddenly melancholy, tones of the violin. Nazism and
the rumours of a possible war were temporarily forgotten.
Much later, as the bonfire died down and the villagers slowly drifted back to their homes, Jens
watched with a broken heart as Wolfgang walked away with the Liebermanns. It had been a tough day,
celebrating the harvest without his eldest son. Outwardly, Wolfgang did not seem affected by the lack
of a relationship with his father. He had spent a good portion of the day trying to gain Hannelore’s
attentions. Even though Marie constantly assured her husband that Wolfgang would get over the “Nazi
phase” and come back to them, the waiting was agonizing for Jens.
The next morning Dietrich drove Wolfgang and Johann back to Koenig’s Tal. Both the weather
and scenery were fantastic, helping the three Nazis to ease into a comfortable mood. Upon arrival at the
Adolf Hitler School, the boys felt equally happy and energized as they bid farewell to Dietrich. They
entered the institute just in time for morning roll call and breakfast.
While the boys were eating, an older and higher ranking student came up to Johann, and told
him that he was to go to the director’s office immediately. Wolfgang and Johann looked at each other,
and Johann just shrugged as he got up to go. The dining hall hushed and all eyes were on him as he
walked out with the older student and up the stairs to the director’s office.
The higher-ranking student knocked on the door, and in short order a gruff invitation to come in
could be heard. The older student opened the door and hurried away. Johann walked tentatively into the
imposing room.
Seated behind a huge mahogany desk was Director Heinrich Schneider. The director was a tall,
well-proportioned man, middle-age, with slick dark hair, a thin moustache, and hard blue eyes behind
wire-rimmed spectacles. There were three other men sitting in front of the desk: Vice Director Hugo
Mayer and two teachers, Bernhard Kaltz and Sepp Brandenheim. All, like the director, looked very
stern and angry as they adjusted their chairs to face the approaching student.
Johann stopped in front of them and raised his right arm. Before he could say “Heil Hitler,”
Schneider shrilly commanded him to put his arm down and to not say a word. The four scowling men
looked at their star student for several seconds. Fear gripped Johann’s stomach, and it started cramping.
Director Schneider pulled out a sheet of paper from a file on his desk and spoke. “It has come to
our attention that you contain undesirable characteristics that make it unacceptable for you to attend the
Adolf Hitler School either here or anywhere else in Germany.”
“Sir?” whispered Johann.
“Silence! You will only speak when asked to!”
Schneider adjusted his glasses and spoke again with a harsh tone. “The laws of the Third Reich
are extremely clear. No one of Jewish descent is permitted to attend an Adolf Hitler School. This
morning we were informed by the Gestapo [branch of the SS, secret state police] that your great-
grandparents, on your father’s side, were Jewish. Your grandparents converted to Christianity, and you
and your parents were baptized in a Christian church. Yet, the fact remains that, by law, you are of the
Jewish race! You are a Jewish infiltrator! A spy sent by Jewish conspirators to undermine the Third
Reich!”
“I had no idea, sir, that my great-grandparents were Jews,” stammered Johann.
“Silence!” screamed Schneider. The director jumped up, strode angrily over to Johann and spat
on his forehead. The drool slowly slid down into his eyes, but Johann did not dare to wipe it away.
Schneider continued his tirade. “Jewish pig! Your filth has infected those around you,
particularly Wolfgang Jaeger, who has shown great talent and skill. He could be an excellent officer
some day!”
Director Schneider bent down and looked into Johann’s eyes. “For this indiscretion you will be
flogged and removed from the Adolf Hitler School at once!”
At Schneider’s signal both Kaltz and Brandenheim arose and grabbed Johann by each arm.
They pulled and pushed him out of the office, down the stairs, past the shocked students in the dining
hall, and then outside into the courtyard. There was dead silence in the hall as the doors slammed shut.
Before any of the students could say anything Schneider suddenly came down the stairs in full uniform.
As he reached the dining hall he came to a halt and sternly ordered the young Nazis into the courtyard.
They trooped out on the double and quickly formed ten neat rows in front of the teachers holding
Johann.
Director Schneider emerged from the building and held up his right arm. Over 100 students
immediately raised their right arms and in unison yelled, “Heil Hitler!”
Schneider walked up to Johann, who was barely suppressing tears of fear, rage, and humiliation.
Loudly, in his awful, shrill voice, Schneider started to rant. “Our school has been infiltrated by a Jewish
spy! He is a liar and a fraud! To show you what we do with people like him who dare to sneak in and
corrupt our school we have gathered you all here! Rip the scum’s shirt off!”
Kaltz and Brandenheim brutally tore the shirt off Johann’s back. Each of the men then grabbed
one of Johann’s wrists and forced him to kneel. Wolfgang, standing at attention nearby, gasped in
shock. Schneider ordered Herr Mayer to step forward. The big, burly man had a belt in his hand and
started lashing Johann’s back. Wolfgang, his eyes wild with concern for his friend, stepped forward but
was immediately held back by other students. He fought one off and sent another sprawling with a fist
to the eye. Johann looked up and shook his head to say no. Wolfgang was restrained from fighting any
further by three students and a teacher.
The two friends, who loved one another as brothers, stared into each other’s eyes as the lashings
continued. Director Schneider noticed the eye contact and ordered the lashings to continue, but harder.
The boys didn’t stop looking at each other. Wolfgang couldn’t stop his tears. Finally, one tear rolled
out of Johann’s right eye, streaking his face. The lashings abruptly stopped. The gateway to the
courtyard was opened, and Johann Liebermann, seventeen years old, his back bleeding and in great
pain, was thrown out by Kaltz and Brandenheim. He landed heavily on the hard sidewalk. Kaltz threw
Johann’s torn shirt into his face.
“Cover yourself up, Jewish pig!” he screamed.
Several pedestrians passed by with their heads bowed down, not daring to either look up or
help. The gate closed with a resounding clang.
Inside the courtyard, the students, except for Wolfgang who was still being held, stood straight
at attention in their rows. The harsh noise from the slammed gate resonated loudly off the buildings.
Director Schneider strode in front of them. He bellowed, “Wolfgang Jaeger! Come to the front.
Now!”
Wolfgang, with fear in his heart, did what he was told. He marched up to the director in the
manner that he been drilled to do. While saluting he snapped his legs together and crisply said, “Heil
Hitler. Wolfgang Jaeger reporting, sir.”
Director Schneider glared into Wolfgang’s eyes and screamed, “Your life, everything you are,
is to be given to Adolf Hitler! You are to have no friend other than the Fuehrer! Who are you most
loyal to, Herr Jaeger?”
“Adolf Hitler!” yelled Wolfgang immediately.
“Who would you die for, Herr Jaeger?”
“Adolf Hitler!”
“Did you know that your friend was a Jew?”
“No, sir.”
Schneider lifted his right hand and slapped Wolfgang hard across the face. The boy staggered
back, and a small trickle of blood came out of the corner of his mouth.
Schneider, frothing white spit in anger, yelled, “Liar! I saw your response when that Jew was
being lashed, Herr Jaeger! I saw you try to help that Jewish swine!”
He paused a moment and continued in a mocking tone. “I also saw those tears that you cried for
your Jewish friend. You sweet little thing.”
Schneider pushed Jaeger in the chest, causing him to stumble backwards. “Are you a Jewish
conspirator, Jaeger?”
Wolfgang gasped. “No, sir. I am loyal to Adolf Hitler. I did not know that Johann Liebermann
was a Jew!”
Schneider smashed a fist into Wolfgang’s stomach, causing him to buckle at his knees, and
snarled, “I will check with the Gestapo to see if you are speaking the truth. If not, you will face the
same fate as your Jewish friend!”
Turning to Kaltz and Brandenheim he said, “Until I find out the truth take this boy down to the
detention centre!”
Wolfgang snapped. He leapt forward, pulled Schneider’s right arm behind his back, and forced
him to his knees.
Schneider cried out, “Enough!”
It took three teachers to pull Wolfgang off. He had become an animal, snarling, gnashing his
teeth, incredibly powerful. In all, five teachers were needed to drag Wolfgang into the windowless
detention room in the cellar. The heavy wooden doors were locked shut, and the room became pitch
black. Wolfgang screamed in rage for more than an hour before, exhausted, he finally collapsed into a
stupor.
Johann, meanwhile, had gingerly picked himself up and, in a daze, wandered around Koenig’s
Tal. People gawked at him and pointed. No one stepped forward and helped. Johann finally got his
bearings and headed for the home of Doctor Luther Kranz, a friend of his father. They had, together,
visited Dr. Kranz on a few occasions. He was a sympathetic and compassionate man. When Johann
finally arrived at the doctor’s home he was nearly turned away, for he was bloody and barely
recognizable. A few inside stories and a sudden recognition of Johann’s voice convinced Kranz that
this was indeed his friend’s son. He let him into his home with many apologies.
The telephone in the Liebermanns’ pharmacy trilled loudly. Dietrich excused himself from a
few customers and answered it. He listened intently and gasped in shock, receiving some stares. The
doctor quickly regained his composure and slowly laid the receiver down.
Krista, who was nearby, asked, “Dietrich, is there anything wrong?”
“No, nothing. I have to deal with the customers.”
Krista knew something awful had happened. The customers eventually left, and Dietrich closed
the store’s door behind the last of them.
Krista asked in a whisper, “Johann?”
Her husband nodded and then he told her the news.
Krista started crying.
Dietrich tried to console her. “You must keep your composure. I will go get Johann. Don’t say
anything to anyone. Reopen the clinic and carry on like nothing has happened.”
Dietrich excused himself from some waiting customers outside, saying he had an emergency
call, and within minutes was driving over the bridge to Koenig’s Tal. Dietrich saw the cross, reflected
in his rear view mirror, for the longest time.

Later that afternoon, at the Adolf Hitler School in Koenig’s Tal, Director Schneider sat in his
office with Vice Director Hugo Mayer.
The director gazed at the picture of the Fuehrer on his desk, sighed, looked at Mayer, and said,
“The Gestapo has informed me that Wolfgang Jaeger had, in all probability, no knowledge that Johann
Liebermann was Jewish. In fact, Liebermann probably had no knowledge of his heritage either.”
Schneider shook his head and quietly continued, “That does not diminish the conclusive
evidence that he is both a Jew and an enemy of the Third Reich. As for Wolfgang Jaeger, he is the
strongest, most intelligent student I have ever encountered. He is a brilliant marksman and moves like
the wind. He would make an outstanding officer and sniper. The Wehrmacht [German army] needs
him.”
Mayer nodded in agreement.
Schneider noticed the nod and asked, “So what do you suggest we do, Herr Vice Director?”
Mayer chose his words carefully. “Wolfgang Jaeger is still very young and impressionable. I
think a transfer to the SS Sonderkommando [Special tactical command] training school in Berlin would
help him. I am sure the gentlemen there would be impressed with Jaeger’s abilities and persuade him to
co-operate.”
“Yes, that is an excellent suggestion,” said Schneider with enthusiasm.
Upon receiving the compliment Mayer beamed with satisfaction and then asked, “What about
Liebermann, Herr Director?”
“Johann Liebermann,” sighed Schneider. “It is actually unfortunate for Germany that he is
Jewish. Like Jaeger he would have been an excellent soldier. Yet, Liebermann and his kind will be
removed from Germany shortly, so we have nothing further to worry about.”
The director faced Mayer and ordered, “Keep Jaeger in detention until we have finalized
arrangements with Berlin. In the meantime I’ll convey the good news of our student’s promotion to his
parents. Herr Vice Director Mayer, I believe this is the best solution for the Reich. Thank you. You are
dismissed. Heil Hitler.”
“Heil Hitler.”

•••

The clouds descended over Wolfland just as twilight gave way to night. It produced a small
smattering of moisture as Jens walked alone from the cottage to the church. With so much on his mind
the winemaker didn’t notice he was getting wet. Jens entered the church and headed to the pastor’s
office. He tapped lightly on the door with his knuckles, and Andreas opened it immediately. The pastor
came outside into the hallway and gently closed the door behind him.
Jens said, “You wanted to see me tonight?”
“Yes, yes, Jens. Have you heard the news?”
“That Johann Liebermann has been removed from the Adolf Hitler School for insubordination
and that I received a telegram tonight stating that my son will be transferred to Berlin? Who hasn’t?”
“It’s much more complicated than that.”
“More complicated?”
“To a degree, yes.”
“Pray tell.”
“Galatians 6.”
“Remind me.”
“Forgiveness.”
“Dietrich Liebermann?”
“Yes.”
“I cannot.”
“You must.”
Jens’ voice rose quickly. “Listen, pastor, I may never see my son again because of his
influence! He’s a Nazi patsy and a fool. Dietrich Liebermann has changed for the worse. I loved that
man as a brother, but the Nazis took all that away! No, never, not as long as he remains a Nazi!”
A soft, dry voice said, “I am no longer a Nazi. I am a Jew.”
Unnoticed by Jens and the pastor, Dietrich had quietly opened the door to the office and heard
the last parts of the conversation.
Andreas pleaded with Jens. “Please, hear what Dietrich has to say.”
Dietrich slowly walked up to Jens and said, “Johann was not dismissed from the Adolf Hitler
School for insubordination. He was humiliated and flogged in front of the other students and teachers
because he is a Jew. Only Wolfgang tried to help, but he was physically restrained. After Johann was
cursed and beaten, they threw him half naked out onto the street. This afternoon Kratzer, Herzog,
Steinkuhler, and the Fleishmanns stormed into the pharmacy and, rather unceremoniously, fired me
from my position as deputy, called me Jewish filth, and said I was no longer a Nazi.”
With some undisguised sarcasm Jens asked, “It was that easy?”
Dietrich ignored the tone of the comment. “Yes. It was that easy. Some government clerk found
that the grandparents on my father’s side were Jewish. A Nazi official informed Herr Herzog about
this, and he, in his usual ugly way, let me know. Apparently the Nazis don’t care whether you or your
Jewish ancestors have converted and been baptized into the Christian faith. According to the Nazis, I
am a Jew, and so is the rest of my family.”
Jens responded in disbelief. “How ironic. The most educated, most vocal Nazi in Wolfland was
actually an enemy of the state. A Jew. Yet, if this is what it takes for you to be a friend again, then so
be it.”
“Jens, I have sinned against God, my family, you, your family, and many others. I deeply regret
the influence I have had over Wolfgang and losing my friendship with you. I have been wrong and an
absolute fool. I am truly sorry. You and Pastor Andreas were right all along. Nazism is death.”
Dietrich and Jens looked at each other for the longest time. Jens was having trouble deciding
how to respond.
Dietrich said, “Receiving your pardon would be one of the greatest honours of my life.”
“So you are not a Nazi, but a Jew?”
“All I know for sure is that I hurt my best friend, who, in reality, is more like my brother.”
Jens walked up to Dietrich and stretched out his right hand. Dietrich clasped the hand, and then
Jens hugged his old friend. He let him go, and tears were running down the doctor’s face.
Jens shook his head and said, “You have always been way too emotional. I forgive you. How
can I help?”
The beaming Pastor Andreas, who had just witnessed a miracle, motioned the men into his
office. Once they were sitting he said to Jens, “First off, Wolfgang knows who he is and where he came
from. We must trust that those roots are stronger than what the Nazi’s are trying to plant into him. I
believe this incident with Johann may have been the catalyst to help Wolfgang break free from the
tyranny that has exploited his mind for much too long. We must trust him, and we must trust in God.”
Jens nodded. Then Andreas turned to Dietrich. “What just happened was wonderful, Dietrich.
Welcome back. Your return, however, will be a short one. It is time for you and your family to leave
Wolfland.”
Dietrich stared at him in shock. Andreas continued, “The persecution of the Jews in Germany is
growing daily. Many have fled the country already, and many others are trying, yet countries around
the world have set quotas and are not allowing them in.”
“Where could we go?” stammered Dietrich.
“I have a pastor friend in Holland. That country also has a quota on how many Jews may enter,
but I will get in touch with him. He is a man of God, generous and loving. I am sure he will find a way
to take your family in.”
“I can’t imagine leaving. This has been our home; we have served God and His people well.
What about the business, Jens? I can’t leave.”
Jens responded. “Home and business are not as important as your life and the lives of your
family.”
Dietrich stared at the floor. Then he looked at Andreas. “How long will it take to make
arrangements with your friend in Holland?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll start immediately.”
The three men prayed, with heavy hearts.
As the prayers ascended on high, a black limousine crossed the bridge. It braked to a stop in
front of Herzog’s Inn, and Georg Lutz ushered Egon Kratzer out of the car and into the building. The
Burgermeister in turn escorted Herr Kratzer, Franz Fleishmann, and Lutz to the schoolhouse, where
they roused Steinkuhler from his sleep. The Nazis gathered in the classroom and talked for several
hours around a single flickering kerosene lantern.

•••
The morning sun came in brilliantly, and its heat soon caused the cloud cover over Wolfland to
evaporate. There was no wind, and the Nazi flag high atop Rupert’s Berg hung limp against its
flagpole, while the cross stood solid and clear against the blue sky. By now everyone in the village
knew that Johann was back; that Dietrich was no longer a Nazi deputy; and that the Liebermanns were
Jewish. The reaction of the villagers to the news was cowardly. No one came to the Liebermanns to
offer either support or condolences.
On that morning the eleven-year-old twins, Ulrike and Uwe Liebermann, got ready for school.
They were good students, just like Johann had been. Skinny, tall, and blond with cool blue eyes, their
charming personalities made them popular with everyone. Before leaving the twins were briefed by
Dietrich and Krista to say nothing about Johann.
The children arrived at school and after some horseplay lined up for inspection as soon as the
professor came outside. Steinkuhler eyed the students with his usual sternness and checked everyone’s
fingernails except Ulrike’s and Uwe’s. The twins looked at each other and shrugged. Ulrike and Uwe
gave their greetings to the teacher as they entered the school building. Not even a nod, scowl, or indeed
any kind of acknowledgement was forthcoming from Steinkuhler.
Ulrike and Uwe went into the classroom. They immediately noticed that their desks were gone.
There were no other desks available, and the two children stood perplexed, not knowing what to do.
Steinkuhler walked into the classroom and ordered the students to sit down. The twins, with no place to
sit, kept standing and looked at their teacher with questioning eyes. The schoolmaster stalked to the
front of the class. He looked at Ulrike and Uwe with unconcealed disgust for several seconds before
blurting out, “Students! Behold the Jewish swine standing amongst you! If you are true to our Fuehrer
you will have nothing to do with them! Their ugliness is revolting!”
Steinkuhler took the heavy black belt from its hook and slowly, menacingly, walked up to the
twins. “Well, what do you two want here? I only teach German Aryans! This is no place for you! Go
away, and never return!”
Steinkuhler lifted the black belt high over his head. His rangy body quivered in anger. Ulrike
and Uwe, both now weeping in terror, moved backwards. Steinkuhler lashed the belt at Ulrike’s left
hand but missed.
“Out, you filthy little Jewish pigs, out, get out!”
The twins turned and tumbled out of the school and ran for home. The rest of the students were
stunned into silence from the traumatic events they had just witnessed.
The professor wasn’t through. He looked over at little Martin Jaeger, age seven, who had just
started school. “And you, your family has shown sympathy to those Jews. You get out too. Go! Get
out!”
Martin ran out of the school in fear and caught up with Ulrike and Uwe. Despite how upset the
three children obviously were, no adult stopped and inquired what was wrong. They just put their heads
down and ignored them.
The children ran into the Liebermann clinic crying and wailing. They were too upset to notice
that the word Juden (Jew) had been painted with streaky white paint on the windows by the Fleishmann
brothers. Like their father Franz, both Tobias and Hanzi had become devoted Nazis and were notorious
for being mean-spirited. Due to the ugly graffiti on the window, the bullying reputation of the
Fleishmann brothers, and the fear of being associated with Jews, the clinic was completely devoid of
customers or patients.
Dietrich, Krista, and Johann were upstairs and came rushing down when they heard the
commotion. They tried desperately to settle the children down. As Ulrike, Uwe, and, Martin spoke
through their tears about what had happened, rage filled the minds of Dietrich and Johann. Krista broke
down in despondency as she held all three children in her arms. This was too much.
Dietrich went out with Martin to take him home. They were simultaneously avoided and
ignored by the other villagers as they walked to the cottage.
In less than an hour Dietrich returned home with Pastor Andreas, Anna, Jens, Marie, and
Martin. They gathered upstairs in the living room and started praying and consoling one another. There
was one bit of good news from Pastor Andreas. He had successfully made arrangements with his pastor
friend in Holland for the Liebermanns. The family would leave as soon as the proper paperwork had
been completed.
Suddenly, yelling could be heard in front of the clinic. The mothers remained with the children
while Dietrich, Johann, Jens, Pastor Andreas, and Anna went downstairs to the front door to investigate
who was making the racket. Dietrich opened the door and stepped outside with the others. Herzog,
Steinkuhler, and the Fleishmanns were standing together, in a tight semicircle, wearing brand new
military uniforms, caps, swastika armbands, and high leather jackboots.
Herzog started mocking Pastor Andreas. “So, is this how a good Christian pastor is to spend his
time? Talking for hours with Jews and their Jew-loving friends. Now, tell us pastor, are you really a
Christian clergyman or are you becoming a rabbi?”
One of the Fleishmanns chuckled. Pastor Andreas stretched out his rather old but still very large
frame, took a few steps forward and loomed over the heckler.
“The love of God is not confined to just Christians. I do not care whether Doctor Liebermann is
Jewish or not. I have known the Liebermann family for over forty years. They are my friends, and they
will always be my friends.”
Andreas shifted his gaze to Steinkuhler. “Come now, Professor Steinkuhler, what is this
craziness, scaring children out of your school? They are innocent. Doctor Liebermann delivered every
one of your students. He has taken care of them and healed them when they were sick. Doctor
Liebermann has also promoted and sold Wolfland Weiss. Due to his efforts there are jobs and
prosperity for our villagers. He has supported the school with financial donations. They have been
generous with their things, and we have all spent many nights listening to the Liebermanns’ radio right
in their home. Doctor and Frau Liebermann and their children have been wonderful. How can you
possibly treat them so unkindly? What are you doing, Herzog? What kind of madness is this,
Steinkuhler? What are you thinking, Herr Fleishmann, Hanzi, and Tobias?”
Andreas stepped back. There was a long pause.
Herzog jutted his chin out and declared, “The law is the law, Pastor Andreas. This is a new era.
We are to serve Adolf Hitler and his new Reich. You have been told what you are to do. You will be
arrested along with Jaeger if you fraternize with these Jews again.”
Pastor Andreas held out his hands. “So arrest me. I choose to minister and be friends with who I
wish, Jew, Christian, Aryan, Nazi, whomever.”
Herzog scowled and looked at Jens. “So, Herr Jaeger, has this so-called pastor and Jew lover,
who thinks he is above the law, kept you from your work? Off with you! Get to the vineyard!”
Jens looked right through Herzog. “I’ll go when I’m ready. Hurt me, and you will hurt your
profit. What more could you want from us? You have taken our sons, our money, and our dignity. You
are only pretending to be a good Nazi because they have given you power to steal from me. You are
nothing but a crook!”
Herzog’s face turned beet red. Pointing his finger at Jaeger he hissed, “You will pay for this,
you wait and see. We have your son. Do not ever forget that. For now, I want those Jews out of
Wolfland as soon as possible.”
“Yes, in a few days the Liebermanns will be gone,” said Pastor Andreas.
“Well, they’d better be!”
With that the Nazi mob turned and headed back to Herzog’s restaurant.

•••

A week after throwing him into the dungeon, the director ordered Wolfgang out. Dirty and
weak with hunger, he was dragged to Schneider under heavy guard. The director did not waste a
moment before giving Wolfgang a grim warning. “Great harm will come to you and your family if you
do not co-operate.”
Wolfgang nodded meekly.
After being allowed to wash and change he was immediately taken out of the Adolf Hitler
School, transferred into a car, and taken onto a military train at the Koenig’s Tal station. There he was
forced to sit between two military personnel, whose task was to insure Wolfgang’s delivery at the SS
headquarters.
A sharp whistle from the platform conductor alerted the engineer to activate the train, and it
slowly rumbled out of the station. Destination: Berlin.
The stone-faced guards did not talk for hours. Wolfgang closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
Finally, the two guards, thinking their prisoner was asleep, started talking to each other in hushed tones.
“Did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“In a few days we are going to be attacking all the Jewish businesses in Germany.”
“We can’t do that!”
“Why not? The Jews aren’t citizens of Germany any more. They have no rights. What are they
going to do? Have us arrested? That is not possible. I am sure that will scare most of them out of the
country.”
It was mid-morning when the train stopped at a small terminal. There was frustrated yelling all
around. Another train had derailed in front of them. Wolfgang opened his eyes. The soldiers were gone.
Chaos abounded. Seemingly hundreds of people, all frantic and irritated, were scurrying about.
Smoothly, like a cat, Wolfgang slinked off the train and into the terminal, which was busy and loud. He
found a phone booth and was connected to Wolfland.
The phone rang harshly in the pharmacy. The Liebermanns looked fearfully at each other. Was
it the Gestapo? Could it be someone extending compassion? So far only the von Himmels and Jaegers
had dared having contact with them. The villagers were so frightened of the Nazis that they would not
even sell anything to the Liebermanns at the market. Instead, the Jaegers and von Himmels brought
food and flowers for them.
Dietrich finally answered the phone. His eyes opened in surprise when he heard Wolfgang’s
voice. The doctor called for Johann, who came quickly, and with some anxiety handed the receiver
over to his son, who tentatively said, “Hello, Johann here.”
“Johann. It’s me, Wolfgang. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. How are you and where are you?”
Wolfgang quickly filled Johann in on what had happened and what the soldiers had said on the
train.
“Warn your parents, Johann. Your father’s business is not safe.”
“We are leaving for Holland in a short while.”
“Good. Now listen. Tell my mother that if I don’t co-operate with the Nazis they will harm all
of us. I will somehow try to get back to Wolfland. I need to talk to my father. Johann, I am scared.”
“Me too.”
“I have to go now. Till we meet again.”
“Till we meet again.”
And then, as they had done so often in the past when greeting or parting from one another, they
started howling like wolves. It was so childish, so unusual, people at the train station looked in
bewilderment at Wolfgang. On the other end Dietrich shook his head and furrowed his brow. The
howling didn’t last more than ten seconds.
Johann slowly put the receiver back down.
Wolfgang slithered unnoticed back on the train. His travelling companions joined him shortly
thereafter. The derailed train had been cleared, and their train’s engine grudgingly coughed back to life.
Within a few hours Wolfgang would be in Berlin. He looked through the window. Despite
overwhelming sadness, fear, and grief in his heart, he refused to weep.

•••

A few uneasy days passed on Wolfland. The Liebermanns, unable to leave Wolfland due to
delays in their paperwork, cloistered themselves in their second-storey apartment, and, although it was
highly inconvenient, the villagers stayed away from the clinic. Instead they made the long trek to
Koenig’s Tal for their prescriptions and medical attention. The Liebermanns’ only links to the village
were the Jaegers and the von Himmels, who visited them often, bringing whatever they needed.
One evening, however, after the villagers had settled in their homes, the widower Ernest
Schafer and his daughter Hannelore came to the Liebermanns’. Ernest, with much prodding from
Hannelore, had finally found some courage and decided to visit his old friends.
Dietrich and Krista accepted Ernest’s words of sympathy and encouragement with much
gratitude. While Herr Schafer talked quietly with the elder Liebermanns, Hannelore and Johann spent
some time with the other children but eventually they found themselves alone at the back door of the
clinic. For several agonizing moments the two stared awkwardly at each other.
Hannelore eventually whispered first. “Johann, you know I have always liked you. Do you like
me?”
Johann gulped nervously, “Ahh, I have always liked your eyes, but I like your voice even
more.”
Hannelore sighed and shook her head. Taking Johann’s face into her hands she reached up and
kissed him on the lips.
Suddenly, Ernest’s voice could be heard. “Hannelore?”
“Yes, father.”
“It is time for us to go.”
Hannelore slid her hands off Johann’s face and once again stared into his eyes. “Goodbye,
Johann. I have to be honest with you. Since kindergarten I have hated you, loved you, loved Wolfgang,
hated him, hated you both, loved you again. I even once loved you both, but for now I love you,
Johann. I think I will always have a place for you in my heart.”
Johann babbled a goodbye as Ernest appeared and took his daughter outside into the darkness.

•••

Kristall Nacht (the night of broken glass) would go down in history as the first clear-cut evidence of
Nazi violence towards the Jews. The lack of protest against the atrocities by the German people, and
the world as a whole, served as a mandate for the Nazis to pursue their policy of aggression towards
those they deemed unworthy or not “human.”

•••

The last colours of autumn drifted away, leaving Wolfland in several shades of grey and black.
The sky on that awful November evening hung heavy and overcast. It started to drizzle just as the open
transport loaded with twenty youthful Brownshirts (Nazi storm troopers involved in public
demonstrations in support of Adolf Hitler and his policies throughout Germany) rumbled over the
bridge on to Wolfland. The miserable weather did not deter them from hollering and creating such a
ruckus that every person in the village heard their approach from afar. The madly driven transport
clattered over the cobblestones towards the Liebermann clinic, whose windows were still marked by
the word Juden (Jews). Once it was found, the hellish vehicle stopped with a cacophony of screeching,
cursing, and hate. Aroused by the turmoil, Herzog, Steinkuhler, and the Fleishmanns came running up,
pompously attired in their Nazi outfits. They watched in amazement as the Brownshirts jumped out of
the truck and started hurling large stones against the clinic’s windows, causing them to shatter into
thousands of sharp glass shards.
That was not enough. Not near enough.
Several of the Nazi troopers started to kick at the building’s hard wooden front door.
When it held fast they got frustrated and started spewing out vulgar insults until they were
foaming at their mouths like dogs. A Brownshirt pulled out a Luger (automatic pistol) and started
shooting at the door. Eventually it gave way, and the young Nazis stampeded through and quickly
looted and destroyed everything in the building.
Even that was still not enough.
The Brownshirts wanted to kill Jews and smear their blood. Finally someone, in a fit of
unspeakable rage, screamed the obvious. “There is no one here!”
The ugly rabble-rousers stormed out of the building and confronted Wolfland’s Nazis, who
throughout the whole wanton destruction of the clinic had been timidly standing outside.
“Where are they?” yelled several Brownshirts in unison.
Herzog, whose face was white with fear, led the half-crazed mob to Wilhelm’s Kirche.
Anna was on the front steps waiting for them. The loud and obnoxious noises of the
Brownshirts suddenly stopped as they came to the foot of the stairs and gazed quizzically up at the tall
old woman dressed in long flowing white robes. Despite the angry weather and men, Anna stood
serenely still, holding a bouquet of flowers.
Herzog, seeking to overcome his rampant feelings of trepidation, took the initiative and
stomped up the steps with great determination to Anna. Thunder bellowed in the distance, and the
drizzle turned to pelting rain.
Undaunted, Herzog put on an air of administrative authority as he addressed Anna. “Heil Hitler,
Frau von Himmel. Why are you on the steps, and where is Pastor Andreas? Is he with the
Liebermanns?”
Anna stared at Herzog with a passive look on her face. She didn’t answer.
Herzog became indignant. “Achtung [attention], Frau von Himmel! You must always respond
immediately with respect to someone of my authority! If you know where the Liebermanns are, you
must tell me now! You and your husband are in a lot of trouble if you are withholding information
from us!”
Anna gazed calmly off in the distance and then spoke with a touch of protest. “Herr Herzog, are
you threatening an old woman? Are you trying to scare me? You are the one who should be scared.
Your treatment of the Liebermanns is a sin!”
Anna turned her gaze from Herzog and looked down at the twenty young ruffians. Softly she
asked, “Why did you destroy the clinic? Who will take care of us when we are sick? Why do you hate
the Liebermanns so much? What have they done?”
The crowd of Brownshirts could only stare back dumbly. The anger and hate that had fuelled
their random stupid destruction drained away, like the rain splashing around them.
In frustration, Herzog tried to regain the angry edge of the Nazis and spoke with a loud voice.
“Frau von Himmel, the law states that those of Jewish extraction are no longer citizens of Germany!
The law also decrees that anyone who prevents the authorities from exercising their rights against the
Jews is liable for criminal prosecution! Again, I ask you, if you know where the Liebermanns are, tell
me at once!”
There was a long silence. Only the rain pattering off roofs and cobblestones could be heard.
Suddenly the Liebermanns’ car rumbled up Main Street and screeched to a stop beside the
crowd of Brownshirts.
Herzog yelled, “That’s the Jews’ car!”
Several of the thugs quickly regained their feelings of hate and gathered around the vehicle,
ready to strike. Its doors swung open, and out stepped Jens Jaeger and Pastor Andreas. The hideous
troopers grabbed them and would have pummelled both the winemaker and pastor to death if Herzog
had not frantically implored, “Wait, they are not Jews, but collaborators! Let’s interrogate them first!”
Herzog came up to Pastor Andreas and with contemptuous scorn dripping from his voice,
asked, “So, where are they, Rabbi? Where are those Jewish swine you love so much?”
Pastor Andreas looked up at as wife and asked, “Did they hurt you, Anna? Are you all right?”
Anna nodded. “I’m fine, dear.”
Pastor Andreas looked right through Herzog. “The Liebermanns have gone on a vacation, Herr
Herzog. I am not sure where they went or when they might return.”
Herzog turned red with rage. “That is unacceptable! You know where they are!”
“All I know is that they are on a train,” replied Andreas meekly.
Herzog rushed to the pastor and lifted his arm, ready to strike.
Jens yelled, “Wait!”
The innkeeper paused and asked scornfully, “For what?”
“A moment of your time.”
Jaeger came up to the fat Nazi and quietly, under his breath, said to him, “Let me remind you
again, Herr Herzog, that you need me. You need my expertise. No one around here knows how to
cultivate the vineyard and produce the wine. Not even Marie or Martin. Only Wolfgang knows the
secret of how to produce the wine, but of course he’s in Berlin. You would be disobeying Kratzer’s
orders, Herzog, if that vineyard doesn’t produce this spring. So leave the pastor and my family alone,
or I’ll destroy the vineyard.”
The rotund Nazi leader glared at Jaeger with scarcely hidden disdain for several seconds and
then quietly hissed to him, so no one else could hear, “If Kratzer’s orders ever change I will personally
kill you, your family, and the useless pastor and his wife.”
Herzog addressed the mob, “Herr Jens Jaeger is a servant of the Third Reich and is no threat!”
Pointing to the tall Pastor Andreas and Anna, the innkeeper announced loudly, so the
Brownshirts could hear, “Pastor Andreas will never be allowed to leave the church grounds. The only
time we will see the pastor is at church for special services, christenings, weddings, and funerals. As
for Frau von Himmel, she will spend a few hours a day cleaning my inn and the schoolhouse.
Otherwise, she is to remain with her husband.”
Herzog turned to Anna and spat out, “Consider it a service for the Third Reich, Frau von
Himmel.”
The feelings of power flashing through Herzog overrode his fear of the Brownshirts. He faced
the leader of the mob and ordered, “Take your men away. Wolfland is now free of the Jews, and their
accomplices are serving the Reich. Heil Hitler!”
The twenty hooligans responded with a rousing “Heil Hitler” and trooped to their transport
while vulgarly singing a German military song. Herzog and the others watched in silence as the
vehicle, loaded once again with its agents of destruction, roared off the island.
The ugly Nazi innkeeper turned and headed towards the Liebermanns’ car with his accomplices.
Before entering the vehicle Herzog declared, “This automobile is now property of the Third Reich.
Remember what I have said, Jaeger!”
With that the Nazis entered the beautiful sedan, drove around the First World War memorial
and within seconds slammed to a halt in front of Herzog’s restaurant. The men climbed out, but before
going in, they took a quick look back at the church. No one was there.

•••

Dietrich woke up with a start. He was covered in cold sweat, and his heart was beating wildly.
He had been chased in his dreams, seemingly for hours. Dietrich looked around the train compartment.
Krista slept beside him, Johann was stretched out on the bench across from them, and the little ones
were on the floor. All accounted for.
The proper legal papers still had not arrived for them to leave Germany, but Wolfgang’s phone
call had alerted them to what was going to happen on November 9. They had to leave while they still
could.
Dietrich could not thank Jens and Pastor Andreas enough after they drove him and his family to
the Dresden train station. As a result of their actions and for the sympathy they had shown earlier to the
Liebermanns on Wolfland, the Jaegers and von Himmels were now considered Jewish collaborators. It
made them as guilty as any Jew, and they could be arrested and sent away to prison.
At the train station the Liebermanns bought tickets that would take them straight to The Hague
in Holland and safety with the pastor friend of Andreas. After several heartfelt hugs and a few tears,
Jens and Pastor Andreas left the Liebermanns on the train and drove off in the doctor’s grand vehicle
back to Wolfland. Their intention was to keep the car until the Liebermanns returned home.
Throughout the trip to The Hague, Dietrich had generously bribed the porters and ticket
inspectors on the train with a portion of the money he had garnered from selling Wolfland Weiss. They
had not been bothered so far, but the border to The Netherlands was approaching fast. As Dietrich lay
back and tried to get back to sleep, there was a subtle tap on the compartment door. The sound struck
the doctor like lightning though, and he was up to the door in a moment. He did not say a word.
Another slightly louder rap on the outside of the compartment caused Krista and the others to stir.
Dietrich opened the door a crack. It was the ticket inspector that he had bribed earlier in the trip. He
motioned Dietrich to come out.
The doctor complied and while staring down at the squat little man said, “Yes, what is it?”
The inspector puffed himself up trying to appear larger. It was to no avail. He then tried to
sound assertive. “We are almost at the border. I will need some extra funds to pay off the border
guards. They aren’t as sympathetic as I have been to those without proper papers.”
Dietrich glared at him. Slowly he pulled out his billfold, taking out 100 reichsmarks. The ticket
inspector continued to stand there with his hand open. Dietrich pressed another 100 into his sweaty
little palm. The minor train official gave his benefactor a smug smile and trotted off down the aisle.
Dietrich exhaled slowly and crept back into the train compartment to sit beside the now wide-
awake Krista. She whispered, “Who was it?”
“Oh it was just the little ticket inspector. I paid him 200 reichsmarks to go away. We’re near the
border; it won’t be too much longer now.”

•••

Wolfgang’s mentor was Colonel Erwin Niedersach, head of the SS sniper division. Lean, with a
back that was always held straight, Erwin’s face was like chiselled granite. He greased his thin, black
hair so thickly that it reflected light. Only Erwin’s dark blue eyes betrayed any sign of life. He was
thirty-five, never married, and had been brought up in a strict Prussian home. His father, grandfather,
and uncles had all been soldiers. The military was Erwin’s life. It was who he was.
Initially, Niedersach was not impressed when Wolfgang Jaeger, age seventeen, a mere
schoolboy, was assigned to his division. The other, older, snipers were also not happy. Wolfgang,
sensing this, kept quiet, his face an inscrutable mask, as he was led to his first target practice in the
basement of the SS building. The target was a sheet of paper posted on a wall fifty metres away. One
tiny circle drawn in the middle of the paper was the bull’s eye.
Niedersach led him to a spot and handed him a rifle. He ordered Wolfgang to shoot. The bull’s
eye was pierced instantly. Niedersach brought the youthful Jaeger to another spot and ordered him to
go on one knee. Wolfgang’s second shot went through the hole made by his first shot. Five minutes
later he had shot thirty-nine bullets through the bull’s eye from a variety of angles, distances and
positions. Two of the five snipers who had come to watch the protege stared in amazement at each
other.
Colonel Niedersach’s face, however, remained impassive, as if nothing out of the ordinary had
happened. Pointing to one of the other snipers, he barked, “Jaeger, report to Sergeant Schimmer here
and he will provide you with everything that you need. We start at 6 tomorrow morning. Heil Hitler.”
Wolfgang dryly repeated, “Heil Hitler.”
Niedersach marched away.
Shimmer came over, grinned, and said, “Nice shooting, young fellow.”

•••

Martin Jaeger was not only refused admission at school but the adults in the village forbade
their children to play with him. For a seven-year-old boy this was hard to understand, for, unlike his
father and brother Wolfgang, he was naturally gregarious and lighthearted. He was very much his
mother’s son. The lack of contact with other children depressed Martin. Marie fought through the
despair by spending a lot of time with her youngest son, reading, writing, and playing games.
Jens also sank into a black stupor and spent many hours alone in the forest. Letters from
Wolfgang were rare and didn’t say much due to being heavily censored, but at least he was alive and
healthy, and this fact brightened Jens’ dour mood, if only for a brief period.
Herzog took over the Liebermanns’ clinic and moved into their former second-storey quarters
with his wife, Hilda. After an extensive cleanup and renovation, due to the Brownshirts’ stupidity, he
reopened the clinic, strictly as a pharmacy, but most of the villagers were wary of Herzog’s lack of
experience and ability with medicine, so many stayed away. Not that it really mattered. The profits
from Wolfland Weiss, his inn, and the stipend from the Nazis ensured the new Burgermeister of
Wolfland a lucrative income.
Franz Fleishmann and Herzog took over Dietrich’s position in the wine business. This was
relatively straightforward for the two Nazi leaders since Doctor Liebermann had done such a good job
finding clients for Wolfland Weiss. The only concern was to make sure the wine orders were delivered
on time and that they collected money from the distributors.
This still left plenty of time for Herzog and Fleishmann to attend Nazi party functions
throughout Germany and to stoke the fires of their zealous obsession with Hitler and his government.
During their elder’s travels, Tobias and Hanzi Fleishmann were in charge of the island. However, with
the head Nazis gone, the two brothers journeyed to Koenig’s Tal and returned before their father and
Herzog came back. That left Steinkuhler to manage things, but for most of the day he was too busy
with his schoolwork and could not keep tabs on what was happening on Wolfland. The schoolmaster
started to feel pangs of resentment towards his Nazi cohorts for their flamboyant lifestyles and lack of
concern for the affairs of the island. But his fears of retribution from the Fleishmann boys if he ever
reported what was happening kept his mouth sealed.
Instead Steinkuhler took his frustrations out on Anna von Himmel, making sure that the old
woman got up every morning at 6 and carried out her duties at Herzog’s Inn and then later at the
schoolhouse.
Still, with Wolfland’s Nazi leaders away or busy for a few days each week, the Jaegers took
time to visit the von Himmels. They brought words of encouragement and practical items such as food,
books, newspapers, and garden tools, everything and anything that was needed to keep the imprisoned
couple sane.
Outside of Ernest Schafer, no other villagers dared to visit or talk with the Jaegers and the von
Himmels. It was as if they no longer existed on Wolfland.
Three weeks before Christmas, Burgermeister Udo Herzog issued a decree that prevented the
villagers from attending regular church services. Failure to adhere to this law would be considered a
crime of disloyalty towards the Third Reich. The ringing of the church bells was also banished. Instead
the times of the day were announced by a high squealing sound from a public address system built near
the well.
After Herzog’s new regulations were implemented, the Jaegers were the only people who
refused to follow them. Wolfgang’s winemaking allowed him some latitude, which Herzog grudgingly
consented to.
The Jaegers continued to go to church every Sunday to worship, pray, and spend time with the
von Himmels. Anna also played the organ, and as the beautiful sounds echoed through the cavernous
church the tiny congregation felt hopeful and encouraged.
On Sunday mornings the villagers gathered in Herzog’s restaurant for beer and lectures by
Doctor Steinkuhler on Nazi philosophy. Sometimes during the meetings the organ music from
Wilhelm’s Kirche wafted into Herzog’s establishment, and a few villagers listened to it with bleeding
hearts.
Early on the morning of December 24th, Herzog led several of his most devout Nazi followers
up to the top of Rupert’s Berg. It was time to take down the cross, the symbol of Christianity, a faith
that Hitler mocked and was trying to undermine. Only the banner of Nazism, according to Herzog,
deserved to stand over Wolfland.
The Nazis attacked the cross with a vengeance. They tried to saw it down, they tried to chop it
down, they tried to burn it down, and they even tried to dynamite it down. The cross did not budge.
Then they tried to dig it out. The ground was like cement.
Three hours later Herzog and his crew gave up in frustration and slinked back into the village.
Enraged by the lack of success in getting the cross down, Herzog outlawed Christmas services. The
villagers remained at home.
At the cottage, Marie and Martin wept in frustration and despair. Jens sat stoically in front of
the great hearth, driving his grief deep within him.
Wolfgang had not been allowed to come home, and even though it was his birthday and
Christmas, the day passed by for him like any other.

•••

Shortly after they had arrived in The Hague, the Liebermanns graciously accepted Pastor Japp
de Graff’s offer to live in his modest apartment near the church where he served. The pastor and his
wife, Eva, moved into his mother’s apartment. The elder Mrs. De Graff needed extra care and was
grateful for the company of both her son and his wife.
Dietrich quickly found work assisting a young doctor named Hanns Staam, who needed help
with his thriving practice. The children were back at school and mastering Dutch. Johann had been
commissioned to play in a small travelling orchestra that played at markets and small festivals around
the countryside. He was also studying to become a doctor. Krista worked as a secretary for Pastor Japp
and earned a small salary. Life was taking on an air of normalcy for the Liebermanns again. They
found both The Hague and the Dutch very nice.
Christmas and Johann’s birthday had come and gone. It was strange for the Liebermanns not to
celebrate on Wolfland. The de Graffs and others made every effort to include them in their
celebrations. It was greatly appreciated by the Liebermanns.
Yet, despite all the goodness, there were storm clouds on the horizon. The Liebermanns
faithfully attended Pastor Japp’s church every Sunday. Most people in the congregation warmly
welcomed the newcomers, but there were a few whispers. “Why are they here?” “I’ve heard they are
actually Jewish…”

1939

The Second World War, the largest and most horrific conflict in history, begins when Nazi Germany
invades Poland on September 1, 1939. The Nazi’s new military tactic, called “Blitzkrieg” (Lightning
War), a surprise attack featuring the latest in military hardware, quickly overruns the unprepared,
undermanned, and very under-equipped Polish military. A Nazi panzer (tank) division encounters a
Polish cavalry unit straight out of the nineteenth century. It epitomizes the gaping differences between
the Wehrmacht and the military from Poland. Two of Poland’s allies, Great Britain and France,
declare war on Nazi Germany, but their proclamations prove futile. They do not come to Poland’s aid,
and in two days the country is conquered and divided up by the Nazis. Part of it goes to the Soviet
Union, the rest to Germany.

Fifteen young men from Wolfland who were conscripted into the Wehrmacht a year earlier took
part in the invasion of Poland. However, unlike the First World War, it did not take long for the island
of the wolves to record its first casualty. Paul Fischer, twenty-one, was shot and killed by a Polish
resistance fighter on the very first day of the German attack.
Five days later Herzog allowed Paul’s funeral to take place at Wilhelm’s Kirche on the
condition that Pastor Andreas conduct the service according to Nazi specifications. With a heavy heart
Andreas complied.
The church and coffin were draped with Nazi flags. Pastor Andreas spoke about the comfort
Paul would find with God and also about his ultimate sacrifice for the Fuehrer and the Fatherland.
Herzog presented Herr Fischer the posthumous awards Paul had received for bravery. During the burial
Anna gave flowers to the parents, and for a few moments they revealed the crushing grief that they
were trying to contain. Upon noticing this Herzog shooed Anna away, and the Fischers returned to their
stoic demeanour. Within an hour the service and graveside ceremonies were over and Pastor Andreas
and Anna were left alone once again, isolated from the people who they still loved so much.

•••

Colonel Erwin Niedersach was pleased. His superior officers had commended him and his
special task force for their role in the invasion of Poland. Military honours, including the Iron Cross—
first class—had followed. Honours were also to be bestowed on Sonderkommando Wolfgang Jaeger.
He had been an exemplary soldier: quiet, obedient, elusive, smart, and most of all, deadly. Wolfgang
had assassinated several Polish soldiers and officers. This had allowed a portion of the Wehrmacht to
move rapidly and decisively across Poland without too much resistance. Wolfgang Jaeger had
established himself as an elite German sniper. Wolfgang Jaeger was just eighteen years old.

•••

“With all due respect, Colonel, I don’t believe a visit will benefit the cause of the Third Reich.”
Udo Herzog, Burgermeister and head Nazi functionary of Wolfland, pleaded his case to Colonel Erwin
Niedersach. The colonel had interrupted Herzog with a phone call during his daily drinking time at the
inn. This was highly inconvenient for the Burgermeister and had made him a touch irritable. The
frustration increased when Niedersach told him that Wolfgang Jaeger was going to visit Wolfland.
Herzog didn’t see the sense in it.
Niedersach attempted patience, “Herr Burgermeister, you must understand something about
Wolfgang Jaeger. He is a hero of the Third Reich, and there are many high ranking officials within the
party that want him to visit his birthplace and spend time with his parents.”
“But his parents were Jewish collaborators!”
“They are the parents of one of Germany’s greatest war heroes. Does that not prove that the
Nazi movement is unstoppable? What did Jaeger do when those fools at the Adolf Hitler School
flogged his friend, Johann Liebermann?”
“Apparently he had to be restrained and was later punished for insubordination.”
“Correct. But now, after spending time with the SS, Wolfgang Jaeger is a reformed Nazi soldier
who gloriously fought for the Third Reich in the Polish campaign. It is a great story.”
“I see. Of course, Jaeger’s return to Wolfland will be reported in the media?”
Niedersach sighed with some relief and said, “You are finally getting it.”
“So letting him come home and receiving a hero’s welcome from his parents, and the rest of us,
will further the Nazi cause?”
“Exactly.”
“I have known the Jaeger family for decades. I know their character. Despite the heroics of
Wolfgang it is hard for me to believe that he and the rest of his family are reformed to Nazism.”
“Let me put it this way, Herr Herzog. If Wolfgang Jaeger and his family do not fulfill their
duty, you will be given orders to hang his parents and brother!”
“Really?”
“Really. Now listen…”

•••

Heribert Blank was a perfectionist, an artist, and a renowned filmmaker. He was also an ardent
Nazi, and his skills were being wisely used by the Hitler regime to produce propaganda films. Blank’s
short and enthusiastic films depicted Nazism at its idealistic best and were shown every day in every
movie house in Germany. His latest assignment: the homecoming of Germany’s newest war hero,
Wolfgang Jaeger.
Blank, his secretary, Fraulein Pfeiffer, and the cameraman, Donitz, were ready as the train
hissed and ground itself to a stop in a cloud of white smoke at the Koenig’s Tal train station. Blank
worked himself into a hyperkinetic frenzy as he directed Donitz to record the arrival of the Reich’s war
hero. “Herr Donitz, get closer; make sure you have adequate light. Film the white smoke from the train.
Let it fade away, then focus on the doors. Fraulein Pfeiffer!”
The sleek, young Fraulein Pfeiffer glided next to Blank, ready to record his every word and idea
in shorthand. Her boss was in his element. “On a beautiful, autumn day, Germany’s greatest war hero,
Wolfgang Jaeger, just eighteen years of age, arrived, via train, with Colonel Erwin Niedersach, head
of the SS sniper division, at Koenig’s Tal. It is the last stop before Jaeger’s final triumphant entry into
his hometown of Wolfland, where, in front of his adoring family and friends, Colonel Niedersach will
present his protege with the Iron Cross.
“Donitz, make sure you have a good shot of them leaving the train!
“Dressed in formal military wear, our hero and the colonel were wholeheartedly greeted by a
fifteen-man band and several dignitaries from both Koenig’s Tal and Wolfland.
“Sweep the scene, Donitz.
“What a happy and thrilling occasion for everyone. After several waves and smiles of
acknowledgement to the adoring crowd, Sonderkommando Jaeger and Colonel Niedersach entered a
waiting black limousine for the final stage of the homecoming journey.”
The limousine drove off, and Blank, his blood pressure now well beyond dangerous, scrambled
with his small entourage into a waiting vehicle. “We must get in front of that limousine! Hurry,
driver!”
The driver obeyed and the car churned up gravel as it sped past the limousine carrying
Wolfgang and the colonel.
“Fraulein Pfeiffer, are Jaeger’s family waiting on the porch as I have ordered?”
“Yes, Jacob was in charge of that.”
“Jacob? That imbecile! I hope he doesn’t make a mess of things like last time!”
Blank’s barrage of orders to his crew continued until the squealing of the car’s brakes and
subsequent cloud of dust announced their arrival at the cottage.
“Donitz, did you see that flag on top of that berg? Incredible. Have it in the background when
you film Jaeger coming up to his family. But keep that cross out of it.”
Blank moved to the porch. “Jacob, Jacob! Where are you! Where is the family?”
A frail and timid looking man emerged from the cottage with the Jaeger family in tow.
Blank, hovering on the edge of implosion, barked, “Jacob, where are the flags on the porch?
Idiot! Is this the family? Good, good. Now, Mother, come here on the top step. And you? You must be
the brother? Stand here on the step below your mother. And Father, yes, yes, your stern look is good.
Just stand back from Mother a bit. Yes, yes, good. Donitz! I assume you’re getting all this. Jacob,
Jacob! Put the flags more to the left! Yes, yes. Family! Look happy! Here comes the war hero! Fraulein
Pfeiffer!”
The limo cruised up and eased to a stop in front of the cottage.
Blank started dictating to his attractive secretary. “After several months of training and battle
for the glory of the Fatherland, the German Reich’s Wolfgang Jaeger arrived back at the place of his
birth and upbringing. Who would have thought that a son of a humble forester would one day become
the Third Reich’s greatest war hero? To welcome him with loving arms at his home are his father,
mother, and brother. Mother and brother shed tears of joy.
Wait—wait! Father! Is that any way to greet a son that you haven’t seen in months? He’s your
son, the war hero, for crying out loud! Again, again! Wolfgang! Get back in the car! Family! Assume
your positions. More joy, please! It’s a great day for the Third Reich!”
It took another five takes before Blank nodded with satisfaction. “Family, you can go inside the
house with your son for a few minutes. Colonel Niedersach, I am not happy with how you got out of
the limo. Donitz, Jacob, get over here and let’s work on some angles.”
Niedersach turned a wary eye on Wolfgang and asserted, “No, no, that is quite all right. There is
no need to film me coming out of the limo again.”
Blank was outraged. “Oh yes, there is! This film will be shown throughout the German Reich
next week. It must be perfect. Now get in the limo!”
As Niedersach reluctantly got back into the limo he took one last furtive look at Wolfgang as he
entered the cottage with his family.
The front door had barely closed when Marie and Martin collapsed tearfully into Wolfgang’s
arms. Jens detached himself a few metres away and watched sadly. He had been briefed by
Burgermeister Herzog of how he was expected to conduct himself around his son while the Nazi
dignitaries and media were on Wolfland. That, on top of all the other ugly feelings he was harbouring
for his son, rankled him to no end.
Mother and brother held on to one of Germany’s deadliest snipers for the longest time. Finally,
they released their grip. Wolfgang turned away from them and stared into the eyes of his father.
With a shaky voice he said, “When they took Johann away I realized at once that I had been
wrong and you were right. I spent many, many hours in a dark cell dreaming and praying for this
moment. Father, Mother, I am sorry for not listening to you. I am sorry for joining the Hitler Jugend
without your permission. I am sorry for humiliating you by living with the Liebermanns and spending
time with Nazis. I’ve been terribly wrong. God and this family are more important to me than anything
in this world. Please forgive me!”
Marie came up and embraced Wolfgang and held her son for a long time. After she released
him, Wolfgang and Jens stared into each other’s eyes again for several minutes.
Then Jens stepped forward and hugged his son. Both men wept. They cried away the pride; and
forgiveness, the sweet light of forgiveness, took its place. Marie and Martin watched in disbelief as the
unemotional and strong members of the family broke down completely.
A sudden knock on the door and Blank yelling “Family, family” ended the moment. But it was
a moment that changed everything.

Tobias Fleishmann was bored and uncomfortable. It was late at night, everyone was sleeping,
and Hanzi was not scheduled to relieve his post for another three hours. He could hardly wait. After the
filming with his family, Wolfgang had been transferred to a room in Herzog’s Inn, and it was Tobias’
job to ensure that the war hero did not leave. The window of the sniper’s quarters had been nailed shut
so the only way out was through the door and past Tobias. Colonel Erwin Niedersach had been very
clear to all the Nazis on Wolfland: “Wolfgang Jaeger is an extremely valuable commodity to the Third
Reich and must be well protected.”
Tobias heard footsteps coming up the stairs. This prompted him to stand up, pull out his gun,
and brace himself for action. It was Udo Herzog, carrying a basket.
“Relax, it’s only me,” said the innkeeper, with a trace of irritation.
“What do you want, and what’s in the basket?”
“This is my inn and none of your business.”
Tobias shrugged.
Herzog pulled out two wine glasses and a bottle of Wolfland Weiss from the basket.
“Compliments of my new business,” he sneered.
The men laughed.
Herzog continued, “I thought you might be a little bored. Care to have a drink and my excellent
company?”
“Yes, I’ll definitely have some wine and, considering the circumstances, I’ll even settle for you
as company, Herr Herzog!”

Every night, shortly before bedtime, Pastor Andreas and Anna sat together in the small living
room of the manse and spent time talking and praying. Tonight was no different, and as the fire in the
hearth slowly died, the remaining light from the embers left the room in a subdued and gentle light.
Suddenly Anna gasped and stared. Andreas turned to where his wife was looking and jumped
up in surprise. There, standing in the doorway of the living room, were Jens and Wolfgang Jaeger.
Softly Jens said, “Sorry to intrude, Pastor, Anna, but we didn’t want to draw attention to
ourselves by knocking. This is important. Please. We need to talk.”
Andreas quickly regained his composure. “Of course. Come in, come in.”
He stepped forward and shook hands with the two men. Anna also came up and embraced them
both.
Pastor Andreas looked at his two friends. “You know that if the Nazis find you here we are all
in trouble?”
Jens nodded. “This is important, Pastor. We won’t be long. Wolfgang has something to ask
you.”
The Nazi war hero looked a trifle uncomfortable. “First, I must apologize to both of you for my
behaviour over the last few years. I refused to listen and have reaped accordingly. Please forgive me.
Also forgive me, Aunt Anna, for throwing your flowers into the Ebene.”
Anna smiled and replied gently, “Very well, Wolfgang. It is so good to have you back.”
Pastor Andreas nodded and said, “Yes, it is nice to see you with your father. Our prayers have
been answered. Now what do you want to ask us?”
Wolfgang shifted uncomfortably, and there was a long pause. Jens gently nudged his eldest son.
“Say what is on your mind, son.”
Wolfgang sighed. “I have been trained to kill other men.”
Pastor Andreas nodded and said, “You are a soldier, Wolfgang, and at war.”
“Yes, of course, but is it right for me to kill? Is it murder? I had nothing against the Polish
people, or anyone else for that matter. It is only the Nazis I hate. In the Bible it says, ‘Thou shalt not
murder.’”
Jens interjected, “It is your duty.”
Wolfgang grimaced slightly and continued, “Yes, yes, but in truth my commander has said that
if I don’t kill, they will execute my family. But what if I get killed in action? Then what? Would they
leave my family alone? I don’t believe so. I feel I have made a ‘pact with the devil.’”
Wolfgang held his head in his hands. With a cracking voice he choked out, “The last man I shot
was an ordinary infantryman. I was high up in a tree when he came running by. He had somehow
gotten lost from his company. It should have been easy. But for some reason I didn’t get a clear shot
and only wounded him. It was enough, though. The man fell, unable to move. He screamed for help.
Then he started screaming these names. I don’t understand Polish, but it was definitely names he was
calling out. ‘Sarah, Tomaz, Sarah, Tomaz,’ again and again…I let him cry for at least half an hour. He
kept screaming those names. But no one came to rescue him.
“Finally, I climbed down from the tree and approached him. He saw me and pulled out a gun. I
shot it out of his hand. Then with his other hand he pulled something else out of his breast pocket. I
shot him in the chest. I came up to him and found that all he had pulled out were some pictures. His last
words were ‘Sarah, Tomaz,’ before he went quiet and died.
“I took the pictures out of his hand. One was of a pretty woman; the other was of a small boy. I
sat and looked at those pictures for a long time. I realized then how much I had forsaken those I truly
love. I have no pictures. My memories are filled with regret. Pastor, I don’t want to do this any more. I
don’t want to kill. I don’t want to live under the Nazi’s threat. I want to be with my family and live in
peace.”
Wolfgang paused and blurted out in exasperation, “Where is God?”
Pastor Andreas spoke quietly. “I have no answer for you, Wolfgang. Most of us are only trying
to survive now. That is becoming the only morality, the only ethic. If someone dies because of our
efforts to survive, then so be it. Better them than us.”
“Are you saying, Pastor, that I continue to kill, to murder, so that we survive?”
“Anna and I are alive because of you and your father. If you don’t kill, your family dies. If your
family dies, we die. However, the Nazis could change their mind at any time and just do away with us
even if you and your father hold up our end of this, as you say, ‘pact with the devil.’ Wolfgang, I love
you like a son. Yet, this decision of how you are to continue must be between you and God. Know that
whatever you decide, I will always believe that God helped you make that decision.”
Wolfgang sighed and nodded.
Anna spoke. “Nazism is doomed to fail. Whether we survive this evil, though, is up to God.
Through it all we must stay faithful to Him.”
The fire in the hearth had almost died out. The Jaegers had stayed long enough. They embraced
the pastor and his wife before leaving.
Back at the inn Tobias woke up with a start and for a moment did not know where he was. Then
it slowly came back. Herzog was slumbering on the floor next to him, snoring loudly. Tobias stood up,
readying his gun, and timidly opened Wolfgang’s room with the key his father had given him. He
turned on the light. Wolfgang was sleeping soundly in the bed. Tobias quietly turned off the light,
closed the door, and looked at his watch. Only a half hour more till Hanzi relieved him. Tobias woke
up Herzog and made him swear he would tell no one what had happened. The Burgermeister mumbled
something in the affirmative and stumbled down the steps. Tobias shook his head. Hanzi would not
have been happy had he found his brother and the innkeeper sleeping in front of Wolfgang’s door.
At daybreak, Hanzi let himself into Wolfgang’s room and gruffly ordered the deadly sniper to
get up. Wolfgang complied, and within twenty minutes he was having breakfast downstairs, in the inn’s
restaurant, with Niedersach, Herzog, Steinkuhler, and the Fleishmanns. Talk was light and
inconsequential. Once the meal was over, the Nazis guided Wolfgang to the plaza, where all the
villagers had already gathered by a small podium bedecked with swastikas. Blank and his crew were
readying their equipment.
The crowd went quiet as the Nazis and Wolfgang strode up onto the stage.
Herzog cleared his throat, stuck his jaw up in the air, and began speaking with triumph. “Heil
Hitler! We are here to honour Sonderkommando Wolfgang Jaeger, who today will receive the Iron
Cross, first class, for his bravery in battle, from His Excellency, Colonel Erwin Niedersach!”
There was light applause.
Udo Herzog continued to drone on about Wolfgang, the glorious Third Reich, and the Fuehrer.
Soon, one by one, the villagers’ attention spans collapsed. Wolfgang focused on Jens, Marie, and
Martin, who were standing at the back of the crowd. Tobias and Hanzi Fleishmann flanked the little
family on each side. Both stared at Wolfgang with a sneer on their lips.
Herzog finally finished, and it was Wolfgang’s turn to briefly acknowledge the gathering. He
said a few words of thanks, and during the applause his family was escorted up to the podium to watch
him receive the Iron Cross from Niedersach. The crowd cheered some more, and as Blank was
dictating to the impeccably dressed Fraulein Pfeiffer, Donitz dutifully recorded the moment for the
Nazis on film.
Three minutes later Franz Fleishmann drove up to the stage in the Liebermanns’ car, and his
sons quickly bundled Wolfgang inside the vehicle. There was barely a second for the Jaegers to say
goodbye. With a roar the car drove through the scrambling crowd and headed for the bridge.
Niedersach watched the scene with a small glint in his eyes and then headed for a nearby limo. Blank
looked completely puzzled and raised his arms in irritation. Niedersach caught the filmmaker’s eye just
before he climbed into his vehicle and shook his head. Blank looked ready to explode, but a gentle
nudge and look from Fraulein Pfeiffer stopped him in his tracks. The SS had their limits, and Heribert
Blank was much too close.
As the cross and the slightly fluttering swastika faded from the back window’s view, Tobias
broke the silence while gently fingering his Lugar. “Nice parents. Nice brother. We’ll take good care of
them, won’t we, Hanzi?”
His brother looked at Wolfgang with baleful eyes and grunted.
Wolfgang didn’t respond. He kept his eyes fixed to a point on the floor. Silence resumed in the
automobile for the next twenty minutes until the car lurched to a stop at the Koenig’s Tal train station.
The Fleishmanns ushered Wolfgang to the train, where a soldier was waiting for him.
As Wolfgang and his guard climbed up the steps to their compartment, Tobias gleefully
reminded the German war hero of what he had said earlier. “Remember, Jaeger, we’ll take care of your
family while you’re gone. Good hunting.”
Wolfgang refused to say anything in return. It was a relief to be away from the tormentors and
to be sitting alone with the soldier in the compartment. The train started to trundle forward. Suddenly
the door of the compartment slid open and Niedersach came in and sat across from Wolfgang. The two
did not acknowledge each other with either words or body movement. With a heavy heart Wolfgang
sagged back in his seat. It was several hours to Berlin. He silently prayed the whole time.

•••

On a blustery cold autumn afternoon in The Hague, Johann entered a coffee shop and found a
small table for himself. He ordered a coffee, and it arrived steaming hot within minutes. Johann pulled
a letter out of his coat pocket that Pastor de Graff had slipped to him that morning. He carefully opened
it up and, after a quick scan around the shop to see if anyone was watching, started reading.

Dear Johann,
Thank God for Pastor Andreas. I’m sure he’ll get this letter to you somehow. I believe he has
an army of angels under his command. How are you? I hope all is well? As for myself, I’m going
through a difficult time.
My ideals about Nazism died on the day you were beaten up and thrown out on the streets of
Koenig’s Tal. The Nazis have tried to brainwash me, but that is something they will never be able to
do. I play their games and pretend I’m devoted to their cause. So far it is working, although I think my
superior, Colonel Niedersach, has some suspicions about me.
Nevertheless he brought me back to Wolfland after the Polish campaign to receive the Iron
Cross. It was all propaganda. They even filmed us, and everyone seemed to be happy and excited.
Yet while I was on Wolfland I had a chance to ask for forgiveness and reconcile with my
parents and the von Himmels. I absolutely give praise to God for that.
But my sad reality is that the Reich spares us because my father makes great wine and I’m an
excellent sniper. We do our jobs; we live. If not, my mother, brother, myself, and the von Himmels will
all die. Our crime is collaboration with you and your family. My father calls it friendship, and I agree.
So what can we do? My father makes wine, and I kill. Being a sniper is strange. In battle I
detach myself from everything I have grown up to believe in. “Thou shalt not murder.” “Turn the other
cheek.” “Love one another.” These do not apply to me in battle. I become an animal. Kill or be killed.
So I kill. I see my victim through a small telescope many metres away. He is alive. Then I touch the
trigger. He’s dead in less than a second.
Just the other night I talked to Pastor Andreas about all this. He told me I must let God show
me what to do. I don’t want to die, Johann. I don’t want my family to die. I don’t want the von Himmels
to die. I don’t want you and your family to die. I see no way out, so I kill and refuse to talk to God or to
listen to Him. I’m afraid of what He will say. I’ve made a pact with the devil. Sometimes I wish I didn’t
know the Bible or even was a believer. The guilt drives me crazy. I have too much time to think
between battles.
Johann, you are my best friend. I confess to God and you that I want to kill those who torment
us: Herzog, Steinkuhler, the Fleishmanns, even Kratzer. They all need to die! Now! I’m filled with
crazy thoughts, Johann. I don’t know if I can hold them back. I could sneak away during battle, go to
Wolfland, and kill the lot of them in minutes. I think, Johann, you and many others would be happy if I
slaughtered those Nazi devils. It is God I’m not sure about. But we are at war, and His Way doesn’t
seem to be relevant any more. God bless you. Pray for me. I hope to see you and your family soon.
Say hello to them from me.
Sincerely,
Wolfgang

Johann’s coffee had grown cold. He sat for over an hour reading and rereading the letter.

1940

The German Wehrmacht invades France and quickly conquers it. The French sign their capitulation to
the Nazis in the same train car where Germany had signed its surrender at the end of the First World
War. In short order Norway, Denmark, Belgium, and The Netherlands are also invaded and occupied
by the Nazis.

Spring arrived in The Hague and with it the welcome advent of blossoms and colour.
Unfortunately it also brought the Nazis. They were everywhere in The Hague. Many basked arrogantly
in the glory of their conquest, eating and drinking on the streets in full view of the Dutch. Others
patrolled the streets laden with large submachine guns. Their jackboots made sharp, scary clicking
noises as they walked over the cobblestone streets. Sirens from Nazi military police vehicles wailed
constantly as resistance fighters and Jews were rooted out and arrested.
Doctor Marco van Staam read the decrees by the Nazi conquerors. No Jewish workers were to
be hired. All Jewish workers currently employed were to be fired. Failure to comply was an illegal act
and meant imprisonment. Doctor van Staam had a young wife and twin daughters. He met Dietrich
Liebermann briefly alone one morning in his office. The truth came out, and Doctor Liebermann
resigned immediately. Doctor van Staam tried to be sympathetic, but Dietrich waved it off. Everyone
was being oppressed by the Nazis and had to make difficult decisions for their own survival. Yet,
despite his understanding of why he had to resign his post, Dietrich could barely suppress tears of rage
towards the Nazis when he got to the street. His family was, once again, in severe danger because of his
Jewish heritage. The fact that he had blessed hundreds of people with his medical skills was not taken
into account at all. It didn’t make sense. What incredible foolishness! He immediately headed for
Pastor de Graff’s church.
Within a day the Liebermann family had forsaken their daily routines. The children did not go
back to school; Johann was absent from his medical training sessions, plus orchestra practice; and
Krista resigned her secretary position. Later that week they did not appear at church. The Liebermann
family, had, for all intents and purposes…disappeared.

1941

Nazi Germany controls most of Europe. Only Great Britain, despite suffering tremendous damage from
bombing raids by the Luftwaffe (German air force), refuses to succumb to the Nazis. Yet Hitler is
confident that the end of British resistance is near and starts looking eastward, towards the vast
empire of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
Also known as the USSR, Soviet Union, or Russia, it comprises several republics in both Asia
and Europe. From a geographical standpoint the empire is so large that it spans thirteen time zones
and is by far the largest country in the world. Although there are several different ethnic groups, faiths,
and languages in this gigantic colossus, the leaders of the USSR, stationed at the Kremlin in Moscow,
Russia, maintain control through the oppressive communist system and the much-feared secret police:
the KGB.
Hitler knows that to control the vast Soviet Union and its seemingly unlimited natural resources
would make the Nazi movement unstoppable.
Several of his generals correctly point out that fighting on two fronts in the First World War
was the overriding reason why Germany went down to defeat. This doesn’t dissuade Hitler from
ordering “Operation Barbarossa” (Nazi code name for the invasion of the Soviet Union).
Ignoring the non-aggression pact that was signed with the Soviet Union shortly before the
Second World War, the Nazis sweep into the USSR and meet little or no resistance from the Red Army
(army of the Soviet Union).

The sky was streaked with wispy, white clouds, and the sweet warmth of spring was giving way
to the heat and humidity of summer. Egon Kratzer sat at the middle table in Herzog’s empty inn,
leisurely smoking a cigarette. Hilda, the wife of the recently deceased Udo Herzog, was sobbing softly
nearby. Kratzer blew a long trail of smoke and let his mind dwell once again on the details of Herzog’s
death.
There had been a service three days ago at Wilhelm’s Kirche for Lieutenant Ulrich Holzenbein,
who had been killed in the campaign against Holland. Pastor Andreas had spoken the words that Udo
Herzog had given him. Ulrich Holzenbein was a good Nazi and had served the Reich well. After the
service, all the villagers, including Udo Herzog, had gathered around the gravesite. Then something
utterly bizarre and unexpected happened. Just as the coffin was being lowered, Udo Herzog dropped to
his knees and fell straight forward. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Kratzer was now in Wolfland to attend the former innkeeper’s funeral and to ensure a smooth
transition of power and holdings from the deceased Udo Herzog to Adolf Steinkuhler. He had, at first,
considered passing the torch of power to Franz Fleishmann, Herzog’s right-hand man, but the professor
was a much more serious Nazi than the butcher. He was also smarter. Kratzer looked over at the still
sobbing Hilda, shook his head, and sighed.

Three weeks later, Egon Kratzer sat at the bottom edge of the Wolfland vineyard, savouring a
glass of its famous white wine. He was there on business. “A fact-finding mission” is what he told his
superiors. The sky was blue, the air light and breezy. Kratzers’s mind drifted from the pleasure of the
wine to what had transpired on Wolfland over the past month.
First Herzog had collapsed and died from an apparent heart attack, and a week later his
successor, Adolf Steinkuhler, went missing. The Gestapo had conducted a thorough search of Wolfland
and found the schoolteacher in a shallow grave with a bullet in his head and a gun at his feet. Another
grave had been dug just beside Steinkuhler’s, but it was completely empty of either people or things.
The fingerprints on the gun were smudged, and subsequent interrogation of the villagers lead to
nothing.
The news only got worse. Some time later Steinkuhler’s successors—Franz, Tobias, and Hanzi
Fleishmann—spent a night partying in Koenig’s Tal. Early the next morning they headed home in the
Liebermanns’ sedan, but the driver missed the bridge, and it landed with a resounding splash into the
Ebene. A few villagers who had gotten up at dawn to fish saw the whole accident and watched
helplessly as the car quickly sank into the river with the Fleishmanns inside. The bodies and the car
were never retrieved. Investigators later determined that alcohol consumption had played a significant
role in the tragedy.
Everyone in the village came to Wilhelm’s Kirche for the Fleishmann memorials. Without any
Nazis telling him how to conduct the service, Pastor Andreas spoke eloquently and pleaded for God’s
mercy. However, except for Frau Fleishmann, whose bags were already packed for a move to relatives
in Hamburg, no one shed a tear.
There were now no Nazis on Wolfland that Kratzer could trust to be leaders. His investigation
into the deaths and disappearance of the former Nazi commanders had turned up nothing. With some
resignation he finished the wine, stood up and walked down to the empty plaza, where Herr Lutz was
waiting with the car. He sat quietly as Lutz drove him through the village. Before crossing the bridge
Kratzer ordered his faithful assistant to stop the car. The SS lieutenant looked through the back window
and shook his head. Every leading Nazi functionary in Wolfland had died within a month.
Coincidences? Accidents? Kratzer was troubled. And above all, he was frightened. Kratzer felt a
disturbing shudder go through his body. He ordered Lutz to drive to Dresden.
Egon Kratzer entered through the imposing front doors of Dresden’s SS headquarters and found
a place to sit in the foyer. In due time, a secretary ushered him into Kommandant (Commander) Holgar
Buchberger’s office. The first thing Kratzer noticed as he entered were two large windows, on either
side of an imposing desk, that allowed light to stream in. It glistened off Kommandant Buchberger’s
large balding head as he stood to greet his guest. Both gave perfunctory Nazi greetings, and Kratzer
handed his report over to Buchberger. The tall, well-built SS leader accepted it without a word, ordered
Kratzer to sit down, and settled himself on a comfortable leather chair behind his desk.
“Thank you for seeing me, Kommandant Buchberger. As I told you over the phone, I believe
you will find my report on Wolfland both interesting and worth pursuing,” said Kratzer.
Buchberger looked up for a moment, waved his hand dismissively at Kratzer, and with some
irritation said, “Yes, yes, Lieutenant. I’ve made some personal inquiries about the matter, but now I
need to read your report.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kratzer nervously.
Buchberger spent a considerable time reading the document. This in turn increased the stress
level of Egon Kratzer. Was there something wrong with his report? A large framed picture of Hitler,
hung on the wall between the windows, glared down at the tense lieutenant. It did not bring him any
relief.
At last Buchberger leaned back in his chair, raised his dark bushy eyebrows, sighed, and spoke.
“Let me get this straight, Lieutenant Kratzer. All five leading Nazi functionaries from Wolfland
perished within a month. However, before they died, they eliminated the one Jewish family in town.”
“Actually the family fled, sir.”
“Fled. Pardon. They fled. Those who collaborated with the Jews, the Jaegers and the von
Himmels, suffered the following consequences: the Jaegers were ordered to produce wine and the von
Himmels were put on house arrest.”
Kratzer nodded slightly in agreement.
Buchberger continued, “However, from what I can ascertain from your report, the real reason
why the Jaegers and von Himmels were not sent to a concentration camp was because of the fact that
Herr Jaeger is the father of Wolfgang Jaeger—”
“Sonderkommando Wolfgang Jaeger,” interjected Kratzer. “He’s a sniper for the Wehrmacht.”
Buchberger looked up in frustration at the intrusion and replied impatiently, “Like all good
Germans I have seen the film of his homecoming. I know that Wolfgang Jaeger was awarded the Iron
Cross.”
The kommandant paused for a moment and then continued with a voice on the edge of anger.
“So a young war hero, who has been decorated for bravery, and his winemaker father, who makes a
product enjoyed by thousands and provides employment and tax money for the Third Reich, are under
suspicion for murder. All because they allegedly helped one Jewish family out of Germany a few years
ago!”
Buchberger paused and shook his head at Kratzer before continuing. “Yesterday I talked with
Colonel Erwin Niedersach, from Berlin. He assures me that the Jaegers are valuable and loyal servants
of the Third Reich!”
Kratzer didn’t move a muscle.
Buchberger shifted his body and smiled arrogantly. “Your report concludes that the deaths of
the Nazi leaders on Wolfland are suspicious and warrant further investigation. I grant you that these
deaths happened during a relatively brief time span and that there are those on the island who might
have had motives. Well, yes, Lieutenant Kratzer. War does motivate people to kill. Yet your prime
suspect has been honoured for bravery and valour on the battlefield. He is a hero of the Fatherland. No,
Kratzer. Wolfgang Jaeger won’t do. Your other main suspect makes an excellent wine. Perhaps him?
Unlikely. Why would the winemaker jeopardize both his future and his son’s by killing Nazis? Two
other key suspects are an elderly pastor and his equally elderly wife. She is known for growing flowers.
Come, come, they’re much too old. No, Kratzer, that won’t do either. And finally, this Jewish family:
the Liebermanns. Where are they, Kratzer? Perhaps one of them came back to Wolfland?”
Kratzer shrugged his shoulders.
Buchberger continued. “Do you have a report that the Liebermanns have been a threat to the
Third Reich in the last two years? What about the Jaegers or von Himmels?”
“None, sir.”
Buchberger leaned back in his chair and breathed heavily. “How many people live in Wolfland,
Kratzer?”
“At present?”
“At present. Yes, tell me.”
“One hundred and eight. The island can support approximately one hundred and twenty people,
sir, but due to the war—”
“Yes, yes, of course,” interrupted the kommandant.
There was a long pause.
Buchberger stood up and poured himself a drink from a small cabinet behind his grandiose
desk. After taking a sip he looked at Kratzer and dryly said, “One hundred and eight people. Fifteen of
which have fought for the Third Reich. Some have even given up their lives. And I understand another
eleven from the village will be conscripted soon. Lieutenant Kratzer, you and I have much greater
concerns than worrying about a small isolated island in the middle of a river. Unless you have
substantial proof that these deaths were actually murders, do not bother me again with such trivia! Heil
Hitler.”
Kratzer stumbled slightly as he got up from his chair in haste. “Heil Hitler.”
Red from embarrassment, the lieutenant retreated out of the office. Buchberger shook his head
again, got busy with the paperwork on his desk, and promptly forgot about Kratzer.
That evening Kratzer managed to reach Jens Jaeger by telephone. The conversation was all
business. Jaeger agreed to pay a business fee, once a month, to an account set up by Kratzer. In return
the SS commander ensured that there would no longer be any Nazi functionaries on the island. Jens had
freedom to sell Wolfland Weiss to anyone and anywhere he wanted. Kratzer also promised that the von
Himmels were now off their house arrest and allowed to resume their normal duties. In effect, the
island and its occupants would be left alone by government officials unless they brought attention to
themselves by refusing to provide soldiers for the Nazi war effort.
Within three days a very sizable amount of money was transferred from Wolfland into a private
bank account that Lutz had set up for his boss in Switzerland. Shortly thereafter, in Lieutenant
Kratzer’s office, the adjutant informed his superior about the successful transfer.
Kratzer smiled wryly and said, “Well, Lutz, what are you waiting for? Get the wine glasses and
a bottle of Wolfland Weiss. It is time to celebrate!”
With no Nazi functionaries, administrators, or even a Burgermeister on Wolfland, the villagers
quickly destroyed all the old Nazi influences and symbols that had plagued them for far too long.
The Hitler Jugend was quietly disbanded. Frau Muller became the interim teacher and set to
work in September. She cleaned the schoolhouse out of anything to do with the Nazi regime and vowed
never to speak about it again in class.
Jens walked up to Rupert’s Berg with Pastor Andreas, and together they chopped down the Nazi
flagpole. It came down easily, and the wood was so dry that it shattered when it fell on the rocky
surface of the berg. The two friends gathered the wood and the tattered, weather-beaten Nazi flag and
took great pleasure in using them to build a fire. Both Jens and Andreas howled their delight as the
symbol that had hung over their island for much too long burst into flames and was quickly reduced to
ash.
On Sunday morning, only a week after Kratzer had talked to Jaeger, the bells in Wilhelm’s
Kirche rang loudly and clearly, bringing everyone into the sanctuary. Pastor Andreas refused to
criticize or condemn the parishioners for their lack of faith and support for himself, Anna, the
Liebermanns, and the Jaegers over the past years. Instead he preached on the love of Jesus and
forgiveness. There were no dry eyes. The bells rang again at the end of the service. Anna handed out
flowers to everyone as they left the church.
As time went on, most of the villagers came by themselves, in pairs or in small groups, to the
Jaegers and von Himmels, admitting their wrongdoings and begging them for forgiveness. And it was,
without exception, granted.

•••

The snowflakes fell gently. Some landed on the cross, high on Rupert’s Berg, but swirling little
breezes carried them off before they had a chance to accumulate. The gentle winds also caught the
singing from the Christmas Eve service and carried it across the island.
Only three soldiers had returned home to Wolfland for the annual celebration of Jesus Christ’s
birth. Another one, Gerhard Kupferschimd, twenty-six, was brought back in a coffin and laid to rest
during a teary and heartfelt funeral.
Over a thousand kilometres away, on the outskirts of Moscow, Wolfgang celebrated his
birthday and Christmas with three morose snipers, in a dark, tiny shed. The temperature outside was
well below frigid, and to make matters worse a blizzard was howling angrily against the flimsy walls of
the shelter. The orders had been given to retreat. Once the storm cleared they were going to do just that.
In The Hague the Liebermanns sat in darkness while church bells rang in the glad tidings of
Christmas. The family had lived for the past year in a three-room apartment, which was part of a large
nondescript complex. Twice a week Pastor Jupp de Graff visited with food and news. The pastor did
this under great peril. For, if caught, he would be liable to arrest and deportation to one of the
mysterious labour camps that had been built throughout the Reich. Jupp knew the danger, but he felt at
peace. He was serving the Lord by taking care of His people.
The Liebermanns’ daily routine began after the occupants in the neighbouring apartments had
left for work. In the morning Johann and Dietrich helped Ulrike and Uwe do schoolwork. Krista
meanwhile busied herself with housework. In the afternoon the children played games such as chess
and checkers while Dietrich taught Johann medicine. Jupp had supplied them with plenty of books, and
the family read for hours in the evenings when they had to be extremely quiet. The apartment dwellers
on either side of them believed that the rooms between them were unoccupied, which was what the
Liebermanns and de Graff wanted. The Nazis were paying informants generously. No one could be
trusted, so silence and secrecy were critical for the Liebermanns’ survival. Trapped in their little rooms,
the family got on each other’s nerves at times. However, their routines and prayers kept them sane;
certainly, their situation could not last forever.
As the Liebermanns listened to the ringing of the church bells, they let their minds drift back to
Wolfland, mainly to Johann’s birthday celebrations and the Christmas traditions that they had enjoyed
there for so many years. Good memories with the Lord and His people. They remembered, and it gave
them hope and reason to live.

1942

Upon reaching the outskirts of Moscow, the invading German army is ordered by the Nazi high
command to stop their attack, due to terrible winter weather conditions, a lack of supplies, and a new,
more serious problem. The Americans, whose navy were bombed at Pearl Harbor on December 7,
1941, by Germany’s ally, Japan, have now declared war on both. The United States military have an
incredible number of men and equipment to combat their new enemies. Nazi defeat to the Americans
will be inevitable unless they can gain access to massive quantities of fuel to power the extra military
hardware needed to wage war against the power from North America.
With this in mind Hitler and his generals stipulate that Stalingrad, a city far to the south of
Moscow, is to be taken instead of the Soviet capital. Behind Stalingrad, to the southeast, are vast oil
fields, which the Nazis desperately need to control.
The Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht attack Stalingrad with a vengeance, quickly reducing the city to
ruins. Yet the Soviets, lacking guns and other critical war equipment, manage to put up a vicious
resistance. The city will not fall to the Nazis. By November 1942, the extreme cold weather and the
overwhelming numerical superiority of the Soviets start taking their toll on the Nazis.
Desperate for victory, the Wehrmacht sends two of its best snipers, the newly promoted
Hauptmann (Captain) Wolfgang Jaeger and Hauptmann Helmut Schwarz, to Stalingrad. Within thirty
minutes of their arrival they gun down a Soviet officer and his small three-man Soviet patrol. A week
later several more Soviet army personnel are eliminated by Jaeger and Schwarz, and they become
legends on both sides of the conflict.
Yet, despite their success, it quickly becomes apparent to even Germany’s best snipers that the
end of the Nazis in Stalingrad is imminent. There are simply too many Soviets, and Nazi confidence for
conquest begins to waver.

As he had done every day, well before the morning sun, for over four weeks, Wolfgang went
with Schwarz deep into Soviet-occupied Stalingrad. The two snipers slithered through the dark ruins
until they came into an empty plaza. Both had been informed by Nazi spies that the little square was a
gathering and jumping-off point for Soviet transports loaded with soldiers and artillery.
The snipers split up and moved into position. Wolfgang went into the remains of an apartment
building and climbed up the rickety stairs till he came to a blown out room that had a sweeping view of
the plaza. Helmut Schwarz found a position three hundred metres directly across from Wolfgang, in a
destroyed department store.
Despite the numbing cold, the snipers, much like predators in the wild, waited calmly for their
prey; their only signs of life were small foggy clouds as they exhaled.
The rumbling sounds of trucks reached the snipers’ ears just as the sun emerged and washed the
plaza in shades of grey. Adrenalin coursed through their veins as two Soviet transports came into view,
and any cold they had felt before vanished. The vehicles drove into the middle of the square, stopped,
and disgorged a dozen Soviet soldiers each. The men’s movements suggested that they all felt perfectly
safe. The soldiers stood in tight groups, rifles slung over their shoulders, helmets tipped back, cigarettes
hanging from their lips. Sounds of laughter reached up to the snipers.
A young Soviet soldier came up to a much taller comrade, stiffened his body, and lifted his
right arm up into a salute. The tall man, obviously someone of importance since he was being saluted,
reciprocated.
The cracking sound of a high-powered rifle being fired and the sickening thud of its bullet
severing the tall man’s right hand happened milliseconds from each other.
Crack.
Another bullet from the opposite direction passed through the officer’s throat. He crumpled
slowly onto the plaza’s cobblestones.
Pandemonium ensued.
Soldiers, not knowing which way to run, scattered everywhere, falling into each other, some
headed in the direction of the apartment building while others ran towards the department store.
Crack, crack, crack, crack.
Four more collapsed to the ground.
Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack.
The bullets did not miss their targets. The soldiers either died instantly or were severely
wounded. A few Soviets, though, managed to maintain their composure during the chaos and retrieved
machine guns and bazookas from the trucks. They then sought shelter at the side of the square and
quickly determined where the shots were coming from. They loaded the weapons up and fired at the
apartment and the department store.
The rockets hit their targets with a kaboom!
Pieces of cement and glass shards came hailing down, impaling anyone unfortunate to be
underneath. Cries of pain sliced through the cold air.
Then gradually the sounds quieted and the plaza became eerily silent.
The surviving Soviet soldiers split up and gingerly moved toward the snipers’ lairs. Soon
enough they found the assassins’ empty shells. That is all they found. Yet fear amongst the Soviets that
they were still being watched by the Nazi sharpshooters made them retreat without gathering their
wounded or dead. The trucks were left standing as they scattered and headed back to their base,
carefully moving through the ruined buildings from one hiding spot to the next.
Wolfgang, who had escaped from the apartment shortly before it was blasted apart, found a
five-man German patrol slowly picking their way through the rubble approximately half a kilometre
from the plaza. They had obviously strayed too deep into Soviet territory, and signs of panic, such as
being spread far apart, were quite evident. Wolfgang followed them for a while until suddenly he came
up behind the leader of the patrol. He wrapped his arm around the soldier’s neck and forced him inside
a building.
Wolfgang hissed, “You fool. No wonder we are losing the battle here in Stalingrad. Never
become detached from your patrol!”
He released the leader, who staggered to his knees gasping for air.
“Now…keep going along this road for another ten minutes, and you will come to a square,”
commanded Wolfgang. “There are two Soviet trucks filled with military equipment. Take the weapons
and leave at once, because I’m sure the enemy will be back for them. I’ll run ahead and cover for you,
and then I’ll lead you back to base.”
The kneeling soldier whispered, perplexed, “Who are you?”
Wolfgang looked down and lifted the brim of his hat. “Hauptmann Wolfgang Jaeger.”
“Hauptmann Wolfgang Jaeger?”
There was no answer. The legendary Wolfgang Jaeger had disappeared.
The patrol leader’s face was ashen when he met up with the rest of his group. “What happened
to you?” someone asked.
Tersely the leader responded, “I just met Wolfgang Jaeger.”
The rest of the patrol looked awed. One asked in disbelief, “Wolfgang Jaeger?”
“Yes, in the flesh, Wolfgang Jaeger. He said we are to keep heading in this direction, and we’ll
find some Soviet weapons and vehicles.”
Within ten minutes the five-man patrol was in the plaza. For a few moments they were too
stunned to move as they gazed at the wounded and dead Soviet soldiers strewn helter-skelter over the
area. Suddenly, a nearby explosion awoke them from their trance. They shot and killed the wounded
Soviets before hastily retrieving the cargo from the trucks. Wolfgang emerged out of the shadows, and
with the sounds of trucks, gunfire, and explosions in the background the legendary sniper led the group
back to the safety of the Nazi base.
Upon arrival, Wolfgang headed for his cot, completely exhausted. He found several letters lying
on his pillow. One was from Wolfland. He picked it up and twirled it in his hand. He received letters
from his parents once a week, and in each and every case so far, the correspondence had been heavily
censored. Sometimes, the only thing that had escaped the heavy black markers of the Nazis was the
date and the salutations at the start and at the bottom. Despite this, the letters were what kept Wolfgang
shooting. His family was still alive. That’s what mattered. But as Wolfgang fiddled with the letter in his
hand he noticed something different. It had no signs that it had been steamed or sliced open and then
taped back together like all the others. With his heart suddenly pounding rapidly, Wolfgang tore the
letter open. There was not a censor mark on it.
He read eagerly and his mind raced wildly as the gist of the letter hit him: The Nazi leaders on
Wolfland are dead and things are much better on the island. People are happy again, busy with the
routines of their lives. The Nazis are leaving them alone.

Wolfgang finished reading and stared ahead, deep in thought.


Fritz Unterstutz was going home. Earlier that day he had been just another young anonymous German
soldier fighting in the hell of Stalingrad. He did not remember how or what happened. There had been a
heavy gun battle with the Soviets. Suddenly there was a sharp whining noise and a loud explosion. A
razor sharp piece of shrapnel had flown through the air like a bullet, slicing Fritz Unterstutz’s nose off.
Bleeding profusely, Fritz was helped back to the German infirmary. A piece of his nose was found and
brought to the Wehrmacht hospital wrapped in a handkerchief. The doctors sewed the flap of skin back
on, effectively covering up the gaping hole on Fritz’s face. Needless to say, for Herr Unterstutz, the
war was now over. With a large white bandage tightly wrapped around his face he was heading home.
Home to Koenig’s Tal.

It was late at night when Wolfgang approached Fritz Unterstutz’s cot. The private was asleep,
but Wolfgang gently shook him awake. Fritz groggily came to and looked up at Wolfgang. With an
indignant voice he asked, “Who are you?”
“Hauptmann Wolfgang Jaeger.”
That woke Fritz up. He tried to sit.
“Sorry, sir. Please, Hauptmann Jaeger, forgive my rudeness. It is an honour to meet you. I trust
you found the letter I brought from your parents?”
Wolfgang whispered, “Yes, thank you, Private Unterstutz. They mentioned your name in the
letter and that I was to find and thank you for taking the risk of bringing the letter to me. How did my
parents know you were coming to Stalingrad?”
“An acquaintance of yours from Koenig’s Tal heard I was being sent here. He told your parents,
who then found me and personally gave me the letter you received today. Herr and Frau Jaeger were so
nice to me, sir; truly they are great. That was just a month ago. You were on duty when I arrived in
Stalingrad, so I delivered the letter to one of your officers. He assured me that it would get to you.”
“Yes, it certainly did. Now what happened to you?”
“Thirty minutes after I delivered your post I went on my first patrol. They say it was shrapnel
that sliced my nose off.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh no, don’t be. It wasn’t the prettiest nose, and now it will be easier to wipe! And after only
one day in this hell I am going back home. Crazy how things turn out sometimes.”
“Listen, I have come to ask you a favour.”
“Anything, sir.”
“I want you to take some letters to my parents on Wolfland.”
Wolfgang pulled out the documents and an envelope full of money. He gave it to Fritz, who
counted out over a thousand reichsmarks.
Wolfgang continued. “Take the money as a small token of my appreciation.”
“No, sir. This is far too much.”
“Take it. My parents gave it to me when I was given a medal on Wolfland. They told me it
might be useful some day. Today is that day.”
Wolfgang’s tone and eyes were also enough persuasion for Unterstutz.
“Certainly, sir. I would be honoured to help you.”
Wolfgang continued, this time a little more ominously. “I trust that you will never let anyone
know about either the documents or the money?”
Fritz Unterstutz was no fool. Wolfgang Jaeger’s reputation spoke for itself.
“Yes, sir. You can trust me.”
Wolfgang’s eyes bored into Fritz’s. “One last thing. If for some reason my parents are not there,
keep the letters and deliver them to either Pastor Andreas von Himmel or Johann Liebermann. Never,
even if they are dead, open the letters. Do you swear to uphold that, Private Unterstutz?”
Without hesitation Fritz declared, “Yes, sir!”
“Good night, Private Unterstutz.”
“Good night, Hauptmann Jaeger.”

Fritz Unterstutz left on the last German train out of Stalingrad.

1943

Night mercifully arrived in Stalingrad, causing the fighting to taper off. Moonbeams reflecting off the
snow created an eerie shadowy light. Wolfgang did not return to the Nazi base after his assignment that
day. Instead, for almost half an hour, he scrambled over ruins, slid into dark buildings and out the other
side, up alleys, down stairs, up stairs, in and out of shadows. He arrived at his destination, a small cellar
under a bombed out grocery store, clicked on a flashlight and opened a metal trunk that contained a
Soviet army greatcoat, a furry hat with earflaps, large warm mitts, a roll of sausage, half a loaf of dark
crusty bread, and a revolver. Wolfgang had looted all this from a dead Soviet soldier he had found four
days earlier.
Wolfgang put on the coat, stashed the food into the deep front pockets, and put on the mitts.
Then suddenly he heard a slight scuffle.
“Halt!”
The command froze Wolfgang to the spot. The glare of a flashlight bore into his eyes.
Helmut Schwarz took a step forward and said firmly, “Hands up!” Wolfgang complied.
Schwarz spoke harshly, as he released the safety of his Luger, “Desertion is punishable by
immediate execution, Hauptmann Jaeger! I respected and admired you, but I was warned you might do
this! You have taught me well! I never would have been able to follow you had I not been your partner!
Any last words before I kill you?”
Wolfgang’s arms remained up, but as he spoke his right hand slowly tilted forwards. “Yes,” he
said quietly and calmly, “I have a few last words. You, Schwarz, are a fool. Fighting for the Fatherland
and a Fuehrer who is leading us to complete destruction is absurd. Forcing someone to fight by
threatening execution of his family and himself is criminal. No, Hauptmann Schwarz, your beliefs and
what the Nazis have forced me to do are madness, and that alone is punishable by death.”
The shot was followed by the sounds of Schwarz’s gun clattering to the floor and his agonized
cries of pain. Schwarz’s trigger hand was shattered and bleeding profusely. Despite the agony, he made
a desperate lunge with his good hand to reach the revolver on the floor. Another shot rang out, and
again Schwarz cried out in pain, as a bullet shattered his left kneecap.
Wolfgang stood for a moment, smoke curling out of the hole in the right mitt where the bullets
had passed. He slowly took it off, revealing a small revolver, which he slid into a holster underneath
the greatcoat. He picked up the flashlight and beamed it down on Helmut Schwarz.
Quietly he said, “You deserve to die, but I cannot do it.”
“Coward! Traitor! Let me live and I swear I will track you down and kill you like a dog!”
taunted Schwarz.
Wolfgang’s right fist whipped through the air, connecting hard on the Hauptmann’s jaw,
rendering him unconscious. Methodically, machine-like, Wolfgang frisked his former accomplice,
taking ammunition and a gun. Without looking back at Helmut Schwarz, one of Nazi Germany’s
greatest war heroes warily walked out of the cellar and headed for the Soviet section of Stalingrad.
Wolfgang flitted his way through the ruins with all of his senses on high alert. Eventually, he
found the street he was looking for. It was a main road, which travelled out of the city towards
freedom. Wolfgang climbed up to the second floor of a bombed out house next to the street, positioned
himself as a sniper, and waited out the darkness.

The grey, cold Stalingrad morning came grudgingly. Numbness had entered Wolfgang’s fingers
and toes, but he still managed to gently ease himself down the stairs and find a new observation point
just behind a small cracked window on the ground level of the house. It wasn’t too long before he heard
the tell-tale crunch, crunch, crunch of boots on hard snow. His hearing and experience told him there
were at least fifty soldiers walking on the road out of the city. He could hear the Russian language and
an odd wheeze and cough cutting through the clear freezing air. Wolfgang watched the disorganized
rabble trudge by him. Some were limping, a few others had bandages wrapped around their heads, and
five of them were being carried on stretchers. As the last man marched by, Wolfgang stealthily and
nonchalantly moved out of the building and started walking behind them. No one noticed.
The group moved along for several minutes before crossing a river on a makeshift bridge,
hastily built after the original had been sent sky high by Nazi explosives. Several hundred Soviet
soldiers came by in the opposite direction, some walking or bouncing along in crowded trucks towards
Stalingrad. Totally focused on battle, the soldiers barely noticed Wolfgang’s group as they trudged by.
Eventually, Wolfgang heard the screeching of train cars being put together and the belching steam from
engines.
The soldiers passed through the grandiose arch of a railway station and came upon a completely
tumultuous scene. Hundreds of soldiers were either disembarking or boarding four noisy trains.
Whistles, yells, blaring loudspeakers, and irate officers trying to get order compounded the incredible
din in the station.
Wolfgang was able to make out, despite his limited Russian, that two of the trains were heading
north to Moscow, one was heading to Siberia, and the other to the Ukraine. In the riot of noise and
movement Wolfgang easily slipped onto the train headed for the Ukraine. He walked onto one of the
coaches that had been converted into a hospital ward for the wounded. They were lying everywhere,
jammed into every available spot. A few nurses were scrambling around, trying to attend to those
groaning in pain. The rest of the injured were being ignored. Wolfgang manoeuvred himself through
the invalid soldiers and found a berth beside someone bandaged head to foot. He stretched out on the
cot and pulled the greatcoat over himself so that only his eyes and hat-covered head could be seen.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a sharp whistle, train doors slamming shut, a
loudspeaker blaring last instructions, a sudden lurch forward, and slowly, very slowly, the train’s
engine heaved and strained its cargo out of the train station. Wolfgang breathed slowly, senses acute,
revolver underneath his right mitt ready to fire. The train’s engine eventually gained enough
momentum to reach a comfortable speed where it started to rhythmically click along the tracks.
Wolfgang exhaled slightly in relief. He was heading west, the direction of home.

Exhausted from his weeks of combat duty in Stalingrad, but nervous about being discovered,
Wolfgang slept fitfully, his right hand always clinging onto the revolver. Several hours into the trip a
nurse asked him something that he couldn’t understand. He just grunted something, rolled over, and
pretended to sleep. Since that encounter he had been left alone. There were other men with much more
pressing needs that the nurses had to attend to. Occasionally the train stopped and some of the wounded
plus a few healthy soldiers disembarked. Yet, enough remained for Wolfgang to travel unnoticed.
The sun was just setting on the second day of the journey when suddenly a terrifying whine,
subtle at first and then startlingly loud, drowned out all sounds on the train. It was a lone German
Messerschmidt fighter plane, one of the few still in the Soviet Union. It was way off course, low on
fuel, and cut off from its squadron. Like a cornered, desperate beast it attacked the train. The Soviets
manning the anti-aircraft guns, located just behind the train’s engine, started blasting away. But it was
too late.
Ratta tat tat, ratta tat tat…
Bullets from the Messerschmidt shredded the gunners, seven bullets took out the engineer, and
several more entered the engine. Mission accomplished, the plane swooped up into the darkening sky
and disappeared.
The train’s engine came to a grinding stop with fire billowing from its undercarriage. Those
inside the coaches were lurched forward at the sudden change of speed, and as the train settled,
everyone and everything not held firmly down snapped back. Projectiles flew through anyone and
anything. Screams of fear, cries of pain, were heard everywhere. It was absolute chaos. A Soviet
soldier ran wildly outside, beside the tracks, yelling in Russian that the train’s engine was about to
explode. Men desperately scurried out of the train. Some of the wounded, unable to get out of their
beds, begged the able-bodied soldiers for assistance. Only a few were helped. Some of the
incapacitated found the strength to pick themselves up and get off the train, but their lack of proper
clothing could not contain the cold. Within minutes they had keeled over—frozen to death.
Wolfgang disembarked from the medical compartment and followed the fleeing mass of able
and well-dressed soldiers who were heading towards an open field. Suddenly he broke off from them
and headed to a nearby forest. A bullet whistled by his left ear. A Soviet soldier yelled something in
Russian. Wolfgang stopped and held up his arms. Slowly he turned himself around.
The train engine exploded into a thousand pieces. Deadly shrapnel rained on those who had
gotten off. The engine turned into a fireball, lighting up the dusk and melting the snow and ice for over
one hundred metres around it. The train’s carriages buckled from the force of the blast, causing some to
tip over and derail. Several Soviet soldiers, including the one who had shot at Wolfgang, were knocked
over by the shock waves. When the soldier staggered back up to his feet again, Wolfgang was gone.
The Soviet scrambled to the edge of the forest. The trees were thick and dark. Where were the
footprints? The soldier tramped back and forth along the edge. Several of his comrades yelled at him
from afar. The wounded needed his assistance. Wait! There! Footprints and blood! Two of the
comrades, irritated with the soldier’s slow response, came up to him insisting that he come with them.
He turned, pointed to the snow, but the evidence was gone. A sudden wind had blown snow over it. As
he walked away the soldier babbled to the comrades about some man heading off into the forest alone.
The pair looked at each other and shrugged. The groans and screams of the wounded filled the twilight
air. There were much more important things to attend to.

The snow came up to his knees, but it did not deter Wolfgang from running and running and
running. He had felt a piece of shrapnel from the exploding engine impale his leg, but the adrenalin of
fleeing and the cold snow numbed the pain. For more than an hour he fought his way though the thick
snow and forest. He finally came into a clearing, and in the last light of the day he could make out a
hut. He broke in.
Wolfgang pulled out his flashlight and clicked it to life. It was a small hunter’s cabin. There
were a few traps hanging from the rafters, a bed standing in a corner next to a table with a lantern, a
chair, and a fireplace. Wolfgang covered the window with a blanket from the bed, then pulled out some
matches from the greatcoat and lit up the lantern. He felt an odd ache in his right thigh and sat down on
the chair to take a look. A jagged ten-centimetre piece of metal had cut through his pants and was
sticking deep and solid in the flesh of his thigh. Wolfgang grasped the shrapnel with his right hand,
took a deep breath, and pulled it out. The pain cascaded through his body, nearly rendering him
unconscious. He tore a strip off a washcloth, which had been hanging over the chair, and wrapped it
around the wound to stem the bleeding.
He limped to the door of the shack, went outside, and filled one of his mitts with snow. The
wind had come up, causing the trees to creak and howl as they waved back and forth. Snow was falling,
and erratic gusts whipped Wolfgang’s exposed flesh. He staggered back inside the shack, put the snow-
filled mitt on top of the wound, and wrapped another strip of cloth around it. Within a few minutes the
pain had abated somewhat.
Wolfgang allowed himself to finally relax, and as he did cold seeped into his body. He found
some paper and wood and got a blaze going in the fireplace. The small, airtight shack retained the heat
well, and Wolfgang was soon able to shed his greatcoat. Suddenly he noticed an odd rectangular shape
on the floor. It was a trap door. Slowly he pulled it open. The cold from the cavern below made him
shiver, but he held the flashlight downwards to see what was below. Potatoes, canned meat, vegetables.
For the first time in a long while Wolfgang Jaeger smiled. He would be all right. For now at least.
Oberst Kommandant Petrus Frings had received the news without expression. The snipers
Schwarz and Jaeger had not checked in from their last assignment. Such was his respect for the two
hauptmanns and their abilities that Frings let two days pass before he gave the order for the radio to be
activated. His message to military headquarters in Berlin was curt and to the point: Hauptmanns
Schwarz and Jaeger missing, forty-eight-hours. Over.

Colonel Erwin Niedersach was at his desk, in the midst of a telephone conversation, when his
secretary passed a note to him. From her expression, he could tell it was important, so he postponed his
feelings of annoyance towards the intrusion. He read the note and hastily ended the telephone
conversation.

•••
The “Battle of Stalingrad” ends on January 31, 1943, with the surrender of the Nazis to the Soviet
Union. The Wehrmacht’s losses in terms of men and equipment are staggering. Two hundred thousand
soldiers dead, ninety-one thousand taken prisoner by the Soviets. Of that number, only six thousand
will live to see Germany again.
Back in the Third Reich a national time of mourning is declared. It is a severe blow to Germany, and
history will later mark Stalingrad as the beginning of the end for the Nazi regime.

•••

Daybreak was bright and clear, making the contrast of the frost-covered cross on Rupert’s Berg
against the brilliant blue sky remarkably beautiful. The beauty extended to the forest, where every tree
sparkled under a layer of thin white ice.
Jens Jaeger walked alone into the frozen, glistening wonderland to meet Pastor Andreas in a
small clearing on Margarita’s Ridge. The pastor had not given any details, the night previous, at
church, about why he wanted to meet, but it was important and he insisted on meeting at the spot both
knew well from their countless walks together.
Jens came upon the clearing and in the middle of it Pastor Andreas von Himmel was staring
upwards. The pastor heard his friend’s approach and gave him a warm fleeting glance before looking
up again. Jens followed suit, and as the shimmering white cross came into view he was struck with
awe. It was incredible. For several moments the men just gazed on high and were barely aware of each
other.
Finally Andreas spoke. Gently. “Any news about Wolfgang?”
“No. He is still considered missing in action,” replied Jens quietly.
“I do not believe that he is captured or dead.”
“I believe that too. He’s like a wolf, cunning and strong, with an acute sense of when to fight or
flee.”
The pastor smiled and nodded his head in agreement. “I pray for him all the time.”
“I know. Bless you.”
The two friends resumed staring at the cross for a few minutes.
“I wanted to thank you, Jens,” said Andreas.
Jens looked at him. Perplexed, he asked, “For what?”
Andreas smiled. “So I could live and see the cross today.”
“It certainly is beautiful this morning.”
“The cross remains beautiful no matter what time of day or type of weather.”
“I have never taken the time to notice.”
“I find the beauty of the cross grows even more as I draw closer to my death.”
Jens responded with alarm, “What do you mean? Are you sick? How can I help you?”
Andreas slowly smiled and answered, “No, I assure you, I am not sick. A little old and stiff
perhaps, but certainly not sick. Now listen, for I do need your help. When you made the ‘arrangement’
with the Nazis I thought it was God’s will that Anna and I were to be spared. Really though, we have
been granted our lives because every good German enjoys your wine and your son is a brilliant sniper.
Plus, of course, some of our ‘old friends’ who became Nazis mysteriously died.”
Jens shrugged his shoulders and said, “What does that have to do with you dying?”
The pastor paused and responded, “Isn’t it obvious? If the Nazis don’t find Wolfgang, or
declare him dead, they will come after us.”
“Don’t worry; arrangements will be made.”
Andreas sighed and said, “More bribes, or are you planning to fight? I don’t think running is an
option for you. At my age, it certainly isn’t.”
“As I said, I will be making the necessary arrangements.”
“God has instilled in all of us a will to survive. But if survival means bribing or killing others,
can we truly live? I don’t know how much money you have had to pay for my survival, but is it worth
it? Couldn’t that money have been used to help more Jews escape from Germany? Wolfgang has had to
kill for my survival, but I am sure the ones he shot were beloved children, brothers, grandsons,
nephews, husbands, and fathers. Am I worthy of that sacrifice? I don’t think so. I can’t live outside of
what I believe is God’s way any longer.”
Jens, deeply shaken by Andreas’ words, responded tentatively. “We are at war. There is only
one rule, one ethic, in war: survival. You even said that to Wolfgang when he came looking for your
counsel. Andreas, I want to survive and have everything the way it was. Don’t you see what we are
fighting for? We are fighting for our very survival and also for the freedom to live the way we did
before the war. Isn’t that noble enough, to not only fight for one’s life but for those people and things
that bring us security and worth? It’s what Wolfgang has fought for. Is life worth all the bribes I am
paying to the Nazis? Of course it is. Isn’t our survival what God wants?”
Pastor Andreas gazed up at the glittering cross and responded in a detached voice, “What is
noble? Is it noble to fight for survival and a living standard that we want, or is it noble to die with your
faith and dignity intact? I have been a coward. The Nazis have proven that quite conclusively. I have
found my self-worth in Anna, my friends, and my position as pastor. Am I willing to give that all up?
Yes, I believe I finally am. To lose relevance because of my desire to survive and attain a certain living
standard has become like death to me. You saw what happened when the Nazis put pressure on the
people of this island. They fled. They did not stand up for God, the church, or me. Now they’re back,
but are they truly listening? Too many are only listening to what they want to hear. Mark my words,
when difficulty comes, most of the congregation will once again flee God, the church, and myself.
“Outside of Anna and a few others like you, I am just a figurehead, a part of the church
building. That is wrong and not what God intended. I need to let God use my life on this earth for His
purposes, not mine, yours, or anyone else’s. If God wants me to suffer and die for His glory, then so be
it.
“Helping the Liebermanns was the greatest thing I ever did in my life, Jens. I risked everything
to stand up for what was right, what was true, what was godly. Never have I felt His holy presence burn
in me so brightly. I was alive! Since then I have died piece by piece. I’ve had enough. I refuse to hinder
what He wants for my life any longer.
“The Nazis are not scared of an old pastor who strokes people’s egos and gives light,
inoffensive sermons. But they are terrified of God’s message. It is the truth, and the truth is stronger
than any man, political power, or army. For if the German population knew the truth and lived by it, the
Nazis would be powerless and overturned in no time. I know the truth, but because of fear, I have
hindered it. No longer.
“Starting next Sunday, Jens, I will be preaching against Nazism. I’ll be challenging the
congregation to stop being so passive. I’ll be telling them to actively resist the tyranny that is
destroying our land, not in a violent way but in the way of Jesus. Tomorrow we will be given an
opportunity to shower kindness on those that the Nazis consider inhuman and have killed ruthlessly
over the past few years. A pastor friend of mine will be bringing several mentally disabled people onto
Wolfland. He has tried to get help from other churches but has been refused at every turn. A few have
even reported his activities to the Nazis. Yet, by the grace of God, my friend and those precious lives
he has come to love have eluded capture and death.
“Whose church is it anyway? For much too long Wilhelm’s Kirche has been the von Himmels’
and the congregation’s building. We have invited God to join us and to bless what we want. No longer.
The sanctuary is His, and it will house His people. When the Nazis come to take me away, Jens, please
do not try to bribe or fight them off. Bring the ones who need our grace to safety, but leave me alone.
Let them take me. I will show them the love of Jesus to the end.”
Jens and Andreas stared into each other’s eyes for the longest time.
Andreas spoke with a quiet pleading voice. “Promise me.”
Jens nodded.
With that, Pastor Andreas fell to his knees. He pleaded again with Jens. “Pray for me, brother.
Please pray for me!”
Jens went on his knees, and the two friends prayed until the bells from Wilhelm’s Kirche rang
in the noon hour.

•••

The golden light of dusk slanted through the front-room windows of the warehouse apartments,
lighting up the hungry and depressed Liebermann family. It had been a month since they had moved, in
the dead of night, from their last place of hiding to the rooms at the warehouse. Pastor Jupp de Graff
had insisted on the move. A person had confronted him about why he was carrying food to an
apartment that he knew had been empty for months. The pastor responded with a lie and then had the
Liebermanns move out that very day.
Now two weeks had passed since Pastor Jupp de Graff had last visited them. Dietrich, Krista,
Johann, Uwe, and Ulrike all feared the worst. Every seven days, Pastor Jupp had faithfully brought
them food, books, and encouragement. Now nothing. The Liebermanns were starting to panic, and in
their distress they had made an important decision. Johann, the most physically able of the family, was
going to leave that night and find some water and food. He had to.
The golden light faded into black, and Johann stood up and got ready to leave. Just as he turned
the door handle to the front entrance of the apartment, the sound of sirens, faintly at first, then growing
louder and louder, froze him. In the past the high-pitched wailings of the Nazi police vehicles had
always swept by their places of hiding, leaving the Liebermanns shaken but relieved. Not tonight.
The sirens surrounded the warehouse. Loudspeakers blared, searchlights lit up, jackboots
clipped over cobblestones, doors opened and slammed shut, whistles screeched, dogs barked angrily.
Then suddenly, the Liebermanns heard the terrifying tromping sound of boots heading towards their
apartment. The family gathered together and listened with feelings of dread.
Crash!
The front door of the apartment was knocked off its hinges by the savage kicks of two burly
Nazis. Powerful flashlights blazed inside, blinding the unarmed Liebermann family, who stood huddled
in fear. Several well-armed Nazis stormed into the room, followed by two soldiers clinging to the
leashes of snarling German shepherds. The troops quickly surrounded the Liebermanns, and one of
them frisked each member of the terrified family. Meanwhile the vicious canines and their masters
made a thorough search of the apartment. Nothing was left unturned or in one piece. When the all-clear
was given a tall, dark, brooding officer strode into the room, snapping out commands, which the
faceless soldiers obediently followed.
The gun-toting Nazis gruffly herded the Liebermanns down the stairs and outside into a waiting
transport. Then the wagon, with its sirens screaming, rushed away. The Liebermanns sat in shocked
silence until Ulrike and Uwe started to whimper. Krista held them and reassured them. Her voice and
body movements were calm, but her eyes, her lovely blue eyes, could not hide her feelings of terror.
Within minutes the transport came to a screeching halt. The back door was flung open, and
several soldiers carrying submachine guns brusquely manoeuvred the Liebermanns outside. It had just
rained. The smell of wet oil hung in the cold night air. All that could be seen was the outline of a large
building.
Things went far too fast for anyone to say anything. Krista and the twins were guided into the
basement of the building by three guards and put into a cell. The steel door clanged shut, and then there
was nothing but black. Dietrich and Johann meanwhile were taken by two soldiers up three flights of
stairs and led into a plain, poorly-furnished reception area. Waiting for them was a stern, trim looking
man named Schnabel, who immediately led Dietrich into an adjacent room. The doctor took a last
fleeting glance at Johann as he entered. “Oh Lord, help us,” he pleaded quietly to himself.
Schnabel snatched Dietrich by the collar and forced him to sit on a simple wooden chair behind
a small empty table. The only light came from a yellow fading bulb hanging from a frayed cord over
the middle of the room. Schnabel stood behind Dietrich and released the safety catch of his Luger with
a loud snap. Dietrich glanced backward. That was a mistake. Schnabel slapped Dietrich’s head forward
with the gun.
“Never look backward!” he snarled.
Dietrich stared at the floor and remained quiet. The victim and the tormentor remained still for
several minutes. Only their combined nervous breathing could be heard.
The door to the room suddenly swung open, and a man dressed in black strode in. Unlike the
angular and dour Schnabel, this man was slightly plump, with a blond brush cut, and round spectacles
perched on a pug nose.
He introduced himself with a satisfied smile. “Good evening, Doktor Liebermann. My name is
Lepschmidt, Herr Inspector Lepschmidt of the Gestapo. I’m sure you and Herr Inspector Schnabel have
made your own introductions?”
Schnabel eased himself onto the open seat beside Dietrich, aimed the Luger at the prisoner’s
head, and grinned.
Lepschmidt spoke pleasantly. “Well, Doctor Liebermann, let’s get down to business, shall we?
You are a Jewish conspirator and thus an enemy of the Nazi state. You have associated yourself with a
pastor named Jupp de Graff, a man who has defied Nazi law by associating with and assisting in the
hiding of several members of the Jewish race. You have also defied Nazi law by not surrendering
yourself to authorities for the war effort. In short, you have broken several laws, Doctor Liebermann.
The sentence for your crimes is execution. As for the rest of your family, they will be assigned to a
labour camp for the rest of their lives.”
The inspector paused and let the gravity of his words settle. Dietrich remained expressionless.
“However, Herr Doctor,” said Lepschmidt, “there is a way for your children’s and wife’s
sentences to be reduced and for you not to be executed. As a matter of fact, I can ensure that you would
work beside your family at a labour camp.”
Dietrich was calm.
Lepschmidt continued, “We need the names of all those who have helped you hide, and we
need the names of those Jews who are still in hiding.”
Dietrich did not flinch. Several minutes passed. There was no noise, just a growing tension. The
blond inspector nodded to Schnabel. The Gestapo agent stood up and pistol-whipped Dietrich across
the face.
Dietrich groaned in pain as blood gushed out of a gash over his left eye.
Lepschmidt asked again, “Names, Doctor Liebermann. I need names.”
Dietrich remained quiet.
Herr Inspector Lepschmidt looked at Schnabel. It was another cue for the heartless Nazi to once
again smash his gun against Dietrich’s face.
Dietrich gasped in agony.
“Names!” screamed Lepschmidt.
No answer.
The pudgy Herr Inspector raised his eyebrows in mild surprise and then tried another tactic. His
voice was loud and terse. “Bring in the son!”
A guard ushered Johann in. He looked at his bleeding father…

At the first light of dawn Johann awoke in a jail cell, not remembering where he was or what
had happened. Slowly the memories came back: the sirens, lights, sounds, and his family’s capture. He
remembered being brought into a room where he saw his father. Try as he might, Johann could not
remember anything else.
Two large Nazi guards suddenly pulled on the cell’s door, and it opened with a loud squeal.
One of them pointed his submachine gun at Johann’s head and ordered him to stand. The other soldier
came up and violently shackled Johann into arm and leg irons. Once he was secure, the soldiers
marched Johann out of the building. It was tough walking with the restrictions on his legs, but the
Nazis showed no mercy to Johann and pushed him several times hard on the back with the butts of their
rifles. As soon as he was outside, Johann started shivering because he was not dressed for the cold. The
two guards laughed at his plight and roughly guided him onto the back of a waiting transport. They got
on board, found places across from Johann, and pointed their machine guns at the chained prisoner.
The truck rumbled forward.
“Where is my family?” Johann asked.
There was no response.
“I asked you, where is my family!” implored Johann.
A guard looked up at him. He smiled slyly, then lifted his hand up to his neck and pretended to
slice it. Johann’s body slumped. He was numb. His life was a nightmare.
Fifteen minutes later the transport stopped at a train station. The guards took Johann’s shackles
off and guided him into the terminal. Several men, women, and children were being herded onto cattle
cars by overly aggressive dogs and grim soldiers holding weapons at the ready. The two henchmen had
Johann line up behind one of the “human herds.” No one acknowledged that he existed. The eyes of the
victims were vacant. Johann walked forward in a trance. The noises of the train station, whistles, loud
speakers, yelling, belching engines, and barking seemed distant. Nothing seemed real. As Johann
followed the herd and climbed into a cattle car there was an odd smell, an odour that overrode the
stench of the filth around him. Johann was not familiar with it.
Once the cattle car was crammed full, so that it was impossible to sit down, the door was slid
shut and sealed with locks. Light came through the boards and tiny air holes high above. That was not
near enough ventilation for so many. The air soon turned stale, and the strange odour became more
pronounced.
The cattle car suddenly lurched forward, and the prisoners exclaimed their surprise almost in
unison. The train gained speed and was soon rattling along on the track. Johann stood entranced, in his
own world. He could not get over the odour. What was it?
Later, at Auschwitz, Johann would learn what that odour was. It was the smell of fear.

•••
During the Second World War the Nazis built several human extermination centres throughout
Germany and also in the conquered countries of Eastern Europe, primarily Poland. Also known as
“concentration camps,” they were used to imprison “undesirables,” such as political prisoners,
gypsies, and Jews. The Nazis made every attempt to keep both the locations and what they did at the
camps secret. There was a good reason for this. The concentration camps were used to systematically
murder mostly innocent people (men, women, and children). It was a blatant crime against humanity,
and if the Americans had known about the camps, they might have entered the war earlier to prevent
them from operating. Other nations might also have relaxed their quotas on how many Jews they
allowed in as refugees during the war. Instead, most of the “undesirables” were trapped in Europe
and at the mercy of the Nazis. Several million people, mainly Jews, were murdered before the truth of
the Nazi extermination centres was revealed. One of the most notorious death camps was Auschwitz.

•••

The train of the condemned travelled for three days through unbearably cold weather. There
was no heating system, no blankets, no food to provide some warmth and comfort, and not even water.
Several people in Johann’s cattle car succumbed to the freezing temperatures, but the train did not stop
so that the deceased could be removed. Instead, due to the cramped conditions they remained standing,
morbidly rigid, held up by the living. The air inside the cattle car became rancid with the smell of
sweat, vomit, excrement, and death.
As the train from hell rattled on, Johann slipped in and out of reality…

Wolfland in the summer, playing violin, walking through the forest with his father…

Then suddenly he would wake up in the shaking, frozen, stinking cattle car and his senses
would try to register the reality in his mind, but every time it was refused…

Friedan See and the hot springs, drifting to sleep under the birch trees on Margarita’s ridge, running
through the forest with Wolfgang…Wolfgang, his best friend…there was father again walking alone
underneath the trees. He seemed happy. The sunset behind the cross…

The train came to a grinding halt, causing both the living and dead to tumble into one another. It
jolted Wolfgang awake, and the screams of those being crushed pierced his ears. The cries of anguish
were still ringing throughout the cattle car when the door was slid open and Nazi soldiers with machine
guns and berserk, barking German shepherds forced them to exit. The noise, the cold, and the bright
sunshine glaring off the snow overwhelmed the prisoners’ senses as they clambered off the filthy train.
The survivors from the cattle cars, numbering perhaps five hundred, were herded along the side of a
forlorn train track.
Johann and the others watched in amazement as one young man broke free from the ranks of
the condemned and fled towards a distant forest. A loud command of “Halt!” from a Nazi guard went
unheeded. The prisoners’ feelings of hope for the young man’s escape turned into horror as three
soldiers opened fire with their machine guns. The bullets thudded into the young man’s back, and he
immediately sprawled dead onto the ground, his blood turning the white snow red.
Angered by the attempted escape, the Nazis lashed out at the prisoners, beating a few of them
with clubs and letting the dogs take chunks of flesh out of an elderly man. The smell of fear hung
heavy over the surviving prisoners like a humid mist as they witnessed the atrocities in stunned silence.
The beatings left three more dead, and the old man died as well when one of the German shepherds
brought him down and crushed his windpipe with one bite.
With their anger now appeased somewhat, the Nazis harshly ordered the condemned to march
towards a nearby village. A sign on the outskirts of the community declared that the Auschwitz
Concentration Camp was three kilometres away. Johann overheard one soldier saying to another that
the train tracks ahead were under repair, so as a result they had to march the rest of the way.
Weak with hunger, fatigue, and cold, the pathetic group tramped into the village and started
down the main road. Seemingly out of nowhere, villagers appeared like ghosts and watched the
macabre parade with haughty eyes. For a few minutes the only sound was the scrunching of the
condemned’s feet against the hard frozen ground.
Suddenly an old female villager screamed, “Christ killers!” Then another, “Jewish swine!”
Others joined in the abuse. Rocks and snowballs were hurled, spiralling towards the heads of the
prisoners. Mothers and fathers tried to protect their children, some to no avail. There were cries of pain.
One child hit above the right eye started crying and bleeding profusely. Others were knocked down.
Panic set in. The Germans hurried the prisoners along, and some shot bullets overhead from their
revolvers, warning the villagers to back off. In the tumult Johann reached down and grabbed some
snow, which he greedily ate. As the snow melted in his mouth he felt great relief. He had gone much
too long without water.
Finally, the prisoners and their Nazi escort cleared the ugly village and settled into a slow
walking procession. Eventually they came upon a small rise and saw their destination: a vast compound
filled with countless identical wooden barracks, all positioned in neat rows. Tall chain-link fences
topped with razor wire and interspersed with guard towers marked the circumference of the compound.
Off to one side, near a train station, was a building with a huge smokestack that billowed thick dark
smoke. Once in the air, the smoke spread out and hung like a dark veil, casting a shadow over the
camp. The cloud emitted a sickly sweet smell along with ash, which fell gently to earth like
snowflakes. Johann later learned that the smell and ash were from human corpses being cremated.
The prisoners were marched to the Auschwitz train station, and men in strange grey striped
pyjamas came up with wheelbarrows and collected their luggage. Classical music wafted through
loudspeakers. It was calming but somehow confusing, for, considering the desolate surroundings, it
was completely inappropriate.
Johann’s group was herded into a massive line that was forming outside the train station’s
entrance. One of the strange pyjama-clad men whispered into Johann’s ear, “Tell them you have a
talent or trade. If they tell you to go to the right you’re dead, to the left you live.”
In the background Nazi soldiers with submachine guns and vicious dogs watched grimly. The
prisoners moved meekly, like sheep before the slaughter, into the terminal. The warmth inside was a
tonic to Johann’s half frozen body. He could see a man dressed in a pitch-black uniform standing
behind a table, which was manned by two clerks who wrote down information from the prisoners. After
everything was dutifully recorded, the man in black would point to the left or right with a hand covered
in an elegant white glove. Children, the old, and the frail were always directed to the right. Most young
men and women were pointed to the left.
The line inched forward, and as Johann drew closer to the table his heart was pounding
furiously. He prayed, pleading for wisdom and comfort. Anything! His heart was still racing when he
finally stood alone in front of the table.
One of the clerks coldly asked, “Name?”
“Johann Dietrich Liebermann.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Profession?”
“Musician and doctor.”
The clerk paused for a moment. “Musician? What instrument?”
“Violin.”
The man looked at his accomplice and motioned to the white-gloved official standing behind
him.
“This one claims to be a musician. A violinist.”
The official looked at Johann and sneered, “A violinist, are you?” Turning to one of the clerks
he mumbled, “Well, let’s see if he can truly play.”
A soldier was ordered to get a violin, and Johann was brought to the right of the table. Within
minutes an instrument was pressed into Johann’s hands. The arrogant man in black stood with his arms
crossed, which was a signal for the men at the table to stop their work. The loudspeakers were turned
off, and everyone turned to stare at the violinist.
It had been so long since Johann had held a violin that for a moment he stood turning it over
and over in his hands. He thought of all the times that he had hated playing, how he would rather have
been outside, doing anything but playing the violin. Yet always, after he had lost himself in the music,
the playing would not be difficult; it became a gift, one that he had to share to truly enjoy.
Johann started slowly. A few rusty, shaky screeches made the smug official in black scowl, but
eventually the music “Ode to Joy” became recognizable. As Johann relaxed and let his passion for
playing take over, the music became beautiful. It was the last music most of those listening would ever
hear on earth; their end was near and God was awaiting.
Johann finished, and there were tears and applause from the prisoners. The white gloved man
conferred with one of the guards. Johann was taken to the left by a well-armed soldier and led outside
of the terminal. From there, they went through a gate into the camp and entered a wooden building,
which had a sign proclaiming it as the kommandant’s headquarters.
The soldier ordered Johann to sit on a small bench in the foyer, and then he sat across from him,
his machine gun at the ready. It was so quiet that the ticking of a grandfather’s clock could be heard
through the door of the kommandant’s office. Johann sat rigidly with the violin he had played in the
station on his lap. He fought back the hunger, shock, grief, fatigue, and despair that wanted to wash
over him. Johann’s mind raced ahead with prayers, pleadings, and petitions to God. “I want to live; I
want to live for You Lord, please…”
At last Kommandant Gerhardt Dorn and two bodyguards, bristling under the weight of weapons
and a ruthless contempt for anyone not showing respect to their master, swept into the foyer. The guard
who had been watching Johann snapped to attention and forced his prisoner up by the arm.
The well-groomed kommandant, always dressed in a formal Nazi officer’s uniform, which,
according to regulations, was not necessary, was a stickler for detail and appearance. Dorn’s manners
and speech matched his looks: precise, clear, pragmatic, and formal. Yet he had a few vices, or
“interests,” as he called them.
Dorn looked at Johann's guard and said, with some doubt, “You have found me a good
musician this time?”
The much taller guard peered down at his commanding officer and, despite all his physical
advantages, was clearly intimidated as he stuttered, “Yes, sir.”
The kommandant glanced at Johann and dryly muttered, “I hope so.”
Dorn led the prisoner and the guard into his office. The pair of well-equipped soldiers followed
and placed themselves strategically near their superior as he sat down behind a large desk on a
comfortably cushioned chair.
In the corner of Dorn’s office stood the grandfather clock that Johann had earlier heard in the
foyer. A Nazi flag, attached to a staff, stood in the corner opposite the clock. A large window behind
the kommandant’s desk provided a panoramic view of the bleak and ugly looking death camp. A
picture of the Fuehrer adorned the left wall, and it also held several awards and mementos of Dorn’s
education and career so far. The opposite wall had bookshelves from top to bottom, filled to the brim
with thick works on law, history, and German poets. It was actually quite an impressive office, a
sanctuary from the horror going on outside its walls.
Kommandant Dorn leaned back in his chair and with a slight wave of his hand beckoned Johann
to play. Soon the music of Beethoven filled the room, and for fifteen minutes the men were at peace.
Another wave from Dorn’s hand and Johann stopped. There was a long pause as the notes drifted away.
Without looking up the kommandant said, “Yes, he will do. Assign him to the chambers and
then bring him here at 6:00 p.m. every day. Heil Hitler.”
The soldiers responded with a chorus of “Heil Hitler.”
Dorn watched them sternly as they trooped out.
Johann was led into a washhouse. He stripped and showered for the first time in months. But
the water was cold, and he did not remain long. After drying he received a set of grey and blue striped
clothes with a matching hat. A yellow Star of David was sewn on the left side of the shirt. The clothes
were no more than pyjamas and terribly coarse, making Johann unbearably itchy.
Along with some other prisoners, Johann was led to another large room, where his head was
shaved. From there he was brought to yet another area, where he received his first food in almost a
week. A small piece of stale bread and dollop of tasteless soup, which despite his great hunger he could
barely consume.
It was dark and quite late when Johann was led into a rustic wooden barrack that served as the
bedchamber for over one hundred men. The women were housed in separate quarters and they rarely
interacted with the men. The guard assigned Johann a narrow, hard wooden bunk, and after grunting a
few instructions he left.
Johann slowly sat down. For several minutes he remained motionless in the quiet slumbering
building. He felt numb. Finally he lay down, closed his eyes, and allowed his brain to ponder the horror
of the past days. The grief that had been buried in his gut exploded in an agonizing scream, followed by
loud uncontrollable sobbing. Several voices in the dark reprimanded him, telling him to shut up. Johann
couldn’t. He bit the scratchy cloth of his hat and wailed as quietly as he could. Finally, he was spent
and became silent.
A man above Johann’s bunk suddenly whispered to him in a rough rendition of Dutch. “Hey,
you, boy. Are you one of the new prisoners from The Netherlands?”
Johann could just make out the shape of the one who was asking. He had learned some Dutch
while in The Hague, so he answered back haltingly. “Yes, but I’m originally from Germany. I fled with
my family to The Netherlands, but we were captured there.”
Another dark figure joined in the conversation, but he spoke German. “That is unfortunate. You
are probably the only one of your family still alive.”
The one above Johann hissed back in the same language. “Shut up, Rosenberg. What do you
think he was wailing about? This man is discouraged enough already without you adding to it.”
Rosenberg self-righteously declared, “He might as well know that this is a death camp,
Sonnenheim. What are you going to do? Slowly break the news that this is not an all- expenses paid
holiday to the Riviera?”
There were several cackles from others who were listening in.
Rosenberg continued. “Either they gas you right away, or work you to death, or just kill you for
no particular reason at all. Your only hope for survival…what is your name, boy?”
“Liebermann. Johann Liebermann.”
“Nice. A very nice Jewish German name you have there. As I was saying, Herr Johann
Liebermann, your only hope for survival around here is to be a strong young adult and to become
inconspicuous. Don’t say a word to the Nazis. Bow to them. Don’t become sick or hurt. Don’t be
demonstrative. Always quiet, quiet, yes sir, yes sir, and yes sir. Only work when they are watching you,
and when they do, labour steadily. Don’t waste your energy. We help each other to survive,
Liebermann, with prayers, good advice, and food and medicine that we steal from the Nazis. The
greatest revenge that we can have against them is our survival.”
Johann meekly said, “Yes, sir.”
Sonnenheim and Rosenberg and a few others chuckled.
Sonnenheim spoke. “The Nazis have taken our families, our possessions, our freedom, and our
dignity. They have imprisoned us and murdered us. But they can’t take our faith. Remember that,
Liebermann, because all you have left now is your faith and us. You forsake any one of those and you
will surely die. Keep both, and you have a chance to live another day.”
Johann whispered, “It says in the Bible that the Lord will never give you more than you can
handle.”
Rosenberg laughed and interjected, “Right. Well this is the best place on earth to test that.
Where have they assigned you, Liebermann?”
“To the chambers, and I play violin for the kommandant at 6:00 p.m. every day.”
There was a long pause before Rosenberg said, “Liebermann, pray. Pray a lot.”

•••

Seventeen mentally handicapped adults came over the bridge, led by Pastor Heinrich Hassel.
Despite the cold wind sweeping off the half-frozen Ebene they were warmed by the sincere greetings of
Pastor Andreas, Anna, and several others.
The joy was a marked contrast to the contentious meeting that had occurred at Wilhelm’s
Kirche one week earlier. Several members in the congregation were upset with Pastor Andreas for
agreeing to accept Pastor Hassel’s people, without their approval. The point that Wolfland was to
quietly go about its business under the dictates of the Nazi government was brought forth. Taking on
the mentally challenged could be considered as a direct provocation to the government and therefore
bring dire consequences for everyone.
Pastor Andreas had listened patiently to all the concerns before gently responding, “What would
Jesus do?”
This still did not stem the anger some felt towards the pastor. A villager informed Egon Kratzer
of the situation. The lieutenant promised to look into it and telephoned Jens Jaeger. The winemaker
made it very clear to him that the visitors would be staying. A day later a substantial amount of money
was transferred to Kratzer’s bank account from Wolfland. Kratzer, in turn, bribed a few key telephone
operators, ensuring that all future calls from Wolfland would be personally directed to him.
Several days later it became apparent to everyone on Wolfland that the new arrivals were
staying. A few disgruntled villagers, unhappy that Kratzer was not doing anything, tried to call other
Nazi officials. The telephone operators insisted that the officials were much too busy with the war
effort to field their calls, but their concerns would be passed on. Nothing happened.
Fed up, a large, angry contingent of villagers decided to leave Wolfland and move in with
family or friends in other parts of Germany. The prospect of living with those that they and the Nazis
deemed undesirable was unacceptable to them.
Those who supported Pastor Andreas came with him and Anna to the bridge to say goodbye to
the discontented. It was an unhappy and awkward scene. The departing villagers crossed the bridge
without once looking back.

•••

Oleg Petrovich had been a medic for the Russian army in World War I. His skill and
compassion saved countless lives on the battlefield, and at the end of the war Oleg was rewarded with
much respect, plus numerous military awards, from his superiors. For many years afterwards Doctor
Petrovich maintained a thriving medical practice, until old age forced him to retire.
Now Oleg Petrovich was eighty-nine years old, and the memories of his greatness had faded.
He had outlived two wives and five children. His relatives were either dead or strangers in other parts
of the world. His last friend had hung himself some twenty years before. The combination of tragedies,
old age, and loneliness, had made Oleg become strange and eccentric. He wandered around the
apartment complex where he had lived for over fifty years with a small medical kit, knocking on
people’s doors, convinced he had been summoned to make a house call.
Initially Oleg was treated with sympathy and some amusement by the other apartment dwellers.
However, as the weeks went by and the knocking on the doors became more frequent, complaints about
the old man from several exasperated tenants were lodged with the complex’s landlord.
So one blustery morning, the landlord led Oleg to a street several blocks from the apartments
and said he was no longer welcome. It was a pathetic sight. Scrawny, severely wrinkled, with only two
teeth and a few fine wisps of white hair remaining on his head, the old man looked quizzically at the
landlord, not fully understanding what was taking place. The young apartment manager insisted that
rates were going up and he had found another renter who could pay more than Oleg. He promised that
he would sell Oleg’s furniture for him and send the profits to him. The old man could only nod dumbly.
Where would the money be sent? Carrying a small suitcase filled with clothes and other necessities,
Oleg shuffled towards the only place on earth that he could still remember to get to: his hunting cabin
deep in the woods.
It took almost all day, but Oleg eventually found the landmark he was looking for, an ancient
gnarled willow at the edge of the forest. Beside it was the path that would lead him to the old abode
that had been in the Petrovich family for generations. After a half-hour walk on the old but familiar
trail, he reached the clearing of the cabin. Oleg’s brow furrowed in concern when he noticed smoke
drifting from the chimney. He took out his hunting knife, clasped it tightly in his feeble right hand, then
slowly opened the door of the cabin and peeked inside. Papers, wood, and half-eaten bits of food lay all
over the floor. The stench emanating from the room was overwhelming.
Oleg didn’t see the yellow-stained eyes at first, but when he finally saw them, staring
menacingly at him from the bed, he dropped the knife in surprise. The eyes were of a man, but their
intensity was of an animal. The old hunter heard a click, and a rifle emerged from under the bed covers,
pointing straight at his chest. Oleg raised his hands and whimpered in Russian not to shoot. The eyes
only kept glaring. Then suddenly they blinked several times and closed. The rifle slowly slanted
downwards and abruptly fell with a clatter onto the floor.
Shaking like a leaf, Oleg cautiously moved towards the bed. There was no response from under
the covers as the ancient Russian snatched the rifle off the floor and pointed it at the intruder. Slowly
Oleg pulled the covers back and exposed a dark-haired man with a mangy unkempt beard. He was
filthy and smelled awful. His clothes were damp with sweat, and his right thigh was an angry flare of
red and oozing pus. Instead of being repulsed, the former First World War army medic returned back to
a time when his character and skills brought him both honour and respect. Oleg Petrovich, age eighty-
nine and destitute, was about to save Wolfgang Jaeger’s life and thereby provide purpose for his own.

•••

Night had arrived, and all but two people had left the SS offices at Koenig’s Tal for home. One
of the remaining persons was Lieutenant Egon Kratzer, who sat behind his desk on a well-cushioned
high-backed swivel chair, deep in thought. The other, sitting across from the lieutenant on a plain
hardwood chair, was Lutz. The adjutant’s face was expressionless as he waited for his master to speak.
Kratzer exhaled in exasperation, leaned back on his chair, and spoke up to the ceiling, “Lutz, I
received notification today that the status of Wolfgang Jaeger has been changed from missing in action
to dead or captured. Now this could pose a problem for us. A few years ago Colonel Niedersach
informed me that if Hauptmann Wolfgang Jaeger was either captured, killed, or disobeyed orders, his
family, plus the pastor of Wolfland and his wife, were to be arrested for aiding a Jewish family and
summarily executed. This, of course, is not what we want. How much has Herr Jaeger contributed to
the account, Lutz?”
The adjutant pulled out a slip of paper from his attaché case and dryly declared, “Five hundred
thousand reichsmarks, sir.”
Kratzer sighed, rubbed a hand over his face and said, “So far, I haven’t received any orders to
arrest Herr Jaeger or the pastor. In fact I have heard of no one else being ordered to do so. However, I
am positive it will happen soon. What do you think, Lutz? What should we do?”
Lutz paused thoughtfully and answered.

•••

The light snow the previous evening had settled on Wolfland, leaving everything with a cap of
white. There was no breeze, and the sky was clear and blue. Around noon a stranger slowly walked his
bicycle over the bridge. The snow muffled the sounds of his steps and bike, so no one on the island
noticed him coming. As the man took in the peace of Wolfland he forgot where he had been and what
he had been through. A rush of euphoria touched his soul. It had been much too long since he had felt
such joy.
Eventually he came to a sign, which indicated to the left was the village of Wolfland and to the
right the house of forester and winemaker Jens Jaeger. The man went right.
A large group of people laden with wood passed him by. All of them smiled and extended
greetings. The man grinned back but was slightly taken aback, because based on appearance,
movement, and speech it was obvious that most of the group were mentally challenged.
“Strange,” thought the man. It had been years since he had seen such a person. After the Nazis
came to power they had all but vanished from Germany.
He arrived at the cottage and knocked on the door. The Jaegers were inside having their midday
meal. Jens came to the door and, unlike anyone else who had encountered the man over the last few
months, did not recoil in horror at the sight of him, for the man had only a small flap of skin for a nose.
Jens smiled cordially and said, “Good day; how can I help you?”
The man responded with a severely nasal tone. “Remember me? I am Fritz Unterstutz, and I
have news from Wolfgang.”
Jens responded with complete surprise, “Of course. Sorry I did not recognize you. You—”
“When I was in Stalingrad a piece of shrapnel eliminated my nose.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t be.”
“Fine. Please come in. Marie! Fritz Unterstutz is here!”
Marie and twelve year-old Martin came rushing up as Fritz Unterstutz was ushered in. Like
Jens, they did not betray any shock at the sight of their guest. Fritz was led into the kitchen, where he
was given a seat at the kitchen table and Marie brought him a plate of food and something to drink.
Fritz was overwhelmed by the Jaegers’ generosity. Other than by his parents, it had been a long time
since he had been treated so kindly.
Fritz asked, “Have you heard from Wolfgang?”
“In February we received a telegram that said Wolfgang and a comrade went missing in action.
Last week we received notice that he has been declared dead or captured by the Soviets, but we don’t
believe it.”
Fritz looked sympathetic and spoke again in his strange nasal voice. “Shortly before I left
Stalingrad, your son gave me some letters that I was to deliver to you personally. I would have done it
earlier, but the journey from Stalingrad was long and hard. We had to make many stops due to enemy
fire, and once at home, my injury became infected and prevented me from going out until now.”
Fritz reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out the letters and handed them to Jens. The
rest of the family moved towards him with mounting excitement, but Jens calmly placed them on a side
cupboard.
Fritz asked, “Don’t you want to read Wolfgang’s letters now?”
Jens looked thoughtfully at Marie before answering. “You are our guest, and we are eager to
listen to what you have to say. We will read Wolfgang’s letters later. To read them now would make us
too emotional. So, please, pray tell us your experiences in Stalingrad.”
For the next hour, Fritz, recounted his journey to Stalingrad, his one day of combat, and his
meeting with Wolfgang.
Pastor Andreas and Anna dropped by and like the Jaegers did not display any shock at the sight
of a man with no nose. They all moved to the front room for tea and dessert, and Fritz retold his war
story to the von Himmels and spoke about his life.
It was deep into the afternoon when Fritz Unterstutz was finally finished and rose to leave. Jens
and Andreas walked him to the bridge and then strapped three bottles of Wolfland Weiss, bread from
Marie’s kitchen, a bouquet of flowers from Anna, and a large roll of Deutsche reichsmarks onto the
young man’s bicycle.
Fritz tried to refuse the money, insisting it was too much and that Wolfgang had already paid
him, but Jens cooled the protestations with a sharp glance. This made Fritz feel a little nervous, but it
abated when Jens shook Fritz’s hand and gently said, “Thank you. You are always welcome here. A
friend of Wolfgang’s is always a friend of mine.”
Pastor Andreas gave Fritz a giant bear hug and said, “God bless you. By keeping your word to
Wolfgang you have been a blessing. Visit us again soon.”
Fritz got on his bicycle and with one last wave rode across the bridge. He felt alive, happy.
“Yes,” Fritz Unterstutz said to himself. “Thank you. I will be back.”

Darkness descended over Wolfland, and from below the cross could be seen majestically
silhouetted against a backdrop of the moon and stars. Jens looked out at the scene through the front-
room window of the cottage and thought of Wolfgang.
Meanwhile, Marie, Pastor Andreas, and Anna were sitting quietly at the hearth waiting for Jens
to open Wolfgang’s letter. Fritz had actually delivered two letters. One was for the Jaegers and the von
Himmels, while the other one was for Johann Liebermann. Andreas had taken the Liebermann letter
and was going to try to get it to Pastor Jupp de Graff. Unfortunately, he had not heard from his Dutch
friend, or for that matter the Liebermanns, in several weeks and feared the worst.
Jens took a deep breath, walked slowly to a spot in front of the hearth, and opened the envelope.
He pulled the one page letter out and started reading:

My Dearest Parents, my Dearest Pastor Andreas and Aunt Anna,

I pray that you are healthy and safe upon the arrival of this letter. It was only God’s providence that I
found Fritz Unterstutz, who is to leave for Koenig’s Tal in a day or two. Obviously, it was also God’s
providence that he delivered your uncensored letter. My decision about what I am to do now is very
clear.
Stalingrad has been an unimaginable freezing hell. The battles with the enemy have been
vicious, and every building here is destroyed. Despite the Wehrmacht’s efforts, we are almost
completely surrounded by the Soviets. Soon no German planes, trains, or vehicles of any sort will be
able to get in or out of Stalingrad.
The enemy’s weapons are primitive, and many of their soldiers do not even have a gun. We
have slaughtered thousands of them, but they keep coming; there are just too many. The destruction of
the Nazi army here in Stalingrad is inevitable. Yet, we are exhorted to fight to the last man. Madness, it
is all madness. Dying for a lost cause, or captured and sent to slavery in the Gulag is what I have to
look forward to if I remain here. NO! Your letter has given me great hope.
With no Nazis on Wolfland any more I will run until I am home with you. Surely this gruesome
war will be over by the time I get there and we can live in peace. Pray for me.
Forever Yours,
Wolfgang

Jens sighed and slowly brought the letter down to his lap. The fire in the hearth was fading to
glowing embers. He got up and added another log, and the flames leapt up with renewed vigour. Marie
and Anna were lost in their thoughts and quiet tears.
Pastor Andreas spoke. “I believe Wolfgang is alive.”
Jens smiled faintly and added, “I believe he is too. It has been two months since Stalingrad fell.
God bless Wolfgang, my son, my joy. Lord keep him safe, spare him.”
The others joined in prayer and petitions to God for Wolfgang and the Liebermanns. The hours
passed by unnoticed.

•••

Well before sunrise each morning, Nazi guards, loaded with weapons and anger, awoke the
prisoners of Auschwitz with piercing whistles, harsh commands, and blazing lights. The verbal and
physical assault continued until every prisoner was herded outside to an open compound and organized
into neat rows for appell (roll call). No matter how bad the weather—snow, rain, cold, heat, or sleet—
the prisoners were made to stand rigidly in their thin, pyjama-like clothes for an hour. They were
inspected by officers dressed in long flowing black wool coats, festooned with the emblems of Nazism.
The weak, the sick, and the non-compliant, those either moving or resisting orders, were killed on the
spot by a single shot to the head or taken to the gas chambers. Some prisoners, when chosen for death,
simply broke away and were shot in the back or, much to the amusement of the guards, were allowed to
run into the electrical fence that surrounded the concentration camp. After the hour was up, the
survivors were dispersed to their work detail. The electric fence was turned off for a few minutes, and a
group of prisoners with a large cart collected those who had thrown themselves against it either during
the night or at appell.

The unsuspecting naked prisoners selected for the chamber calmly entered through a narrow
portal into what they thought was a shower room. The calm, however, was replaced by murmurs of
apprehension when a Nazi guard suddenly locked the entrance from the outside. Upon closer inspection
of the “shower room,” some of the victims discovered there were no drains for water on the floor; the
soap was nothing but rocks; and there were no windows or other openings.
As the poisonous gas came out through the showerheads, the anguished screams and frantic
banging on the chamber’s door by the dying victims lasted for up to fifteen minutes. When all was
silent the deadly fumes were shut off and allowed to disperse. After a time the chamber would be
deemed safe to enter again by a Nazi official. A guard then unlocked the entrance and those on
chamber duty, such as, Johann, Rosenberg, and Sonnenheim, were ordered inside to remove the bodies.
This was at times difficult because there were always corpses piled against the door after a gassing, and
it took much effort on the men’s part to push it open. Usually the children and the weak were at the
bottom of the pile and the grown-ups on top. Most of the dead youngsters and the infirm had their
skulls crushed by panicked adults stepping on top of them in a futile attempt to get through the locked
door. Johann and the others untangled the bodies and loaded them in a nearby elevator, where they
were transferred downstairs to the crematorium. Finally, the men cleaned the chamber of the blood and
the body wastes involuntarily excreted during death. As soon as that job was completed the next group
of naked victims were led into what they also thought were showers.
The first time Johann had seen the gaping mouths, the wide-open eyes frozen in terror, the
jumbled mass of bodies and limbs contorted in impossible angles, he had vomited and nearly fainted.
Rosenberg and Sonnenheim had kept him alive that first day, reviving him before the guards noticed.
Later, Johann repaid his new friends with the most precious commodity at Auschwitz: food.
Every day at 6 p.m., Johann was ushered at gunpoint from the chambers to Kommandant
Gerhardt Dorn’s office. The kommandant never acknowledged Johann’s presence when he entered his
domain or even when he started playing the violin. Instead he sat behind his massive desk leisurely
eating supper while reading the endless reports that came his way.
After an hour, Dorn gave his first token acknowledgement to the other human being in the
office. First he waved his hand, which meant for Johann to stop playing. A sudden snap from his
fingers was the sign for Johann to devour the leftover scraps off his supper plate.
While the kommandant focused on his paperwork Johann stuffed some of the food into the flap
that had been sewn underneath his pyjama top. The food was for Sonneheim and Rosenberg or anyone
else in need. After eating, Johann resumed playing. He would never know why Dorn allowed him the
scraps of food.
Promptly at 9:00 p.m., a guard came to the office door, and the kommandant held up his hand
for the music to stop. Johann put the violin back in its case and laid it on a chair beside the door. The
guard escorted him to evening appell. Later, in the barracks, Johann would find Rosenberg and
Sonnenheim and secretly pass them the food. They took a portion of it and then passed the rest to
someone who was in far greater need.
The first night after playing in Dorn’s office Johann had slid two sausages up his sleeve. He had
gratefully given Rosenberg and Sonnenheim the treasures as thanks for their help in the chambers.
Rosenberg had taken just one bite of his sausage and given the rest to one who was on the verge of
death. Sonnenheim did the very same thing. Johann shook his head in amazement at their sacrifice.
Rosenberg asked him, “Can you get more?”
“Certainly, but I need a better way to transport it.”
Rosenberg and Sonnenheim just looked at one other and smiled. The tailor, Lipke, who slept
five bunks over from Sonnenheim, was commissioned for “one potato” to sew a large pocket
underneath Johann’s shirt.
Over time Johann witnessed the horrible truth of those not willing to contribute to the prisoners’
survival. Many went insane for lack of food. Every night at least one man in the barracks lost his mind,
and his mad laughter, repetitive chatter, or cries of desperation reverberated through the thin wooden
walls of the barracks. Within a matter of minutes the guards and their glaring lights invaded the
miserable sleeping quarters, and with a lot of noise and fanfare they hauled the wretch away. Most,
however, simply passed away from starvation or disease or were indiscriminately murdered by a Nazi.
And then there were the miserable souls who ended their despair by running into the electrical fence
that surrounded the compound or by hanging themselves from a beam in the barracks.
Yet helping someone to survive was not enough for Johann. He watched the solid, steady
demeanour of Rosenberg and Sonnenheim and knew he needed their peace for his mental and spiritual
survival. Late one night, after a few weeks at Auschwitz, Johann traded a bunk with someone else to be
closer to Rosenberg and Sonnenheim.
He wasted no time in asking them, “How can you two work in the chambers day after day,
week after week, month after month? You don’t seem to be bothered by it at all.”
Sonnenheim responded, “Believe us when we say that on our first day in the chambers we were
as shocked and horrified as you were. Yet they are just corpses; their spirits are in a much better place,
or at least I believe most of them are. God’s Spirit guides us, Liebermann. Only God and our survival
gives us any real hope or meaning now.”
Johann said, “I attended a Christian church till we had to go into hiding. I know about God.”
Rosenberg entered the conversation. “Yes, those attending a church may know a lot about God,
but it doesn’t mean they actually know Him.”
Johann asked, “Do you know God?”
Sonnenheim answered with a question, “Do you believe that Jews can be moved by God’s
Spirit as much as Christians? For that matter, do you believe atheists can?”
“I don’t think so.”
Sonnenheim continued, “Rosenberg and I thought we knew God through our religious practices.
But coming here to this place, without a synagogue, without a rabbi, without a Torah, stripped of all
human dignity and facing horrors straight from hell, we realized very quickly that we did not know
God. In our desperation we have prayed with our hearts and have caught glimpses of Him. He is
everywhere. Observe the acts of kindness, the little and large miracles that happen every day, even here
in Auschwitz. Man can take everything away, but he cannot take God’s Spirit. It is up to us to pray and
ask for discernment to see what He is doing.”
Johann stammered, “But I thought only Christians could receive the Holy Spirit of God because
of their belief in Jesus Christ.”
Sonnenheim glanced at Rosenberg, who said, “You and other prisoners who know of Jesus
Christ have all said the same thing. Yet they concede that what we are doing at Auschwitz appears so
Christlike. Is it possible to be like Christ without ever having read about Him or been educated about
Him? Does God have so much grace that regardless of our background and lack of knowledge about
Christ we all can still draw upon His Spirit for life? I may not know Jesus Christ personally, but from
the limited knowledge that I have I am certainly not against Him. We ask God to help us every day.
Without question He always does.”
Johann’s voice was bitter. “But why is God allowing this hell?”
Sonnenheim answered, “No matter what the circumstances, our purpose is to live God’s way.
Maybe He will reveal why He has allowed this, but most likely He won’t. Live day to day and be with
God always, Johann. There is nothing more you or any of us can really do.”
Johann met with Sonnenheim and Rosenberg every night. They opened up to each other, Johann
told them about his family and life on Wolfland. He talked a lot about Wolfgang. Josef Rosenberg and
Jacob Sonneheim also shared about their lives. They had been business partners in Bremen and owned
a jewellery shop. The gruff, straightforward Rosenberg sold jewellery to the men, the more sympathetic
Sonnenheim to the women and the love-struck beaus. It was an arrangement that worked well and had
brought them some wealth. Both had a grudging respect for the other.
After Kristall Nacht, Rosenberg and Sonnenheim had fled, together with their families, to The
Netherlands, but a few years later, just like the Liebermanns, they were betrayed and sent to Auschwitz.
There was no question that their families had been killed during their first day at the death camp.
Johann prayed constantly with his new friends and found some semblance of peace with God.
He told the former jewellers all he knew about Jesus. The men eventually managed to manoeuvre
themselves to one large bunk. They prayed for one another, talked to one another, helped to feed one
another, and shared their meagre resources with as many as they could.

1944

Early in the morning of June 6, 1944, the Allies undertake the largest military invasion in history. Over
5,000 ships and 10,000 planes, carrying over 150,000 troops, breach Germany’s strongholds in
northern France. The Nazi resistance is fierce, and losses on both sides are heavy, yet the Allies
prevail. Like the Battle of Stalingrad, Operation Overlord, or D-Day, becomes a major turning point in
the Second World War.
The Allies begin advancing towards Germany from the west, east, and south. Daily air raids,
mainly from American bombers during the day and at night from British and Allied planes, are
reducing the Reich’s cities to ruin. The Nazi war effort is in shambles.
On July 20 there is a failed assassination attempt on Hitler by disillusioned high-ranking
officials in the Nazi hierarchy. Nazis still loyal to the Fuehrer respond with ruthless anger. The
perpetrators are rounded up, endure a humiliating trial, and are summarily executed. Others suffer the
same fate for alleged crimes against the Third Reich. The Fuehrer proclaims that it is divine
providence that he has been spared and uses it as proof that “God” wants him to continue leading
Germany!
Despite the assassination attempt and the fact that thousands of German soldiers are being
slaughtered in battle, the Nazis refuse to surrender. As a result, the Wehrmacht is literally dying out.
The Nazis become so desperate for soldiers that all boys and men who were formerly exempt from
fighting earlier in the war, due to age or infirmity, are ordered to join the Volkssturm (People’s
Militia). The official age requirements of the new militia (ages sixteen to sixty-five) are largely
ignored. Much older men and much younger boys are conscripted and forced to fight.

The portrait of Adolf Hitler and the live presence of two well-armed Nazi guards glared down at
Lieutenant Egon Kratzer. He sat wearily, with a crimped neck, in a high backed chair in front of SS
Kommandant Holger Buchberger’s massive desk. Except for the nervous wheezing of Kratzer, the
office was dreadfully quiet as the men waited for the arrival of the kommandant. The lieutenant’s
breathing difficulties were understandable since Buchberger had the power to sign an order of
execution. The kommandant sometimes allowed higher-ranking officials who had committed crimes
against the state to plead their case one last time. For Egon Kratzer this was the final chance to appeal
his conviction of treason against the Third Reich.
A porter opened, with a creak, the mammoth door of the spacious office, and Buchburger, with
two assistants in tow, all impeccably dressed in pitch black SS gear, marched in. The three men’s
jackboots tattooed an ominous beat on the hardwood floor and their cold eyes radiated both disgust and
contempt as they made their way to the chairs behind the grand desk. The porter carefully closed the
door behind them, but it still echoed loudly throughout the room as it sealed shut. Kratzer’s feeling of
nervousness was replaced with a sickening fear. The guards indicated for him to stand up, which he did
immediately.
The three officers arrived at their chairs, but before sitting down they stood at attention and
lifted their right arms in the Nazi salute. This prompted Kratzer and his guards to do the same. In
unison they bellowed, “Heil Hitler,” and then the three officials sat down.
Buchberger looked warily at Kratzer for a long time before finally motioning him and the
guards to sit down as well. The kommandant retrieved his reading glasses from an inside pouch of his
black suit and perched them on the bridge of his nose. He snapped open a file that had been lying in
readiness on the huge desk and, after a dramatic pause, read from it in a cold monotone.
“Since the near assassination of our glorious Fuehrer, several investigations have taken place to
root out Jewish conspirators who would want to destroy our beloved Adolf Hitler and the Fatherland. I
have before me a very interesting file, Lieutenant Kratzer.
“On April 16, 1943, I was ordered by Colonel Erwin Niedersach from the SS office in Berlin to
carry out the arrest and execution of the winemaker Jens Jaeger and the pastor Andreas von Himmel,
both of Wolfland, for the crimes of collaborating with Jews in 1938. They, and their immediate
families, were to be hung by their necks until death. Those were the orders that I entrusted you to
fulfill, Lieutenant Kratzer.”
Kratzer nervously raised a hand to speak. Buchberger nodded his ascension.
The lieutenant coughed nervously before stating, “I followed your orders of April 16, 1943, and
filed a report with your office a few days afterwards.”
Buchberger held up another file from his desk and looked scornfully at Kratzer.
“You mean this report, lieutenant? The one dated April 19, 1943, which includes your signed
report, death certificates of Jens Jaeger, Pastor Andreas von Himmel and their families, plus signatures
of witnesses to the executions.”
“Yes, sir, that’s the one.”
Buchberger hesitated, letting the blood build up in his head before exploding in anger.
“Fraud! This report is nothing but a sham and a lie! There were no arrests, no executions, and
no witnesses! According to reports filed just three days ago by Gestapo investigators, those who you
were ordered to execute are still very much alive! Do you know what the penalty is for not following a
direct order from a superior officer? Death!”
Buchberger took several seconds to compose himself.
He continued slowly, taking great care to speak clearly and calmly. “After the assassination
attempt on the Fuehrer our bureau was ordered to reopen several closed cases. I thought sending two
undercover agents to Wolfland was paranoid nonsense and a waste of time. I was severely mistaken.
“The agents discovered the following: After the deaths of Wolfland’s Nazi functionaries in
1941, Berlin was notified, by you, Lieutenant Kratzer, that the wine Wolfland Weiss was, due to the
war, no longer profitable. As a result no further money or records of sales were sent to Berlin.
“Yet my investigators found Wolfland Weiss was readily available at a restaurant in Koenig’s
Tal! After some discrete inquiries they discovered that some wine distributors actually drive hundreds
of kilometres, two or three times a week to the island. And once these men arrive, they pay large sums
of money directly to the winemaker Jens Jaeger for his product. Herr Jaeger, by the way, lives
peacefully on Wolfland with his family.”
Buchberger paused for effect.
“And it gets worse. Pastor Andreas von Himmel and his wife, Anna, have made the church on
Wolfland a sanctuary for the mentally handicapped. There is also evidence that gypsies live on the
island. Unbelievable! Lieutenant Kratzer, where are the profits from Wolfland Weiss going? Why and
how has the pastor been able to harbour undesirables? Wolfland is part of your jurisdiction is it not?
Explain!”
Kratzer opened his mouth, but Buchberger bellowed, “No, don’t bother! I actually have no
desire to hear your foolish explanations! You conspired to keep Jaeger alive so he could keep
producing wine and provide you with the profits. Part of the deal was that the pastor and his wife were
to remain alive. Another aspect was that you would leave Wolfland alone. Is that not so?”
Kratzer did not flinch.
Buchberger screamed at him, “Is that not so?”
Kratzer’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I have served the Fuehrer and the Third Reich
with honour.”
Buchberger looked at him with disgust and bellowed, “You have not served the Fuehrer or the
Third Reich with honour! Instead you have dishonoured and disgraced him and the Fatherland by
profiting from a Jewish collaborator! Jens Jaeger, wine producer, from the island of Wolfland, has been
transferring sums of ten to fifty thousand reichsmarks each month into a bank account in the nearby
town of Koenig’s Tal. That money, in turn, is transferred within two days to a company called
‘Lichtwasser.’ That company’s bank account is located somewhere in Switzerland and therefore
untraceable. Very clever, Lieutenant, but too bad you weren’t quite as smart as your adjutant, Georg
Lutz. We arrested him for questioning and he gladly told us everything about your operation before, I
am embarrassed to admit, mysteriously disappearing just as we were about to sentence him. I am sure
the money you embezzled will be safe with him.
“You, Lieutenant Egon Kratzer, are hereby charged with high treason against the German
Reich! You will be executed immediately! Guards, take this swine dog away!”
The two large guards stood up and roughly lifted Kratzer out of his seat. Buchberger, the two
assistants, and the guard to Kratzer’s left did not notice the glance, the subtle millisecond eye contact
that the accused had with the heavily armed escort to the right of him as they turned towards the door.
That guard removed the revolver from his holster and jammed the barrel into Kratzer’s back. It was the
signal for the doomed lieutenant to start marching.

A half-hour later Buchberger received the news. Three shots had been fired. All had hit the
designated target. The execution of Lieutenant Egon Kratzer had been completed as ordered.

•••

The heavy fog rose, that late summer morning, from the river Ebene, shrouding Wolfland in a
veil of white. Only the top of the cross on Rupert’s Berg was clearly visible, and it contrasted sharply
with the white below and the blue above. The air was cool and moist, the smell of moss wafted through
it.
Anna had wandered in the woods behind the cottage much earlier in the day, when the fog was
still only subtle, dreamy, white wisps. She wanted some wildflowers for the bouquet she was working
on for Frau Schneider. Focused on her quest, Anna hadn’t noticed how quickly and stealthily the fog
had thickened.
A distant sound of trucks rumbling over the bridge finally broke through Anna’s concentration.
With a start she looked around and realized to her dismay that visibility in the forest was down to three
to five metres at best. Anna stood still, feeling a pang of panic rising in her chest.
She heard the trucks screeching to a stop in the village. Loud voices and the snappy clip-clop of
jackboots on the cobblestones echoed eerily through the trees. High-pitched screams, followed by
angry voices, a shot, doors opening and closing, and glass shattering, and then, dramatically, the bells
of Wilhelm’s Kirche started ringing. It was the signal to run to the caves, but Anna couldn’t respond.
The fog was too thick, so she remained where she was, listening intently.
The noise from the village became louder and more furious, screams, shots, loud cursing,
desperate pleadings and sobbing; the sounds reverberated off Rupert’s Berg again and again. Anna held
her face. “God, oh God, what is happening?” Time detached itself from Anna’s reality. She could not
grasp how long she remained standing holding her head as the sounds of a real-life nightmare raged
nearby.
Orders were shouted over the noisy din, and Anna could hear people climbing onto the trucks.
Then they roared away, and after clattering over the bridge their sounds faded into the distance.
Anna remained still in the new quiet. Slowly she lifted her head. Suddenly the voice of Jens
Jaeger echoed through the forest. He was yelling, but it was abruptly cut short by a soft rat-tat-tat noise
followed by a splash. Another voice reached Anna’s ears; it was her husband, Andreas. She listened
intently and heard, “I forgive you.” Then, again, there was the rat-tat-tat sound, followed by another
splash. Other familiar voices rang out clearly, followed by rat-tat-tat, splash; rat-tat-tat, splash.
The realization of what was happening struck Anna’s heart like a thunderbolt. It was a machine
gun firing at people on the dock. The splashes were the dead and dying falling into the Ebene. Anna
fell into a fetal position.

SS Kommandant Holgar Buchberger entered the black sedan. The chauffeur carefully navigated
the vehicle away from the dock and slowly drove it behind the army jeep, which was occupied with
three soldiers and several machine guns, towards the bridge.
“Mission accomplished, sir?” he asked.
Buchberger, lost in thought, heard something from the driver.
“You asked me a question?”
“Yes, sir. I just asked if your mission was accomplished.”
Buchberger nodded with some satisfaction and answered, “We have eliminated the winemaker
and the pastor, as well as all the mentally infirm and the gypsies. It is inconceivable to me how anyone
could break the law and be sympathetic to people like that. Nevertheless, it is over. We also have a few
new recruits for the Volkssturm and plenty of fresh workers for the munitions factory in Dresden. Yes,
we have satisfactorily accomplished our mission.”

The rain hammered into Anna’s face, and her eyes fluttered open bringing her out of the
shocked stupor she had been in for hours. For several more moments she continued to lie where she
had fallen earlier. The fog had lifted somewhat when finally, with painstaking effort, she lifted herself
up and half slid, half stumbled towards Frieden See. She found the entrance to the cave, lost her
balance and fell into it. A flashlight immediately clicked on and blinded her. The barrel of a rifle drove
into her ribs.
“Anna?”
Tentatively the grand matriarch of Wolfland whispered, “Yes.”
The weapon fell to the ground and arms wrapped around her. “It’s me, Hannelore.”

•••

The morning sky was light blue, with patches of white sprinkled here and there. The hum of
insects over the grasslands increased as the summer sun rose higher in the sky. An abandoned farm,
with the remnants of a few burned-out sheds, stood on the crest of a small knoll with an uninterrupted
view to the western horizon.
The tranquility ended spectacularly as a bomb sliced through the air with a shrill whistle. On
impact it exploded with a resounding thunder and violence, removing a large section of the Ukrainian
steppe. Shock waves sped through the ground, causing vibrations similar to an earthquake.
Wolfgang’s eyes snapped open, but the rest of his body remained perfectly still. He was deep in
the cellar of one of the burned-out sheds. He had learned during his journey to be patient, to first let his
senses register sounds, smells, and feelings, before making a move. Patience. It was a discipline that
had been taught by his father and then retaught by the ancient Russian doctor.

Oleg Petrovich had saved Wolfgang’s life from the infection that had raged in the leg wound
caused by the shrapnel. Inside the suitcase that the ancient one had dragged to his cabin were medicines
and surgical tools. Initially the operation on Wolfgang’s leg had been touch and go. Oleg had debated
feverishly with himself whether to amputate the former sniper’s severely infected leg. Then he decided,
no. Give the young man a chance. Once it was over, it had taken a few days before the infection
lessened and the fever went down. Only then did Wolfgang become cognizant of his saviour.
The former Nazi war hero was bedridden for almost two months before he finally ventured
outside for short walks. The old doctor brought him food and changed his dressing regularly. They tried
to communicate with words. When that didn’t work, they related to each other with their eyes and body
language. Eventually they learned a few words and expressions in each other’s language. That was
plenty.
When Oleg was not interacting with his patient he was carrying on conversations with others in
his mind. It was all very bizarre, but Wolfgang still managed to teach the World War I medic which
forest plants were good for food and herbs. He also helped the aged doctor to hunt for animals.
Recovery was long and hard for Wolfgang. The infection had poisoned him, and the leg needed
constant exercise and attention. Spring, summer, and autumn sped by. As winter came over the land
again, Wolfgang started to feel his strength return. Yet the weather and snow made travel impossible.
He waited for spring to resume the journey that he had to make.
It was a mellow day in early May when Wolfgang led Oleg a few metres outside the cabin. The
former Nazi sniper looked down at the former army doctor and smiled. The frail old man returned the
smile, exposing his gums and two remaining teeth.
Wolfgang embraced him and said, “God sent me an angel so I could live another day. And that
angel was you. Thank you, and God bless you.”
The garden, which Wolfgang had planted a few weeks earlier, was flourishing nearby. The root
cellar was filled with plenty of pickled meat. He turned and walked away from Oleg, who in turn tried
to follow, but Wolfgang would not allow it. With a few harsh words he told the old man to stay. The
ancient one began carrying on a conversation with someone in his imagination as Wolfgang
disappeared into the forest.

Wolfgang’s mind deduced by the sound and vibrations of the earth around him that heavy
artillery, about a kilometre to the east, was coming towards his hideout. Wait! Now Wolfgang could
hear fretful voices approaching from the west. Germans!
A rocket screamed through the air and broke apart with a cataclysmic explosion on impact. The
German voices stilled for a moment, then started again. Many were in panic. One was yelling orders;
others were crying in agony. Another rocket whipped through the air, then another, and then another.
The rolling thunder of perhaps a hundred tanks racing towards the abandoned farm drowned out the
voices and cries of the Nazis. Wolfgang remained still, but he was alert and his guns were ready. The
tanks shook the shed to its foundations, and for a few terrifying moments Wolfgang thought a tank
would roll over the shed and break right through. Instead, a small rocket splintered the shed above into
a jumble of sticks. The thunder of the tanks passed by and was replaced with the steady sounds of
marching soldiers. Wolfgang held his breath.
After what seemed like hours the sounds of the army ceased and the hum of insects resumed.
A raspy German whisper broke through. “Water, water, please, water, please.”
Wolfgang climbed carefully through the ruins of the shed. He emerged from the lair and paused
in surprise at the sight before him. Scattered over the steppe were Nazi tanks, trucks, and artillery in
flames or blasted to pieces. There were also at least fifty Nazi soldiers lying randomly throughout the
debris. Most were dead, some mutilated or burned beyond recognition. Wolfgang regained his
composure and followed the voice.
He found a Nazi soldier barely alive and bleeding from wounds in his chest. Charred skin hung
loosely from his left arm, exposing pink tissue underneath. The soldier was delirious with pain, but his
eyes still registered amazement at the sight of the wild man looking down at him. Wolfgang’s straggly
dark hair was unkempt, and his long flowing beard waved gently in the morning breeze. His fingers
and clothes were grimy.
Wolfgang bent down and gave the soldier some water out of his flask and spoke for the first
time in weeks. “Where am I?”
The soldier rasped painfully. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Where am I?”
“You are fifty kilometres from the Polish border.”
“What is happening in the war?”
“Who are you?”
“I was a Nazi soldier like you. I fought in Stalingrad.”
“Stalingrad? But that was so long ago. The Wehrmacht lost over two hundred thousand men
there.”
Wolfgang lowered his head in grief. “Yes, it was hopeless.”
The soldier, near death, whispered, “Where have you been?”
“With an angel.”
“What?”
“Tell me, what has happened in the war?”
“Since Stalingrad we have lost North Africa, and the Allies have landed in France and Italy.
The Russians are pushing us from the east. If we don’t fight harder they will all soon be in Germany.”
Wolfgang shook his head and uttered, “What a nightmare.”
The soldier serenely said, “I am at peace.”
“I can’t leave you like this…”
It was too late. With one last sigh the soldier died with his eyes open. Wolfgang stared at the
dead Nazi soldier for a moment and then coolly looted the soldier of his rifle, ammunition, equipment,
and food rations from the backpack lying nearby. He heard rumblings of armoured carriers from the
east. Within seconds Wolfgang was heading west towards a grove of trees he could see about a
kilometre away.

•••

Despite the return of summer weather, Auschwitz continued to be a hell on earth. An epidemic
of typhus swept through some of the prisoners. Sonnenheim was one of the victims, and for five days
he lay hidden on a makeshift mattress under one of the bunks while the disease raged through his body.
Had he been found sick in the barracks or during appell it would have meant a bullet in the head from a
Nazi gun.
Johann and Rosenberg kept Sonnenheim alive with water, scraps of food, and medicine, that
was stolen at great risk from the Nazi infirmary. Eventually Sonnenheim recovered and resumed both
his place at appell and work as if nothing had happened. The Nazis had been too busy with a huge
influx of new prisoners and trying to control the typhus epidemic to have noticed his absence.
Johann’s job at the chambers ended that summer. He now played in a makeshift orchestra at the
camp’s train station. For most of those disembarking the trains at Auschwitz, it would be the last music
they would ever hear on earth.
Johann still continued playing the violin for Kommandant Dorn. The kommandant’s mind had
finally frayed due to the atrocities he allowed daily. He barely ate any more and slept most of the time
in a drunken stupor while Johann played. This allowed Johann to eat and take more food. Back in the
barracks the men prayed to God, thanking Him for the extra provisions.

•••

The orange rays of the day’s last light came through the windows of SS Kommandant
Buchberger’s office, creating a melancholy aura in the room. Buchberger sat behind his impressive
desk, deep in contemplation. A small green-shaded desk lamp spotlighted the report that had been laid
before him a short time earlier. The kommandant had curtly dismissed the courier of the file and
ordered his guards to the outside foyer. He needed to be alone.
Buchberger carefully leafed through the execution reports of Wolfland’s former winemaker and
pastor. Buchberger had witnessed their deaths plus all the others. He wanted absolute assurance that,
this time, his orders were carried out.
Buchberger slowly rubbed his temples as he studied the highlights of the report:

…Jens Jaeger, forty-eight, successful winemaker and forester, married, two children, father of
Hauptmann Wolfgang Jaeger, sniper, awarded Iron Cross, missing in action in Stalingrad, presumed
captured or dead.
…Bribed convicted criminal of the Third Reich, Egon Kratzer, so that his family and Wolfland’s pastor
and wife would not be arrested and executed for collaborating with Jews.
…Andreas von Himmel, eighty-four, Christian pastor for sixty years, married, only child killed in First
World War. Jewish collaborator.
…Wife Anna, eighty-three, florist, whereabouts unknown, presumed dead. Jewish collaborator.

Buchberger closed the file, leaned back in his chair and thought of the events that had transpired
on the dock at Wolfland. Again.

Buchberger had stepped out of his car and walked up to Jaeger. They had sized each other up
for several moments. Jaeger viewed Buchberger with obvious scorn on his face. This unnerved the
kommandant somewhat, so he tried to rattle Jaeger by bluntly stating, “You murdered Nazi
functionaries on Wolfland! You are guilty! Punishment is execution!”
Jaeger had laughed and then yelled at the Nazis, calling them cowards.
Pastor Andreas however looked straight into his eyes. “We forgive you. Seek God before it is
too late.”
Buchberger lost his composure and hissed back, “Nonsense!”
He stepped to the side, lifted his hand and brought it down sharply. It was the signal for
the machine guns to start firing.
Pastor Andreas looked directly at Buchberger, and his last words were “I forgive you.”

Buchberger took his glasses off and ran his hand across his face. “I forgive you.” “No,” he
thought to himself, “I was following orders and doing my job. There is nothing I need forgiveness for.
Adolf Hitler is the Fuehrer and there is no need for a God here on earth. The Third Reich will last a
thousand years.”
The droning of distant warplanes interrupted Buchberger’s thoughts. This was the fifth night in
a row that Allied aircraft had flown over Dresden and delivered their payload of destruction. He sat
stoically as the air raid alarms came on. He heard panicked voices, slamming doors, and quick urgent
footsteps throughout the building. People were descending to the basement, which not only contained
holding cells and a place for execution but served as a bomb shelter as well.
The planes’ droning turned into a roar as they came overhead. Searchlights scanned the black
skies, and anti-aircraft guns blasted volleys into the air in a futile attempt to destroy them. A few were
hit, and as they went down, the doomed planes made horrible wailing sounds of imminent death before
exploding into great orange fireballs. But there were simply too many Allied bombers, and they came
over Dresden in waves, again and again and again.
The aircraft released their bombs, which destroyed lives and buildings of the city with explosive
fury. One explosion shattered the windows of Buchberger’s office, blowing glass straight across the
room. Another shock wave rattled the wall behind Buchberger, and the grim unsmiling portrait of
Adolf Hitler came crashing down behind him.
The warplanes moved on to other targets and they became a distant drone.

“Seek God before it is too late. I forgive you.”

A secretary was frantically knocking at the door. “Kommandant Buchberger, Kommandant


Buchberger, are you in there, Kommandant Buchberger?”
SS Kommandant Holgar Buchberger was found dead at the magnificent desk, in a pool of his
own blood, with a long, jagged piece of glass impaled in the back of his neck.

The munitions factory on the outskirts of Dresden produced weapons of death for the Nazis.
Initially, the workers had been German citizens who were paid a decent wage by the factory owners
Jupp and Krapke. However, as the Nazi war machine crushed one country after another, the well-paid
workers were replaced by the citizens of the vanquished foes. Most were Jews, some were gypsies, and
others were political prisoners. These new labourers were, in effect, slaves. No wages were ever given
to them, and they received barely any food. Many died due to the inhumane conditions but were always
quickly replaced by others. The arrival of the slaves allowed Jupp and Krapke to run their factory day
and night. With virtually no labour costs the profits for the two German businessmen was astounding.
Marie Jaeger had been at the factory for only two days and, despite the shock of being taken
prisoner and the lack of food, was still relatively strong for the labours she was forced to do. She, along
with several others from Wolfland, were on the assembly line when the wave of Allied planes, fresh
from the attack on Dresden, unloaded their remaining payload on Jupp and Krapke. It was over in
seconds. Upon impact the Allied bombs ignited highly volatile chemicals in the factory, and the
explosions obliterated the factory and everyone in it.

•••

The prisoners sat morosely in the back of the Nazi military truck. They were all political
prisoners or, as in the case of thirteen-year old Martin Jaeger, fourteen-year old Christoff Holzenbein,
and seventeen-year old Phillip Bauer, the children of adults who had committed treason against the
Nazis. The boys were petrified with fear. They had been terrified from the moment the Nazis had
surprised them on foggy Wolfland and forced them at gunpoint to enter a truck, where they were then
shackled together at the ankles by leg irons. Their terror increased as they moved westward, towards
the front and the well-equipped Allied forces from the United Kingdom, United States, Canada, and
elsewhere. Occasionally the truck stopped and other young political prisoners were forced onto the
vehicle and also clamped into irons.
As the truck moved slowly over bombed-out roads the boys saw hundreds of bleak looking
refugees fleeing the Soviets, who were approaching from the east. Most had what was left of their
earthly belongings piled high on rough horse-drawn carts. Others just carried a few items in backpacks.
The hungry, shell-shocked, unarmed refugees were extremely vulnerable to attack.
Once, as the truck was passing along a lengthy caravan of the now dispossessed, planes
screamed down at them from above. While their guards scurried out of the truck to find cover, the
prisoners remained chained and unable to run. For the first time in their lives the boys witnessed death
as bullets and bombs from attacking fighter planes cut down several refugees.
Miraculously, the only damage the truck sustained was a blown-out tire. After the guards
replaced the wheel, they travelled on and eventually left the refugee-filled roads behind and drove
through forlorn settlements ravaged by the destruction of battle.
Finally, after a harrowing two-day trip, the truck stopped at the edge of a forest where a young
boy, no more than fifteen, emerged, grim faced and well-armed, out of the evening shadows.
The three boys from Wolfland were released, and before their feet had even landed on the
ground the truck was off to another unspecified destination.
The scowling and well-armed teenager looked at his three new recruits, who were all sore and
stiff from the trip, with utter contempt. He introduced himself with a gruff voice tinged with plenty of
irritation. “I am Kommandant Sepp Mayer. You will address me as kommandant.”
The three boys nodded and introduced themselves to their new leader.
Kommandant Mayer pulled out a few pictures from his breast pocket and handed them over to
Martin, who in turn showed them to his friends. They were grotesque images of mutilated and dead
Nazi soldiers. Phillip fell to his knees and vomited.
Taking the pictures from Martin, Sepp growled, “That’s what we do to cowards and traitors.
Now come along.”
Sepp gave a sharp whistle, and within seconds three teenagers and two elderly men emerged
from the shadows. The men wore German helmets from the First World War, which made them look
comical, for each helmet had a ten-centimetre long spike stuck on top of it. Their tattered clothes,
grizzled faces, and obsolete hunting rifles completed the senior men’s absurd appearance. The three
boys, on the other hand, had no headgear, and although their army clothes were slightly too large, their
hard eyes and rifles conveyed danger.
Sepp introduced the three from Wolfland to the others. Then he pointed to the old men and said
to Phillip, Christoff, and Martin, “The tall one is Heino, and the squat one is Franzel.”
The men nodded their heads slightly.
The young kommandant waved his hand to the dangerous looking teenagers, and his voice
became slightly more respectful. “The tall blond one is Rudiger, the dark hair is Detlev, and that skinny
bag of bones is Fabian.”
All three stared ahead without a trace of interest.
Sepp looked at the three new recruits and spoke firmly. “Our mission is to stop the Americans
from getting through this forest. We have held them back for almost a week. When we started there
were twenty-three of us. The ones who were killed gave the ultimate sacrifice for the Fuehrer and the
Third Reich. Two of them died in my arms. The Fuehrer has ordered us to fight to the last man, and
that is what we are going to do! Do you believe in this cause? Do you believe in Hitler?”
Fearing for their lives all three yelled out in unison, “Yes!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
“Come with us.”
Martin, Phillip, and Christoff obeyed and were soon engulfed by the forest. Within twenty
minutes they came to a rough, makeshift lean-to that was virtually invisible in the thick underbrush of
the forest. Sepp pulled out three rifles and handed them to the new recruits.
Pointing the barrel of his rifle towards the centre of the forest the kommandant said, with a
wicked sneer on his face, “The Americans are over there. Now what are you sweethearts waiting for?
Go get them! We’ll be right behind you.”
The other teenagers laughed while the two old men looked on with some compassion. Martin,
Phillip, and Christoff slowly trudged off into the forest. The setting sun broke through, shooting its last
sunbeams through the trees like fading spotlights. Unfortunately the three were moving towards the
light, and the glare made it difficult to see. The boys were also very tired and hungry after the ordeal on
the truck. It only heightened their fear and despair.
It was all forgotten when the first shot rang out. The bullet passed through Phillip’s throat. He
stood for a moment gasping for breath, blood pouring out of the wound and his mouth. Crack. The
second shot went through his chest, killing him instantly. Martin tried to reach him. Crack, crack. Shots
whizzed by his head. Christoff jumped up, tackled Martin, and rolled him to relative safety beneath
some underbrush. Martin was losing his mind as he struggled with Christoff. The older boy drove him
in the groin with his knee. Martin collapsed in agony. Christoff lay on top of his friend, and they
remained there, frozen, as the sounds of battle opened up around them.
The rattle of machine-gunfire and loud, authoritative American voices mingled in with harsh
German commands and pleadings, more gunfire, screams of agony, voices. The haze from gunfire
filtered through the final light of dusk.
Then there was only silence.
Christoff slowly lifted his head. Martin looked up and was about to say something. Christoff put
his finger to his lips, and the thirteen-year-old closed his mouth.
Suddenly the brush above them was torn apart by the feet of several men. The boys looked up at
the barrel of a machine gun held by a very large and aggressive looking American soldier. Five other
enormous U.S. combat men came out of the haze, and within seconds they had confiscated the boy’s
guns, frisked them thoroughly, tied their hands together, and had them sitting back to back.
A tall, lanky American soldier, bearing the stripes of command on his helmet and sleeves, came
into focus.
He spoke curtly, with a Boston accent. “Sergeant Krisco!”
One of the five soldiers, a skinny Texan, stepped forward. “Yes, sir!”
“What is this? Where did these kids come from?”
“Our sniper, Johnson, spotted them ahead of an enemy patrol, sir. There were three of them.
Each was carrying a rifle so he assumed hostile intent.”
“Where is the other one?”
“Johnson killed him, sir.”
“Do the prisoners speak English?”
“We have tried talking to them, but they’re not responding.”
Captain James Fitzroy lifted his helmet slightly with his right hand and looked at Krisco in
disbelief. “You mean to tell me, Sergeant, that we have been engaged in battle for the last week with a
rag-tag army of German teenagers and old men?
“As far as we can ascertain, that is correct, sir.”
Fitzroy shook his head and said to no one in particular, “Are the Nazis crazy? We Americans
are well-trained adult soldiers in our primes, with the world’s best equipment. We obviously outnumber
them by a wide margin. And they fight us with hunting rifles, boys, and old-timers. Ludicrous!”
Krisco raised his hand slightly. “Sir, may I interject?”
Fitzroy hesitated a moment, then grudgingly nodded in the affirmative.
“Sir, the group we just fought against must be part of the Nazi Volkssturm. A buddy told me
about them. It’s some kind of people’s militia. They are part of a last desperate attempt by the Nazis to
defend their country. My buddy said that some of the teenagers are the toughest buggers he has ever
encountered. Fanatical to the core.”
Fitzroy nodded and said, “That’s incredible and pathetic at the same time. Yet, they have killed
some of our best men.”
Looking at Martin and Christoff, Fitzroy commanded, “Get the prisoners out of here, Sergeant,
and remove the dead.”
“Yes, sir!”
As the boys were led out of the forest they passed the corpses of Phillip, Heino, Franzel,
Rudiger, Detlev, and Fabien, all neatly arranged in a row. On the edge of the forest, where the boys had
been dropped off, lay Sepp Mayer. His body was riddled with bullets. The lifeless eyes seemed to stare
at Martin and Christoff as they boarded an American truck. Once again, they were shackled together.
Both boys broke down and wept silently as the vehicle lurched into gear and drove off.

1945

Two years had passed since Johann had been interned at Auschwitz. Each day since his arrival Johann
had witnessed inhuman atrocities perpetrated by the Nazis against the prisoners. He had seen hundreds
of people die right before his eyes, and he had dragged hundreds of corpses to the camp’s crematorium,
which seemed to run non-stop twenty-four hours a day. For two years Johann had lived in a nightmare;
only the food scraps from Dorn’s plate and the occasional rat had kept him from starving to death. Only
the prayers and advice of his friends, Sonnenheim and Rosenberg, had kept his mind and spirit from
crumbling into insanity.
The three men had outlived five kapos (Jewish barrack leaders appointed by the Germans) who
had either been shot or succumbed to the harsh conditions of Auschwitz. Now there was a new one, but
as always, they had bribed him like the others and were left alone.
Every day Johann played his violin at the train station and in Dorn’s office. Meanwhile,
Sonnenheim and Rosenberg had become collectors and organizers of the valuables that were left
behind from those going to the chambers. In the evening, after lights out, the three friends prayed, and
God gave them hope and determination to carry on. Survival. That was the greatest victory of all at
Auschwitz.

Another tragic January had arrived at the concentration camp. Freezing temperatures and cold
winds that blew a chill deep into the bones killed many of the prisoners. It was so cold, that the
despairing souls, who threw themselves into the electric fence during the night, were found the next
morning, frozen against th wire mesh. It took considerable effort, from those men ordered to collect the
corpses, to pry them off.
Yet, there was a glimmer of hope. For a week now, the prisoners and the Nazis at Auschwitz
had heard the sounds and seen the lights of battles to the east. Rumours flooded the camp. The Russians
were near! The Nazis were losing and being pushed back! The guards and the kommandants were
getting visibly more nervous.

One evening, when the explosion of bombs seemed particularly close to the camp, Johann was
led as usual to Kommandant Dorn’s office to play for him. Upon entering the building he immediately
noticed that the Nazis were packing up their offices. Some were shredding papers. Others were lugging
furniture outside to waiting trucks. There was a sense of urgency in the air as stressed officials barked
out commands to underlings.
The guard led Johann past the panic to Dorn’s office. The door was wide open. Johann’s jaw
dropped open in surprise as he looked in. The room had been cleaned out and was completely empty.
An official came up to the guard and rudely asked what he was doing. The guard responded with a
respect the superior officer did not deserve. The higher-ranking Nazi listened impatiently, then in as
few words as possible told the guard that Kommandant Dorn had been transferred to Germany, that he
was never to bring a prisoner into the office ever again, and that he was to remove himself and the
prisoner as quickly as possible. With a sharp “Heil Hitler” the guard followed the orders at once.
Back in the barracks Sonnenheim and Rosenberg gathered around Johann. They would be
hungrier that night, but the news of the Nazis’ packing up and the sounds of battle nearby excited them.
The three friends could not sleep, and they stayed up all night praying and hoping.
At appell the next morning there was a bitter cold wind and blinding snow. Much to the
prisoners’ surprise, they were not positioned into neat rows but were left in a huge disorganized mob.
Guards and officers flitted about with anxious faces. No one seemed to know what to do or where to
go. The disorganization intensified when several trucks hurtled toward the prisoners, causing them to
scatter in all directions.
Finally, a semblance of order was achieved when guards carrying submachine guns surrounded
the prisoners and herded them to the entrance of the camp. Slowly, very slowly, the gates were swung
open and “most” of Auschwitz’s survivors passed through. The word was that they were being marched
to a camp in Germany called Dachau.
A few kilometres outside of camp several of the condemned tried to escape by running off into
a forest. Most were shot and killed. A few though, intoxicated by a chance for freedom, found their feet
to escape.

•••

After the order was given by the Nazis to abandon Auschwitz due to the impending arrival of the Soviet
Army, most of the remaining prisoners were forced to walk for several days in what would later be
referred to as a “death march” to the Dachau concentration camp. Prisoners who tried to escape or
couldn’t keep up were shot and killed.
At Dachau many of the prisoners were transferred to trains for Germany. Some of them were
abandoned mid-route because of Allied attacks, and so the nightmare of Auschwitz would finally be
over for the survivors.
Other prisoners, taking advantage of the mass disarray of the Nazi retreat from Auschwitz, hid
themselves in the camp.

•••

Johann, Sonnenheim, and Rosenberg gingerly crept out from their hiding places underneath a
barrack. Clad with new boots and warm clothing taken from the depot where countless thousands had
undressed for the last time, they looked cautiously around and listened intently.
Nothing.
The Auschwitz concentration camp was apparently empty of both Nazis and prisoners.
Rosenberg hissed, “This is ridiculous. There is no one here. I’m going whether you like it or
not.”
Sonnenheim futilely implored, “Rosenberg, wait.”
He was already gone.
Johann and Sonnenheim watched their friend walk nonchalantly across the yard in plain view of
the towers, which normally were manned by sharpshooters.
Nothing happened.
Suddenly, other prisoners came out of their hiding places and silently joined Rosenberg’s walk
to the gates. By the time he reached the opening there were at least twenty with him. Johann and
Sonnenheim looked at each other, shrugged, and ran to join the growing crowd. As the group passed
through the gates of the camp, with the morbid sign overtop of it, “Arbeit Macht Frei” (Work Makes
You Free), some broke down in tears of joy, relief, and ecstasy. Others, so used to being imprisoned,
cowered by the gates, not knowing what to do. Many ran ahead like uncaged animals.
As Johann, Sonnenheim, and Rosenberg walked into freedom they simultaneously raised their
arms in victory. The three friends then left the main road and disappeared into a forest. They found a
trail and followed it, eventually coming to the village that Johann had walked through on the way to
Auschwitz. It was completely deserted and deathly quiet. The three men tentatively searched through
some of the buildings and found an old truck. Rosenberg quickly checked it over and, with a wink to
his friends, fiddled briefly with some wires under the steering wheel.
The vehicle sputtered to life, and with a slight bow Rosenberg invited Sonnenheim and Johann
to enter on the passenger side. In a few moments he had them wheeling towards the west.
Sonnenheim looked skeptically at his long-time friend and business partner. “Now where did
you learn how to do that?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“Let’s just say, before I got in the jewellery business I was involved in another type of
business.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yes, but it didn’t last very long. Let’s say I was forced to retire.”
“Uh-huh.”
The truck rumbled along on deserted roads for a couple of hours. One stop was made at an
abandoned petrol depot, and the vehicle was replenished for further travel. The three men drove hard
for several more hours through countryside that was devoid of life. Eventually they joined a caravan of
those fleeing to the west and allowed several refugees to ride in the back of the truck. Later they passed
into southern Germany. An American roadblock finally halted their progress. The three gaunt men
stepped out of the vehicle with arms raised.
American soldiers yelled at them. “Papers! Are you Polish? German? Who are you and where
are you from?”
Johann who knew a bit of English, tried to explain. “We from Auschwitz. Jews.”
The Americans looked at them oddly. Two people from the Red Cross appeared, and one of
them asked if they could be of assistance.
A soldier said, “That guy over there says they’re Jews from Auschwitz.”
“Thank you. We’ll take over from here!”
The Red Cross man spoke German and got the whole story from the former prisoners. They
were transferred to a camp nearby where they immediately joined many other refugees in a long lineup
for soup.
Rosenberg angrily complained to Sonnenheim and Johann, “This is good. We finally get out of
one camp just to join another.”
Sonnenheim, as usual, tried to reason. “It’s a camp run by the Red Cross. We’re safe now, or do
you want to keep driving that truck through Germany? I’m sure we won’t be here long.”
Rosenberg laughed sarcastically. “I’ve heard those words before, my friend. I’ve heard those
words before.”

•••

The cold midnight sky was lit up with billions of stars. The frost-covered cross high on Rupert’s
Berg stood as it always had, in front of its eternal backdrop, a symbol of hope, reverence, peace, and
truth. Then, as had happened every night for the last week, rumblings and flashes of bombs and gunfire
lit up the night sky like a lightning storm. Anna knew it was only a matter of time before the Soviets
would envelope Wolfland. She had helped many refugees, who had fled the battles in the east by
crossing the mighty Ebene on makeshift boats and rafts, with words of encouragement, a night’s rest,
and food.
The refugees’ stories were always ones of horror. The Soviets, who had suffered so much from
the Nazis and had lost over twenty million people to them, were showing no mercy as they drove the
Wehrmacht back. Nazi soldiers and German civilians were being executed or taken as prisoners,
women raped, and settlements plundered. There was no choice but to flee to the relative safety of the
Allies pushing into the Fatherland from the west and south. The refugees asked Anna to come with
them. Every time she nodded, smiled, and said, “Not yet.”
•••

A thousand Soviet soldiers swept over the border into Germany, driving the Nazi defenders into
a hasty retreat. The invaders from the east were relentless in their pursuit of the enemy, and within a
few hours they had driven so far into the Third Reich that they saw the cross high on Rupert’s Berg.
The Soviet commanders all agreed that taking the Berg would be of great strategic importance since a
communication and observation tower could be built on top.
The Soviets drifted over the Ebene to Wolfland on hastily blown-up rubber rafts and
immediately went into military manoeuvres to root out Nazis. None were found. With plenty of
daylight still remaining, the Soviet commanders decided to leave Wolfland within the hour. They
would continue heading west towards Koenig’s Tal. Surely they would find Nazis there?
A small contingent of men was left behind to guard a munitions depot and to construct an
observation and communications tower on top of Rupert’s Berg. It took only three days for the
installations to be completed. The final thing to be added, near the buildings, was a flagpole that held
the banner of the Soviet Union: a blood-red flag with a golden hammer over a golden sickle
emblazoned on a corner of it.
Major Gromenko, Private Duradov, and Private Metlazev were left behind to man the new
Soviet military base. All three soldiers were happy to be chosen for the new assignment. They were
tired and shell-shocked after surviving several harrowing battles against desperate Nazis trying to
defend their Reich.

Ten days passed and the three Soviets’ initial excitement of being on the island gave way to
boredom. The munitions dump and observation tower on Wolfland soon became useless, for the front
was several kilometres away. Yet the Soviet commanders continued to communicate, via radio, that the
three soldiers were to remain vigilant at their posts. If the Nazis ever mounted an offensive and drove
the front back, Wolfland would be needed.
It was on day fourteen of Wolfland’s occupation when Metlazev started using some of the
munitions for “practice.” Soon many buildings were damaged from the mindless firing of rocket
launchers, flares, and guns. The three Soviets even tried to destroy the cross, but no matter how many
explosives they used it would not go down. The only buildings besides the cross that escaped any
damage were the cottage, since the major had taken it as his quarters, and Herzog’s Gasthaus, which
housed the two privates.
It was in the old inn’s basement, on day eighteen of their occupation of the island, that
Gromenko, Duradov and Metlazev discovered a cache of Wolfland Weiss. Without hesitation the three
men started guzzling the sweet tasting wine until they were completely inebriated and reduced to
vomiting over one another. The transformation of the three largely forgotten Soviets from soldiers to
alcoholic, undisciplined thugs was well underway.

•••

The grey, miserable day had been filled with intermittent rain and lashing winds. Finally, the
gusts and showers ended with the advent of night, but the clouds remained, leaving the land pitch
black.
Wolfgang stalked noiselessly out of a grove of pine trees that had served as his hiding place for
the last twelve hours. He used the sounds of the Ebene and light from the pinprick beam of a miniature
flashlight, looted from the dead Nazi soldier on the Ukrainian steppe, to make his way along the
riverbank. His feet, fuelled with the expectation of a two-year-old dream nearly fulfilled, moved
quickly and cat-like over the rocks. Occasionally he stopped and listened for sounds of life, but all he
heard was the murmuring river. He kept moving.
Suddenly, Wolfgang heard the whistle of a projectile cutting through the air. He stopped and
crouched on the riverbank.
Kaboom!
Wolfland lit up from the spectacular explosion of the rocket. Wolfgang looked up in wonder.
He could see the bluff, the ruins, and the cross on top of Rupert’s Berg. The light faded and the island
disappeared into the dark of night. Wolfgang heard some laughter and whoops before another missile
sliced through the air.
Kaboom!
Light again. Wolfgang could see the bridge. Then descent into darkness.
Another missile took flight.
Kaboom!
Light once more. Wolfgang sprinted across the bridge into the darkness. Two rockets screamed
up to the heavens until, dramatically, they exploded simultaneously.
Kaboom!
The island lit up as if it was noon on a sunny day. Wolfgang stood, stunned at what he saw.
Several buildings, including the church, were in ruins. He saw two figures and heard the Russian
language drifting on the wind.
Wolfgang was gone in an instant. He reached the forest. His forest. Despite it being nearly
impossible to see, he knew, by the feel of the land and the scent of the trees, exactly where he was. One
last explosion lit up the forest. Wolfgang did not stop or hesitate. He reached the opening to the cave
and disappeared into it.
Wolfgang crouched in the darkness, taking shallow quiet breaths. Two years on the run had
made him wary, always listening, always ready to move. For a long time there was nothing. Then a
small tinkling of stones reached Wolfgang’s ears. It seemed as loud as the rocket blasts he had just
heard. Wolfgang remained still, every muscle taut, ready to fire into action in an instant. Again, a
scuffle, another tinkling of rocks. It was quieter this time, from the left. Wolfgang noiselessly took off
his overcoat, gently pulled out the dagger that always rested in a sheath on his left hip, and without a
whisper moved towards the sound. He stopped and listened.
Scuffle.
Wolfgang moved instantly, dagger held high and ready to kill. The beam from a large flashlight
cut through the darkness. It moved back and forth in a panic, trying to find the presence that could not
be heard but felt.
A scared woman’s voice came from behind the light. “Is someone there?”
Nothing.
The voice, shakier and a little louder, asked again, “Is someone there?”
The beam of the flashlight moved back and forth faster than before. Suddenly the woman
gasped and the light clattered to the ground as Wolfgang grabbed her from behind with one iron arm
and pressed the blade of the dagger against her neck with the other. There would be no struggle.
Wolfgang spoke gently. “Anna Von Himmel? Aunt Anna?”
The old lady answered with terrified voice. “Yes.”
“It’s me. Wolfgang Jaeger.”
“Wolfgang? Wolfgang? No, it can’t be! Please let me look at you.”
Wolfgang released his grip on Anna and the old lady bent down to pick up the flashlight.
Slowly she raised the light up to his face. Wolfgang’s appearance gave Anna a fright, but she tried not
to show it.
The former sniper’s thick black hair hung to his shoulders, and a dark straggly beard clung
loosely from his face. His clothes were dirty and ragged and could not hide the fact that he had become
very lean but, as his grip on Anna had indicated, incredibly strong. Anna stared for a very long time.
Finally, Wolfgang broke the silence. “Well?”
Anna stepped forward and gave Wolfgang a heartfelt hug and started weeping.
Through the tears, Anna tried to speak. “The Nazis told us you were missing in action, probably
killed or captured. We cried and prayed for you. Oh, dear Wolfgang, thank God, you’re back, you’re
back! And I don’t even have any flowers to give you!”
Both laughed.
Wolfgang released Anna and spoke calmly and without emotion. “I deserted the Nazis, Aunt
Anna. The last letter from Wolfland said they were gone from here, so I had no reason to fight their
futile battles. So I ran. I’ve been running for the last two years to get back home. Forgive me for taking
so long. But what’s happened here? Why are you in the cave? Where is everyone?”
“Shh, shh, I’ll tell you everything, but first, you need a bath. Follow me.”
Anna led him to the hot springs in the middle cavern.
Wolfgang asked. “How did you know about this? I was ordered to keep these caves secret.”
Anna smiled and said, “There is much you don’t know about me, young man. In time maybe
you will learn. Now go on, get in, but be quiet. There are others here, and they need their sleep. I’ll
prepare some food and bring fresh clothes for you. Then we will talk. There is so much to say.”

For the first time in many years, Wolfgang allowed himself to relax. He noticed from the dim
light of a kerosene lamp that the caves had been cleaned and there were no longer any remnants of their
former inhabitants. Instead there were boxes filled with food and other supplies. He entered the waters
of the hot springs and instantly felt cleaned and soothed. He was so tired, but his mind was alive with
questions for Anna.

Later, huddled in a blanket in front of a small fire in the first cavern, he ravenously ate Anna’s
food offering of some bread, pork, and cheese.
Once his hunger was satisfied, Wolfgang observed, “These clothes you gave me seem familiar.”
“They should. Your pastor wore them almost every day.”
“Where…?”
Anna shook her head gently.
Wolfgang stammered a quiet, “Sorry.”
Anna looked at him with understanding.
“What has happened here on Wolfland? Where is my family?” asked Wolfgang.
Anna sighed and started to speak with a voice laced in sadness. “All the Nazi leaders died on
Wolfland within a brief period of each other. They were never replaced. Your father made a financial
arrangement with a prominent member of the SS, and after spending almost two years in peace we
believed that the Nazis had forgotten us. That was a big mistake. Our false sense of security made us
careless. Yes, it was foggy and hard to see on the day of the Nazi invasion, but we were also quite
unprepared.”
Anna paused, and her voice then became unsteady. “The Nazis murdered your father and my
husband, along with several others on the eastern dock. I am so sorry.”
Wolfgang’s head sunk down in despair, and several silent minutes passed before he whispered,
“What about my mother and Martin? What happened to them?”
“The Nazis loaded several villagers onto trucks during their attack. I have no idea where they
went after that. Your family may have been put on the trucks or shot.
“I distinctly heard your father yell, ‘You cowards!’ from the dock. Then there were sounds of a
machine gun, a cry of anguish, and a splash. The next thing I heard was our Pastor Andreas saying
firmly and loudly, ‘I forgive you.’ Bullets were fired and there was another splash. The sounds of firing
submachine guns and other bodies falling into the Ebene lasted for at least fifteen minutes. When it
finally ended I heard vehicles drive away from the dock, and after they crossed the bridge all became
quiet on Wolfland. Deathly quiet. I lay in shock for several minutes before I finally got up and went to
the caves, where I found Hannelore and her babies.”
“She is here?” exclaimed Wolfgang incredulously.
“Yes, but I will tell you her story later.”
Anna spent the next hour recounting the mysterious deaths of the Nazis on Wolfland; the
“arrangement” made by Jens Jaeger and Egon Kratzer; the reconciliation of the villagers to the von
Himmels and Jaegers; Pastor Andreas’ decision to open Wilhelm’s Kirche to the mentally disabled and
the opposition from some of the villagers; their subsequent departure from the island; Fritz Unterstutz;
and the day after the Nazi invasion.
“The next morning I left the cave alone and, with a heavy heart, snuck back into the village.
There was no need to have been so quiet. There were splintered doors torn off hinges and broken glass
lying everywhere. There were bits of clothing, even shoes. I slowly went from building to building.
There was nobody and nothing left. I went to the dock. There were bloodstains all over it, smeared by
the rain.”
Wolfgang’s head hung down in grief. This time he couldn’t suppress the tears. They streamed
out of him. Anna held and rocked the brave, decorated warrior of the Third Reich.
Much later, as the anguish eased somewhat, Wolfgang bade Anna to tell him more.
“Several months ago, just after our mentally challenged guests arrived on Wolfland, I was
sitting with your pastor in our living room after a rather difficult day. Some of our ‘guests’ had
disappeared into the woods, and it had taken much effort to get them back to the safety and warmth of
the church. We both felt tired and a little depressed about what had transpired.
“Yet that would change quickly, for suddenly we heard a light tapping sound coming from the
back door. Both of us nervously went to investigate. It was Ernest Schafer. He was quite excited and
beside himself. Hannelore had come home.”
Wolfgang looked puzzled.
Anna carried on. “I know that both you and Johann loved her. I know. I see things. Anyway, I
immediately went with Herr Schafer to see his daughter. Hannelore, as you know, is very beautiful, and
the Nazis considered her to be the perfect Aryan woman. She had been conscripted by the Fleishmanns
for the Nazi war effort and sent to a mansion on the outskirts of Munich. Hannelore had no choice in
going. To refuse would have been an act of treason, punishable by death.
“The awful mansion was run by a group of Nazi doctors who were trying to build a race of
perfect Aryans. They repeatedly drugged and threatened Hannelore to make her obey their wishes. It
was impossible for her to flee.
“The Nazis forced Hannelore to be impregnated by a man who was considered to be the ideal
Aryan male. Hannelore had never met this man until the very night she was ordered to be with him.
The next morning he was gone. She didn’t even know his name.
“After the birth of her son, Hannelore spent the next six months taking care of him at the
mansion, and then the doctors ordered her to have a meeting with another so-called perfect Aryan male.
The next day the father left for battle and, no doubt, his demise. Hannelore became pregnant again and
eventually gave birth to a girl.
“Then there came the American air raids. Some of the doctors fled. Those that remained were in
a panic trying to eliminate all the records of what they had done and neglected to give Hannelore drugs
for several days. Her head began to clear, and she regained some physical strength. The air raids
continued, and it became quite apparent that it was only a matter of time before the Americans would
come to liberate the mansion.
“One evening, the remaining Nazi doctors began to inject the mothers and babies with lethal
drugs. They did not want their ‘ideal specimens of the Aryan race’ captured by the U.S. soldiers.
“It was on that night, when the Nazis were killing everyone, that there was another air raid.
During the confusion Hannelore ran away with her children. She travelled for five days and nights with
those babies to get here. Believe me, after that ordeal, she and the youngsters were in no condition to
travel any more. Hannelore’s feet were bleeding and in awful shape. The babies were sick and
malnourished.
“We took care of them, the whole village did, and they quickly recovered from their ailments.
Hannelore is still so beautiful, and the little ones are just dolls. They brought all of us so much joy.
“It was a few weeks later when both your pastor and father, like they had done with everyone
else, showed Hannelore the caves. They were to be used only as a hiding place if the Nazis returned or
if the Soviets came from the east. We started storing as much food, blankets, and medical supplies as
possible in the caves. We also took turns watching for intruders from Rupert’s Berg.
“Over time most of us considered it unnecessary to take such precautions. Thankfully, though,
on the day of the Nazi invasion, Herr Schafer immediately ran to Hannelore and helped her carry the
babies to the forest. As they made their escape a soldier shot at them, killing Herr Schafer and
wounding Hannelore in the leg. The Nazi took a few more shots, but Hannelore managed to get away
with her young ones. Once they were under the cover of the trees the soldier for some reason gave up
the chase. He was probably ordered to help with the round-up of the others.
“Hannelore limped and dragged herself and the two little ones into the caves. I found them later.
Hannelore was in great pain, because a Nazi bullet had gone through her lower leg and snapped one of
the bones. Thankfully I had helped Doctor Liebermann a few times with such injuries so I was able to
set the bone.
“Although I managed to stabilize Hannelore, her recovery was slow and tedious. She moved
slowly and with great pain for many months. By the time she recovered it was winter and the sounds of
battle could be heard from the east. It was during this time that we encountered several refugees who
fled over the island from the oncoming Soviet army. They told us many horror stories of what some of
the Red Army soldiers were doing to German civilians and insisted that we come with them.
“But we decided that it was best not to move. The children were much too small, I was much
too old, and Hannelore was still weak from her injuries. So we remained in the caves, venturing out
once in a while for some air and exercise and to gather food from the neglected reserves of the
villagers.
“At Christmas we took a risk and went by ourselves into Wilhelm’s Kirche to have a little
service, and later we slept in our own beds at home. But the fear of a sudden attack by either the Nazis
or the Soviets forced us back to the caves the very next day.
“A month ago we heard the Soviets coming onto Wolfland. They left several explosives on the
island because almost every night they shoot them into the sky, scaring us half to death. So even though
our supplies are getting low, we haven’t dared leave these caverns for too long. Only early in the
morning do we go out for a spell and gather firewood. We take the children too, for they need to have
some sunshine and fresh air.
“So that’s it, Wolfgang. What a terrible dark time we are living in. Yet God has healed
Hannelore, her children are alive and well, and God has answered my prayers about you.”
The fire started to fade, and Wolfgang rose to get some more wood. He threw it on the embers,
and the fire flickered to life again. Wolfgang and Anna remained silent for the longest time.
Finally, Wolfgang asked, “Did you and my parents receive letters from a man named Fritz
Unterstutz? I was with him in Stalingrad.”
“Yes, yes, we did. It gave us hope.”
“Do you know what happened to the other letter?”
“The other one?”
“Yes, the one to Johann. I wrote him a letter as well. I asked Herr Unterstutz to give it to Pastor
Andreas.”
“We lost contact with Pastor Jupp and the Liebermanns a few years ago. I have no idea what
has become of them. When Andreas decided to harbour the mentally disadvantaged he gave your letter
back to Herr Unterstutz, for he knew what he was doing was dangerous and believed it would be safer
with him. In retrospect, he was right. Herr Unterstutz has been completely trustworthy. I am sure that
he will hold on to the letter until he is certain of what has happened to Johann.”
Wolfgang nodded.
“Now, we’ve had enough talk. Later you will tell me everything. The invasion of the Soviet
Union, Stalingrad, how you escaped, but now come with me; it is time for you to meet Hannelore and
her two little children.”
Anna led Wolfgang into the third cavern, where a makeshift room had been built using stacked
boxes and blankets. The babies were stirring, and Hannelore was up changing one and trying to feed
the other. Anna came up to Hannelore and took the older child into her arms. He was ready to cry, but
Anna whispered to him and he settled.
Then she declared, “Hannelore, God has answered our prayers. Look who has come back!”
Wolfgang stepped forward into the light of a small kerosene lamp that was burning on a table.
His long beard, unkempt hair and hard sinewy body made him almost unrecognizable. Hannelore stared
at her old beau, speechless with surprise. Wolfgang stood stunned as well, for Hannelore was even
more beautiful than he could remember. The moment was broken as the smaller baby cried for
attention. Hannelore bundled the baby up and gently put her in a makeshift crib. She stared again at
Wolfgang, who stayed rooted and transfixed by the sight of his former love, and then slowly walked up
to him. Her eyes never left his.
She stopped in front of him and whispered, “Wolfgang?”
Wolfgang Jaeger, hardened soldier, war hero, deadly sniper, a man who had survived two years
on the run, could only croak a feeble “Yes.”
Hannelore fell into his arms, and they held each other for many seconds.
With tear-streaked cheeks Hannelore looked up at Wolfgang and said, “It’s so good to see you
again, but you could really use a haircut and a shave!”

It was Duradov who had the idea one night to set up empty wine bottles on the tombstones of
Wolfland’s cemetery. The three Soviets, who first got severely intoxicated on Wolfland Weiss, started
blasting the bottles with submachine guns. Glass shards and fragments of tombstones shattered with
loud sharp cracks.
Eventually, as a full moon lit Wolfland in a pale shade of grey, they grew weary of shooting.
The three drunks headed for the cottage, to drink more Wolfland Weiss in front of a comfortable fire.
Their laughter and singing echoed off Rupert’s Berg.
Near the cottage Gromenko thought he heard something. A howl. It was high-pitched but
coming from—where? The major told his compatriots to stop their inane talking. They obeyed and
stood unsteadily in their inebriated state.
Only the eternal rush of the Ebene could be heard.
Metlazev started laughing, but Gromenko told him to shut up.
Suddenly, a mournful howl echoed from the forest.
The three Soviets feverishly reloaded their machine guns and, fuelled with foolish alcoholic
nerve, staggered towards the ink-black trees. As soon as they arrived, another bloodcurdling howl froze
the drunks for a moment. Gromenko waved the other two men to spread out. Metlazev slowly moved to
the major’s left, Duradov to the right. The only sound was a light wind touching the treetops and the
ongoing rush of the river.
Then they heard, very distinctly, the sound of rustling leaves and the snapping of a twig. Major
Gromenko and his subordinates entered the forest at the same time, still spread out. The major looked
over to his right. There was Duradov, his body flashing in and out of the moonlight. Gromenko looked
to his left. Nothing.
Nervously he whispered, “Metlazev? Private Metlazev?”
No response. The major let out a little whistle.
Duradov was at his side in an instance. “What is it, sir?”
Gromenko held his index finger up to his lips. The major whispered, “Metlazev.”
They inched forward to where he should have been. Suddenly, they heard a low growl and the
crunch of twigs. The Soviets stepped backwards, their hearts pounding, cold sweat beading on their
brows. Both tripped over something at the same time and landed in a heap. Scrambling to their feet,
they recoiled in terror at the sight below them. A moonbeam lit up the bloodied face of Metlazev. He
was still alive, but blood gurgled out of his mouth. The two remaining Soviets made another critical
mistake. They panicked and ran. But it was now far too late.

•••

On May 2, 1945, the Berlin garrison finally surrendered to the Soviet army, which had lost over
300,000 troops in its effort to take the centre of Nazi power. Hitler and several of his other
accomplices had committed suicide a few days earlier.
On May 8, 1945, Germany capitulated, signing an unconditional surrender to the Allies. Berlin and the
rest of the country were split into four occupation zones—Soviet, American, French, and British.
Germany’s cities were in ruins, and most of its people were destitute and in despair. Some, however,
were in a state of joy.

•••

The light from Bremen’s evening sun glowed through the windows of the dining room, casting
a mellow spell over the three friends gathered around the table. They sat silently sipping their tea. A
decrepit old woman, severely bent at the shoulders, shuffled into the room carrying a tray of dry
biscuits. She came up to Rosenberg and extended an offering from her tray, which he gently declined.
No matter. The biscuits were presented to Sonnenheim, who, like his associate, also passed on the
opportunity. Johann, however, did not refuse the biscuits, and the old woman cracked a small smile of
victory before scuffling away.
“Thank you, Oma [grandma],” trilled Rosenberg, but his patronizing efforts at politeness were
ignored. The three men grinned to themselves and leaned back in their chairs.
Rosenberg pompously inquired, “Well, gentlemen, was Oma’s meal of lamb chops, salted
potatoes, and coleslaw satisfactory?”
Johann held his forefinger up and responded with sophistication, “I thought the meat was a little
tough, the potatoes undercooked, and the coleslaw was too watery. Yet, all and all, it was a little better
than Dorn’s leftovers, roasted rat, and sawdust soup.”
Rosenberg grinned, then scowled. He turned to his other friend. “And you, Sonnenheim, what is
your evaluation of our meal tonight?”
Sonnenheim smiled and then very uncharacteristically let out a giant belch. “As you can see,
your table manners have rubbed off on me, Herr Rosenberg. Yet I would have to agree with Herr
Liebermann here. The coleslaw was a little watery. Not good for the bowels.”
The three laughed and Rosenberg bellowed, “Oma! More tea, and if you have a secret stash of
beer somewhere it is high time to bring that out too.”
Rosenberg’s grandmother meandered back to the men and responded with a creaky voice. “No
beer for you, boy. But there is a bottle of red wine in the drawer behind you. Take it, but don’t drink it
all at once.”
“Yes, Oma. Could you please fetch us a corkscrew?”
“You know where it is. Kitchen. Middle drawer to the left.”
“Liebermann, you heard Frau Rosenberg. Now go get it. Wine glasses should be nearby as
well.”
Johann squinted with mock disdain at Rosenberg, slowly rose, bowed, and went to get the
items.
“Not bad, Liebermann. We’ll make an excellent servant out of you yet.”
Johann found the corkscrew and glasses easily enough and returned in triumph to the dining
room. As way of a reward Rosenberg allowed him the privilege of trying to uncork the bottle. As
Johann fumbled away, another guest arrived at the Rosenberg’s.
Old Uncle Max Rosenberg trotted into the dining room, announcing his arrival with tears and a
hearty laugh as he came over to embrace his nephew, whom he hadn’t seen in years.
“I got word that you were here, alive and well, Josef! I had to come to see it for myself. My
dreams have come true! You are alive!”
Johann and Sonnenheim looked on with some feelings of grief. There was still no word from
the Red Cross as to whether any members of their own families had survived.
Sensing this, Rosenberg cut the celebration with his uncle short and made the introductions.
Max was an old, short man with a ready laugh who had owned a chocolate store before the war. He had
escaped the horrors of the concentration camps by fleeing to neutral Switzerland, well before Hitler
started putting serious pressure on the Jews.
Oma came into the dining room to announce that she was retiring for the night, so the four men
moved to the living room, well away from the old lady’s bedroom, and settled on the slightly run-down
couches and chairs. Rosenberg lit up a roaring fire in the hearth. The red wine was poured into glasses,
and the four men sat still for a moment, sipping their drinks and enjoying the atmosphere.
Johann said, “This reminds me of the fireplace at the Jaeger’s cottage back on Wolfland.”
Rosenberg and Sonnenheim groaned. They had grown weary of Johann’s stories of his idealistic
life on Wolfland.
With just a hint of sarcasm, Rosenberg implored, “Do pray tell us more, dear Liebermann. No
doubt the fireplace at the Jaegers’ back in Wolfland was better than this one.”
Johann picked up on Rosenberg’s tone and smiled as he declared, “Actually, yes, it was better
at the Jaegers’.”
Rosenberg looked over at Sonnenheim. “There, didn’t I tell you. All our friend has on the brain
is: Wolfland, Wolfland, and Wolfland. So amuse us, Herr Liebermann. Why would the fire at the
Jaegers’ be better than this one?”
“Well, namely, the company in front of it tended to be of much higher quality!”
This comment evoked a round of laughs from the men.
Johann pressed on. “Many healthy conversations and important decisions were made in front of
that fire. I suppose that could happen anywhere, even here? My father always seemed to be a better
man after spending time with his friends in front of the Jaegers’ fireplace.”
Sonnenheim seized the initiative and said, “Well then, why don’t we have a healthy
conversation? And, maybe later we can make some important decisions. What do you think,
Rosenberg?”
Rosenberg looked over at old Uncle Max. “Uncle Max, what do you think? Maybe you could be
the high quality company?”
Dryly, he rasped, “Maybe is not an issue. As soon as I entered this room your request was
already satisfied.”
The three survivors of Auschwitz chuckled in unison.
Max continued, “Seriously, though, I am very interested to know how you got here last week.
From what I am hearing, most Jews did not survive the concentration camps. How did you manage to
stay alive, and how did you get here?”
The three survivors looked at each other and Sonnenheim sighed. “Herr Rosenberg, it was like
this. We survived because of God’s mercy.”
For the next two hours, Sonnenheim, with ample help from his friends, told old Max of their
time in Auschwitz. His voice became hollow and detached as if he was describing a nightmare, rather
than real experiences. Only when he recounted the memories of the Red Cross camp, did his voice
sharpen and become more focused.
“We remained at the Red Cross camp for a few months. Thousands of people, just liberated
from concentration camps all over the Reich, came through. All had suffered and were, like us, in
various stages of malnutrition and mental illness. We, however, regained our strength in a relatively
short period of time and were able to help the Red Cross. Liebermann was amazing. He used his
medical skills to save several people. Mainly though, we listened to the survivor’s stories and set up a
tent that became known as the prayer centre. We prayed every day with people from practically every
country in Europe. Some of the people we prayed with couldn’t speak our language, but no matter—
human touch is universal; God is universal. The prayers were healing. Later we set up a school and
playground for the children. We were constantly busy, and the time fled by. Then came the day when
the Nazis surrendered.
“Indeed, it was one of the greatest days of our lives. Liebermann wanted to go home to
Wolfland, but we discovered it was under Soviet occupation and travelling there was impossible
anyways due to the destruction of rail lines and roads. So, as you can see, he came with us. We took
over four days to get to Bremen. With the roads and train tracks in various states of disrepair we
walked, rode bikes, got a ride with American soldiers in a jeep, and travelled on a very slow truck.
Finally, last week, we arrived. So there you have it Herr Rosenberg. That’s our story.”
Old Max could only stare at them in amazement. Then in a voice laden with emotion he
declared, “Gentlemen, that was the most incredible, most heart-wrenching story I have ever heard. I
promise you that I will do everything in my power to help you re-establish your lives. Money is not an
issue. Before the war I managed to transfer a fortune to a bank in Switzerland, where it remains, ready
to be used. There is more than enough for everyone. Please tell me what you need.”
The three men looked at each other and then slowly turned to Max with smiles of gratitude.

•••

Hamburg, like all major German cities during the Second World War had been heavily bombed by
Allied warplanes. After Germany’s surrender the city lay in ruins, with most of its surviving citizens
hungry and destitute. Homes in Hamburg that had not been destroyed during the war were taken over
by the British to house their soldiers. Owners either moved into cramped quarters somewhere else or
became servants in their own homes, cooking and cleaning for the victors. Others moved into shacks of
wood, tarpaper, and scraps of metal. The more fortunate ones lived in broken-down apartment
buildings without running water or any kind of climate control. In response to the dire needs of the
Germans, the Red Cross, along with other relief agencies, provided medical supplies and food.
However, gangs of German teenagers, made up of orphans or the displaced, roamed the bombed out
cities of the former Reich in search of food and things to trade on the black market. These gangs, also
known as “Wolfpacks,” created problems for the four occupying forces. Not only were they stealing
valuable foodstuffs and supplies from the relief agencies, but also the brash and violent ways in which
the Wolfpacks obtained these goods was intimidating the relief organizations and the occupying forces.

•••

On a hot and sticky summer evening, a single British lorry (transport), loaded with oranges
provided by the Red Cross, was forced to stop at a makeshift roadblock constructed of old wooden
beams. Christoff Holzenbein and five other accomplices, boys aged twelve to sixteen, started pelting
the lorry with rocks. Two British soldiers scrambled out of the vehicle and scurried for cover behind
the bombed out remains of a grocery store. They pulled out pistols and started firing in the general
direction of where the rocks were coming from. It was futile. The rocks kept coming. Meanwhile,
Martin Jaeger and three other boys moved in and within a minute had removed the crates of oranges
from the lorry.
Martin gave a sharp whistle, which was the cue for Phillip and his friends to stop throwing.
They immediately scattered off in different directions and were soon lost in the tangle and jumble of
the bombed-out buildings.
The British soldiers kicked the lorry in frustration when they discovered that their precious
cargo had been stolen. Fuming in anger, they drove the badly dented vehicle back to base camp.
British Commander Wayne Townsend of the Hamburg garrison, upon hearing of the latest
attack on a British lorry, responded angrily. Wolfpacks had stolen and vandalized British supplies and
property almost every day for weeks. Informants had identified one Martin Jaeger as the leader of the
most notorious Wolfpack in Hamburg. This boy needed to be stopped. The incident with the oranges
was the last straw.

Both Martin and Christoff had long given up on the innocence and ideals of their youth. They
had seen death, endured the interrogations of the Americans, and suffered hunger in a prisoner-of-war
camp in France. At the camp they had learned from the Red Cross that their families were either
missing, captured, or dead and that Wolfland had been taken over by the Soviets. The news broke the
last remnants of Martin and Christoff’s childhood innocence. Without love and positive adult guidance
they became disillusioned with authority. The world was hard and ruthless to them, and they responded
in kind.
After the war, the boys were released from the camp and made their way back to Germany,
eventually ending up in Hamburg. Within a few days of their arrival the boys found several other
former Volkssturm youth, who were running alone throughout the city. The young Jaeger, like the rest
of his cohorts, wore ragged clothes and was filthy, with long unkempt hair. On account of his high
intelligence, hunting skills, and newly acquired vicious temperament, Martin organized the boys into a
Wolfpack and declared himself as leader.
To survive, Martin’s Wolfpack turned to a life of crime stealing from the British supply depots
or the Red Cross. The stolen goods were in turn sold or traded to Hamburg’s black market dealers. The
oranges from their latest exploit could bring Martin’s Wolfpack bread, clothing, or a gun. Martin
wanted a gun. Then his power over the Wolfpack and the opportunity to agitate the British further
would be even greater.
Two days after the roadblock incident, a well-paid British informant—actually a German youth
pretending to be a member of another Wolfpack—set the bait for Martin. A gun was available for a
crate of oranges. Martin could not resist. A meeting place, in the ruins of the old Rathaus at 11:30 p.m.
that very night, was agreed upon.
Martin decided to bring only his loyal friend Phillip Holzenbein. There was no need to let the
rest of the Wolfpack know what they were up to. Phillip’s job was to act as a lookout. One sharp
whistle from his lips was all it would take for the boys to disappear into the maze of destruction in an
instant.
The heat from the day was still steaming from the rubble when Martin and Phillip made an
excuse to the rest of their gang about scouting a British depot alone. It was dangerous to have too many
people. They would be back by morning.
The two boys came up close to the ruins of the Rathaus. The night was so dark that scouting for
ambushers was impossible. So they listened intently for several minutes. There was absolutely no
sound. Phillip remained behind some ruins as Martin carried the crate of oranges to the archway of the
still standing back entrance of the Rathaus and vanished into the darkness. The only thing Martin could
hear was his own heart beating a heavy rhythm. All he could see were the dim outlines of bombed out
buildings and billions of stars, ones that he had seen so often during his days on Wolfland, a place that
seemed like some vague thought now, a place and a life that did not seem to have happened. Martin
snapped out of his reminiscing and concentrated on the task at hand.
Too much time had passed.
Nervous perspiration popped onto his forehead. Martin let out a quiet whistle, the signal for
Phillip to whistle back and move on. The deal was off. But there was no return whistle. Again. Louder.
No reply. Something was wrong. Panic began to hit Martin in waves, causing his stomach to do
somersaults. He picked up the crate of oranges and moved out of the black.
The blinding spotlight and crackling loudspeaker came on at the same time. Both put Martin
into shock. The voice from the loudspeaker was English. Martin did not understand but wisely dropped
the crate and held up his arms in surrender. Two powerful soldiers came up behind him and roughly
brought his arms down before clipping handcuffs onto his wrists. Martin cried out in pain. A gruff
“shut up” was yelled into his right ear. That was the last thing Martin heard before a hard blunt object
crashed onto the back of his head, rendering him unconscious.

1946
The blue sky was streaked with the faint grey and white remnants of a cloud that had delivered a deluge
of rain over Wolfland earlier that morning. As the heat of the sun evaporated the rainwater, it left the
forest steaming in shrouds of white mist.
Wolfgang was in the vineyard with the pruning scissors. He nodded to himself with some
satisfaction. The weather conditions over the last month, constant moisture and heat, had been ideal for
growing wine grapes. It looked like Wolfland Weiss, vintage 1946, would be a good one. Wolfgang’s
now-pregnant wife, Hannelore, was beside him, armed with a hoe and battling the weeds that were
choking the ground. The couple’s children—Jan, now two, and Edna, age one—were with Aunt Anna
back in the manse. As Wolfgang looked over at the lovely Hannelore his mind drifted into memories of
the past year.

After the three Soviets were dispatched from the island, Wolfgang, Anna, Hannelore, and the
babies stayed in the caves for several days, fully expecting members from the Red Army to come and
investigate the loss of their comrades. No one came. Finally, Hannelore, Anna, and the children moved
to the manse, which had suffered only minor damage from the Soviet soldiers’ foolishness. Wolfgang
went to live in the cottage. It was, though, bittersweet without the rest of his family there.

On a crisp late April day Wolfgang went up to Rupert’s Berg and chopped down the flagpole. It
came down easily, and he burned the wood and Soviet flag at the same time. Wolfgang then
strategically placed some bombs from the Soviet’s old ammunition dump throughout the
communications tower. After detonating them, Wolfgang could not suppress a smile as, within five
seconds, the structure disintegrated into scrap metal.
The next day Wolfgang dragged and carried the remainder of the Soviet ammunition dump to
the Ebene and threw it into the cold, grey waters. He felt relief as the last device gurgled into the depths
of the river.

A week later, on a clear and beautiful Sunday morning, Wolfgang, Anna, Hannelore, and the
children gathered at the dock. They prayed, read Scripture, and threw flowers into the Ebene as a
tribute to Jens, Andreas, and the others who had been murdered there. Afterwards they went to the
graveyard and erected a simple metal cross as a memorial to their dearly departed. They also allowed
themselves some time to grieve.

On May 8, 1945, Wolfgang adjusted the radio at the Liebermanns’ old clinic and listened with
great satisfaction to the news about Germany’s unconditional surrender to the Allies.
Several days after the announcement, Wolfgang walked into Koenig’s Tal in search of milk for
the children. He also wanted to find Fritz Unterstutz. Wolfgang discovered the formerly well-kept city
in shambles. Every building had been damaged to some degree by the war. The citizens who had
returned to Koenig’s Tal after fleeing the Soviets moved wearily, weakened by the loss of loved ones,
lack of food, and the depressing state of the city.
Finding no milk in Koenig’s Tal, Wolfgang inquired at the Red Cross for the whereabouts of
Fritz Unterstutz. Apparently he was on a farm just outside of the city.
Wolfgang found the homestead with relative ease. Unlike the buildings in the city, the farm
looked undamaged. A plain two-storey home faced a large barn. A pen built nearby contained a few
goats and a rather gaunt looking cow. Several fruit trees, surrounded by a well-kept garden, were
located just behind the barn.
Three aggressive-looking German shepherds approached Wolfgang and announced their
displeasure at his arrival. A very old couple emerged from the house and stood staring, with concerned
faces, at the intruder.
The aged man pointed a rifle at Wolfgang and gruffly asked, “Who are you, and what do you
want?”
Wolfgang stiffly held up his arms in submission and declared, “My name, sir, is Wolfgang
Jaeger, and I am an acquaintance of Fritz Unterstutz. Is he here?”
The front door opened and Fritz walked out, stopping in front of his parents.
With some excitement he exclaimed in his unusual nasal twang, “Wolfgang Jaeger! What an
honour to have you come and visit us! Father, put the gun down. This is the great man I have spoken so
much about. He was a war hero, and his family and friends have blessed me with great kindness.
Please, Herr Jaeger, forgive us for the rather rude greeting. Since the end of the war we have had to
deal with people who come here begging for food. We give what we can, but some demand more than
we can bear and have threatened us. So we have had to chase many away. The dogs and father’s rifle
work most of the time. When it doesn’t, my face always does.”
Fritz laughed his peculiar nasal laugh.
Wolfgang pleaded, “No, no, please, I understand. Times are desperate. I have come to thank
you for fulfilling your promise to me, to retrieve the letter I wrote for my friend Johann Liebermann,
and to ask for some milk.”
“It was a pleasure to help you, but before I get the letter and milk, please come in and spend
some time with us. Mother, get us food and drink.”
For the next two hours Wolfgang and the Unterstutz family took turns telling their war stories.
Near the end of Wolfgang’s narrative Fritz interjected by saying, “Of course you know that
Koenig’s Tal is part of the American Occupation zone? Unfortunately Wolfland lies just inside Soviet
territory. Beware. I don’t think the Soviets will be as generous to the Germans as the Americans or the
other occupation forces will be. I have heard rumours that they may erect barriers around their zone and
force the people trapped inside to adopt communism.”
“I heard the same talk at the Red Cross in Koenig’s Tal,” said Wolfgang. “We’ll see. I ran from
the Soviets during the war, but I refuse to do that any more, especially now that I am home.”
He thought quietly for a moment before changing the direction of the conversation. “Can I see
the letter I wrote to Johann Liebermann while I was in Stalingrad?”
“Of course.” Fritz retrieved the letter, gave it to Wolfgang, and said, “You were fortunate to
have survived Stalingrad in one piece.”
“My body may have, but I’m not so sure about my mind.”
Wolfgang read the letter in silence and then carefully placed it back into its envelope.
Looking at Fritz he said, “You have convinced me that the Soviets are up to no good concerning
their zone, so I think I’ll have you hold on to this letter like before. It is safer.”
“Certainly. As you wish.”
It was time for Wolfgang to leave. Fritz milked the cow and then drove his ancient work truck
out from the barn.
Within the hour he had delivered Wolfgang to the doorstep of the cottage and said, “If you ever
need a haven, our farm will always be at your disposal. Also, if you ever need more food, milk, or
anything else, let us know.”
Fritz left his friend with a smile, a handshake, and a hearty “God bless you!”
Wolfgang waved his goodbye from the porch as Fritz turned the old truck around and headed
off down the lane towards the bridge. The cross above shone golden from a blazing sunset.
Wolfgang and the others became very apprehensive about the Soviets coming back onto
Wolfland. They took turns staying awake at night to listen and watch for them. During the day they
also kept wary eyes and ears open, ready to move into the safety of the caves at a moment’s notice.
Anytime there was discussion about fleeing the island, Wolfgang insisted that Wolfland was his
home. He had run from the Soviets for almost two years. It was enough. As well, Anna was too old to
travel and Hannelore’s children were too small. So they remained.
Despite the threat of the Soviets, life was fairly peaceful on Wolfland. Anna planted a large
garden, which provided an abundance of produce. Wolfgang fished the Ebene and worked the vineyard
with a passionate expertise so that it yielded beautiful grapes. Soon he was making Wolfland Weiss.
Wolfgang also made regular trips to the Unterstutzes’ farm, and on one trip he traded some
bottles of wine for a goat and some chickens. While passing through Koenig’s Tal on his way to see
Fritz, Wolfgang always checked with the relief agencies for news about Marie, Martin, the
Liebermanns, and others. There was never any news. It was as if they had been swallowed up by the
war, never to return.

During a beautiful afternoon in August, five young women—the Holzenbein sisters, Susanna
and Bettina, both of whom had never married, and three widows, Margarita Bauer, Sophie Muller, and
Meta Fischer—with her three young children, Moritz, Luther, and Klara, arrived at Koenig’s Tal,
destitute and extremely weary.
The women and children were the only known survivors from the Dresden munitions factory
bombings. After the bombing of the plant the Nazis had moved them west, near Frankfurt, to work at
another factory. After the war they spent a few months in a refugee camp, where they recovered from
their ordeal. Upon release from the camp the ladies decided to head home.
After an arduous weeklong journey they were almost there. The news was not good about
Wolfland. It was in the Soviet occupation zone. The women were too exhausted to care. Margarita
Bauer promised her gold wedding band to a young former Volksturm recruit if he would scout
Wolfland for signs of human life.
Twenty-four hours later, in the early afternoon of a blistering hot day, the fifteen-year old boy
found the women at the Koenig’s Tal internment camp. He came with a slightly withered bouquet of
daisies and a note from Anna. The women smothered the former warrior with kisses, and Margarita, as
promised, handed over the ring. They immediately set out for Wolfland.
The five women with the three young children arrived at the bridge and were overwhelmed with
relief and joy as they saw the familiar sights of their home. As Wolfgang, Hannelore, Anna and the
little ones came up to them with flowers and tears, they broke down and wept. A celebration ensued at
Wilhelm’s Kirche with what little food and drink there was on Wolfland.
Afterwards, the women moved back into their former homes, which for the most part were
badly damaged. No matter. It could all be rebuilt. It was great to be home. Within days the women
were fixing their houses, working hard in Anna’s garden, tending to the flock of chickens, and pruning
the vineyard. The new goat, from the Unterstutzes, was pampered and provided plenty of milk for the
children.
As the summer faded into fall, Hannelore’s affection for Wolfgang began to overwhelm her.
There was nothing the stoic and hardened warrior could do about his own feelings of love towards
Hannelore.
High on Rupert’s Berg, during a fantastic autumn sunset, Wolfgang shyly and awkwardly
proposed to the only woman he had ever truly loved. “Ah, I’ve been thinking.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking.”
“About what?”
“Ahh, I’ve thought, I mean, I’ve been thinking…”
Hannelore mercifully put Wolfgang out of his misery by saying, “I love you, Wolfgang Jaeger,
and I will gladly marry you. What took you so long to ask?”
She kissed him on the lips, which made the former deadly sniper nearly buckle to his knees.

The wedding took place at Wilhelm’s Kirche on Christmas Eve, 1945, Wolfgang’s twenty-fifth
birthday. Despite the external damage to the church the heating system was still operational, and it
provided the guests, which included the Unterstutzes, the women and the children, plenty of warmth.
Several lit candles strategically placed around the sanctuary created a gentle, reverent aura.
Anna, despite not being ordained, led the ceremony in lieu of her late husband and pronounced
Wolfgang and Hannelore man and wife. Later the young married couple sang Christmas carols as they
walked everyone home for the evening. The Unterstutzes and the children stayed at Anna’s. Eventually
it was just Wolfgang and Hannelore and they took their time walking in the freshly fallen powdery
snow back to the cottage. The cross high on Rupert’s Berg shone white from the light of the crescent
moon.

The rest of the winter passed uneventfully. Wolfgang continued his travels to the Unterstutzes’
and Koenig’s Tal for supplies and to inquire at the relief agencies about his family and the others from
Wolfland. The news was always the same. Due to the war there were millions of displaced people all
across Europe. Roads and communication services were in disrepair. The Red Cross and other relief
agencies were overwhelmed in trying to help reunite family and friends. It might take years before
everyone was accounted for.
Wolfgang’s hope of seeing his family and friends dwindled as time drifted by and spring’s
welcoming warmth and rekindling of life came back. The sad reality was that most of Wolfland’s men
had been either killed in battle or captured and then died in internment camps. Their families had either
succumbed at the munitions plant or were scattered throughout Germany. Finally, the fact that
Wolfland was difficult to travel to and was in the Soviet occupation zone no doubt dissuaded the few
remaining survivors from returning home.
Wolfgang and the others gradually resigned themselves to what the war had wrought on
Wolfland. Yet they still prayed for their loved ones and held out hope that those still unaccounted for
were alive and well. They also prayed for safety, as the return of the Soviets could happen at anytime.

A rumbling like thunder before a rain snapped Wolfgang out of his reminiscing. He glanced at
Hannelore, who looked apprehensive. They stood still and listened intently for a few moments.
Suddenly Wolfgang and Hannelore looked into each other’s eyes. They had heard that sound during the
war. Tanks!
Wolfgang hurriedly picked up the high-powered rifle that was always near him and shot a bullet
into the sky. The blast could be heard throughout the island and was the signal for everyone to flee to
the caverns.
Wolfgang strapped the rifle to his back and headed quickly down towards Margarita Bauer’s
home, which was near the entrance to the village. Hannelore meanwhile ran to the manse to collect the
children and Anna for the escape to the caves.
Wolfgang scrambled over the cobblestone streets of the now deserted village. Several months
earlier Margarita had agreed to let Wolfgang have free access to her home if the island were ever
invaded. The house had an attic with a small window that provided a sweeping view of the meadows
and the lane to the bridge.
It was perfect for a sniper.
Wolfgang entered the deserted Bauer home, scampered up the ladder leading to the attic, ran to
the window and peered through. He was just in time to see a slow procession of men and machinery on
the narrow road heading towards the village.
In front were two thin, scruffy looking men. Wisps of peach fuzz floated loosely from their
chins, and long, greasy, unkempt hair hung randomly from their heads. Both were locked to one
another at the wrists by a short metal chain. A man with a machine gun prodded them along while four
creaking Soviet tanks and a truck followed behind.
Wolfgang furrowed his brow, puzzled by the whole procession. There was something oddly
familiar about the walks and bodies of the men. He looked again, this time through the viewfinder of
his rifle, to get a closer look. Suddenly, it hit him. It was his brother Martin and Christoff Holzenbein.
They certainly had grown, but there was no question that it was the boys. A rush of pure euphoric
emotion flowed through Wolfgang. However, his harsh army training and war experiences made him
grimly suppress the feelings and clear his mind.
Just before the entrance into the village and approximately fifty metres from Wolfgang’s
vantage point, the tanks suddenly roared up to another gear and drove onto the nearby meadow, tearing
the moist earth into shreds. They formed a semicircle in front of the truck. The soldier with the machine
gun sought refuge behind one of the tanks, desperately trying to find protection from the legendary
German sniper, who according to what he had been told, probably had a rifle trained on his head at that
very moment. Martin and Christoff were left standing with four tank turrets trained at their backs.
Three men with flame-throwers, three with submachine guns, and two unarmed and very
nervous looking Soviets carrying a speaker emerged from the back of the truck. The ones with weapons
hid behind the tanks while their two comrades propped the speaker up on the roof of their transport. As
soon as the task was completed the couple hurried behind a tank to safety. German, spoken with a very
thick Russian accent, was projected out of the speaker.
“Citizens of Wolfland, we mean you no harm. We are the Soviet occupation force, and this
island is under the jurisdiction of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and its glorious leader, Josef
Stalin. We have two of your citizens, Martin Jaeger and Christoff Holzenbein. They will come to no
harm if you surrender now and gather in front of us. Do not, I repeat do not, carry any weapons. Any
resistance and your comrades Jaeger and Holzenbein will be shot. We will also destroy your buildings
and burn your forest to the ground. If Wolfgang Jaeger is among you, he must come out first.”
The words echoed hauntingly off the cliffs of Rupert’s Berg and then swept away in the wind.
For the longest time only the chattering of birds and the eternal rush of the Ebene could be heard. Five
minutes stretched into ten. The calm was suddenly broken by the noise of a tank turret being cranked
up. It stopped when it was in line with the damaged but still looming spire of Wilhelm’s Kirche.
There was a crack of a rifle shot, and a flame-thrower clattered to the ground. The soldier who
had held the weapon cried in agony as he stared at his bloody right hand.
Kaboom!
The tank with the raised turret blasted a shell that blew the top off Wilhelm’s Kirche. Debris
from the roof rained onto the empty cobblestone square below. The chains holding the ancient bells
snapped, causing them to hurtle straight down, destroying the landing and the steps of the tower. The
bells crashed at the bottom of the spire and gave one last loud resounding ring before fading into quiet.
Then, as if in slow motion, the remaining part of the spire leaned to the left, creaking and
splintering for several minutes, before finally breaking off and crashing loudly onto the square.
The noise from the impact thundered over the island and even into the caverns. The women and
children were terrified, but they followed Wolfgang’s orders and stayed put.
A dusty haze from the destruction hung in the air. As it cleared, Wolfgang could be seen by the
Soviets, standing near the Bauer home with his arms up. The well-armed Red Army soldiers tentatively
emerged from behind the tanks. Most of them warily encircled the former Nazi sniper, while some
looked for accomplices in the Bauers’ house. They had to make sure that the German sniper’s surrender
was genuine. It was.
A Soviet gave a sharp whistle, and two men gingerly climbed out of a tank. One was older
looking, perhaps in his forties, plump, red faced, and walked with a pronounced limp. The other was
younger and had several ugly scars that ran from the top of his pale angular face down to his neck.
They came up to Wolfgang, and the one with the limp said to the scarred one, in Russian,
“Well, didn’t I tell you, Major Gromenko, that we must take every precaution before going onto
Wolfland? And the reason stands before you. Is it possible that we have caught the infamous sniper
Hauptmann Wolfgang Jaeger?”
The major peered intently into Wolfgang’s eyes. “Yes, sir. It is quite possible.”
The older Soviet limped up to Wolfgang and said in excellent German, “My name is
Commander Dmitry Bobarov, and you are amazing. No man on earth could have shot the trigger hand
of a soldier from over fifty metres. There is no question that you are, indeed, Hauptmann Wolfgang
Jaeger.”
Wolfgang looked up in mild surprise and said, “Yes, I am Wolfgang Jaeger.”
Bobarov turned to the major and declared in triumph, “I knew it!”
Then he spun around to face Wolfgang and with a gleeful tone exclaimed, “You are a great
sniper, but you are even a greater sentimentalist. I knew you would be here on Wolfland!”
Wolfgang coolly ignored the Soviet commander and gruffly asked, “What do you want with us
here?”
Bobarov smiled and replied, “You will find out shortly.”
The commander barked out orders to the Soviet soldiers around him. Martin and Christoff were
finally released from their chains. Then five men came on the double and put Wolfgang, Martin, and
Christoff into the back of the Soviet transport. The soldiers positioned themselves in the back as well,
their weapons ready to fire at any wrong movement from the prisoners. The Jaeger brothers sat across
from each other, and Martin started to weep at the sight of his sibling. Wolfgang, however, remained
stoic. Gromenko took a place in the front of the truck, with Bobarov and directed the driver to Herzog’s
(former) inn. Upon arrival, the three prisoners were brought inside by the Soviets and made to sit down
at the head table.
Bobarov walked slowly up to the table and glared at the Jaeger brothers a moment before
warning, ominously, “I know it’s been a long time since you saw each other, and I’m sure you have a
lot to talk about, but your reunion will depend on the little meeting I have with one of Germany’s
greatest snipers.”
Bobarov ordered the soldiers to take Martin and Christoff away and also for Gromenko to wait
outside the door. The major hesitated for a moment, but Bobarov’s facial expressions clearly
communicated that he wanted to be alone with Wolfgang, and that was an order. He left quickly.
Once they were alone, Commander Dmitry Bobarov pleaded with Wolfgang, “Please forgive
me. I admire and respect you greatly, and I admit that I have been rather rough with you and your
brother.”
Wolfgang looked at Bobarov and calmly said, “I am going to kill you!”
The commander laughed out loud. “Very good. I appreciate directness. Actually, I don’t think
you will kill me, Hauptmann Jaeger. That would not be consistent with what I know about you.”
The commander started to limp back and forth in front of Wolfgang with some excitement.
“First of all, Hauptmann Jaeger, I am able to speak German because I was raised in the Ukraine near a
Mennonite settlement. I have never lost the language, and it certainly has helped me over the years,
particularly in the last few months. I meant it when I said that I admire and respect you greatly. You are
my hero, and you should be grateful for that, because just a few months ago your brother and his friend
were languishing on death row in a dark, reeking British detention centre in Hamburg.
“An informant of mine found your boys five days before their execution. Thankfully, I had a
few British spies I could exchange for them. Apparently, their captors felt that the youngsters would
suffer more in Siberia. They said death by hanging was actually much too honourable for them.”
Bobarov roared with laughter at this. Wolfgang just stared at nothing in particular.
The Soviet composed himself and spoke to his audience of one. “I knew that getting your
brother and his friend into my custody would be beneficial for me, because you are an incredible
marksman, Hauptmann Jaeger. I believe you would not have surrendered so easily today if they hadn’t
led our little invasion.”
Bobarov chuckled, and his round belly heaved up and down like jelly. Wolfgang shook his head
slightly in disbelief.
Finally, tired from laughing, Bobarov continued speaking again. “There are dozens of Soviet
soldiers whose legs or hands are permanently crippled because of you, Hauptmann Jaeger. However, I
am sure that each and every one of them would thank you for getting them out of that hell called
Stalingrad and back home to their loved ones. I certainly have to agree that being crippled is better than
dying. It is honourable to be wounded in war. You also get to live another day; mind you, not the way
you were, but at least it is something.
“I saw hundreds of wounded soldiers during the war, because I was a commanding officer in
the Battle of Stalingrad, and part of my duty was to visit the infirmary every day and then report to my
superiors on the status of our injured soldiers.
“It was during the month of November 1942 that I first noticed something unusual. I came
across five comrades who had one of either their kneecaps or their hands injured from the bullets of
Nazi snipers. At first I thought it was a coincidence and didn’t give it much thought.
“But one day, a few weeks later, I noticed another four soldiers having to leave Stalingrad due
to war wounds. Of course that was not so remarkable. But what caught my attention was that they had
all been shot on the same day and that each one was leaving due to being shot in the right kneecap. Not
the left kneecap, not the right or left hand, but the right kneecap.
“I checked the medical records. Thirty-three soldiers from November to mid December 1942
had been relieved of duty due to the destruction of either a kneecap or hand. This couldn’t be a
coincidence any more. It had to be a Nazi sniper, and an excellent one, perhaps the best, that was
responsible for this. No ordinary rifleman could hit kneecaps or hands with such regularity.
“I immediately started reading every file that Soviet Intelligence had gathered on Germany’s
snipers. It was obvious, based on the amount of decorations that you received from the Wehrmacht,
that you were one of the best. One of the files also stated that your father and a pastor named Andreas
von Himmel had collaborated in saving a Jewish family from the Nazis in your hometown of Wolfland.
There was now no question in my mind that you were the marksman. The mercy shown by your father
and pastor had to also be part of your character. You cannot kill.
“My superiors just laughed and refused to listen when I presented my findings to them. Even
the fact that according to our intelligence sources you were in Stalingrad didn’t sway them. The fools
said it was inconceivable that one of the Nazi’s greatest snipers would only shoot at his enemies’
kneecaps and hands.
“One week later, on a bitterly cold December morning, I was in an army sedan heading to
Soviet army headquarters in Stalingrad. Forgive me, Hauptmann Jaeger, if the facts I present now are a
little muddled. I remember my chauffeur remarking how we seemed to be making progress in the battle
of Stalingrad. My pleasure at his compliment quickly turned to anger when I realized he had missed a
turnoff. It was still rather dark that morning, and it was hard to make out landmarks and streets. My
driver desperately tried to find his way back, but it was to no avail; he soon got us hopelessly lost.
Finally, I demanded that he stop the car so that we could get our bearings.
“For a few moments we sat there composing ourselves. Suddenly a shot rang out, obliterating
the front right tire. A second bullet destroyed a back tire, rendering the vehicle useless. Another bullet
passed through the windshield, shattering it into tiny pieces. Much of the glass landed on my lap.
“The driver panicked and got out of the vehicle. I yelled, ‘Don’t,’ but it was too late. A shot
sent him sprawling to the pavement crying in agony. I stayed cowering in the vehicle, completely
terrified, but angry as well.
“I remained transfixed to my spot for several minutes. But the whimpering and desperate
pleadings of the driver became too much to bear. It sounded like he was dying. I grabbed a submachine
gun, stepped out of the car and fired at the direction I thought the shots had come from. The last thing I
remember was an incredibly sharp pain in my right knee and falling hard to the ground.
“Next thing I know I’m in the Soviet infirmary, surrounded by my superior officers. The driver
was in the bed beside me. Both our right kneecaps no longer existed, and I knew, because of that, that it
was you, Hauptmann Jaeger. We had been found by a Soviet patrol, and it was determined later that we
were at least a kilometre from the road we were supposed to be on.”
“Two,” said Wolfgang.
Bobarov paused in surprise, lifted his hands in surrender, and dryly repeated, “Two.”
Smiling meekly to himself, the Soviet continued on with his narrative. “The battle of Stalingrad
was over for me, thanks to you, Hauptmann Jaeger. I spent the majority of my recovery at an officers’
retreat near the Black Sea. A very nice arrangement, I must admit—until the horrible news about my
family.
“My wife, little girl, and parents lived in a small village near the Ukrainian border. They were
all slaughtered one night by retreating Nazi soldiers. My mind spiralled into a deep depression, and
there were several times when I nearly committed suicide.
“I finally got out of my black hole when I pondered why you had spared me, Hauptmann
Jaeger. I became convinced that your mercy towards me was mainly due to your faith in God, or are
you my guardian angel, Hauptmann Jaeger? You certainly don’t look that angelic.”
Bobarov stopped and broke down laughing at his own joke. Wolfgang did not grasp the humour
and shook his head once more in disbelief.
Eventually the Soviet commander settled and continued talking. “It was also interesting how
during the time of my recovery I suddenly started remembering Bible verses read to me by my
grandmother when I was a child. Mainly, though, I became, to put it mildly, obsessed with you. I
managed, with the help of several well-placed contacts, to receive more up-to-date information. One
Nazi file listed you as missing in action during the Battle of Stalingrad. Probably killed, is what the
report stated. You might be interested to know that your accomplice, Helmut Schwarz, was also listed
as missing in action in one of the Nazi files I received.”
Bobarov paused for dramatic affect. Quietly he said, “I know for a fact that Schwarz is also
dead, Hauptmann Jaeger. A Soviet sniper got him rather easily and confirmed his identity before
relaying the information on to his superiors. Apparently, Schwarz had been wounded earlier and was
vulnerable.
“All this new information I received about you was interesting, but truly the greatest treasure
was the Nazi propaganda film I received. It showed your victorious homecoming after the Polish
campaign. I watched that film at least a thousand times. What an inspiration. It was clearly evident that
you were someone special, and I just could not believe that you had died, Hauptmann Jaeger, or that
you were one of the thousands of Nazis we took prisoner and sent to the Gulag.”
Bobarov halted and looked like he was about to cry. He let the wave of emotion pass over him,
and then the tone of his voice became quieter as he continued. “Near the end of the war, I had
recovered physically and mentally enough to be assigned to a troop advancing into Germany. I inquired
about Wolfland and discovered from a general that it had been taken and then abandoned by the Soviet
army due to a wolf attack on the occupying forces. This intrigued me greatly since I knew from reading
about Wolfland’s history that wolves, apparently led by your forefather, Karl den Jaeger, had defeated
an invading force centuries earlier.
“I arranged a meeting with Major Andrei Gromenko and the soldiers Duradev and Metlazev in
Czechoslovakia. They were the ones who claimed to have been attacked by a wolf on Wolfland. Some
of their injuries, particularly the long scars on Gromenko’s face, certainly bore evidence of this, but
what was unusual about their story was that all three soldiers were found unconscious by a Soviet
patrol on a crude raft washed up on the east bank of the Ebene several kilometres downstream from the
island.
“Gromenko insisted that they had found the raft while escaping from the wolf and that they had
become unconscious due to the cold weather conditions. Yet they were quite well dressed when found
by the patrol. No doubt they were uncomfortable, but they had enough clothing on to be warm. This did
not make sense to me.
“What also made their story implausible was the fact, according to the medical reports, that
each man had bruises on his head. One man could have suffered this injury from falling on an exposed
root or rock, but not all three. And wolves are killers. Obviously, not one of the men had died. This
made it very clear to me that the attack had not been from a wolf.”
Bobarov suddenly barked out a sharp command in Russian, and the scarred Major Gromenko
entered the room. The commander smiled at him with patronizing eyes.
“Take a look at the wolf that attacked you, Major Gromenko. You said you saw the gleaming
eyes of the wolf before he struck. Come, major, look into Hauptmann Jaeger’s eyes. Do you not
recognize them as your assailant’s? However, it was not a wolf; it was a Wolfgang!”
This comment caused Bobarov to burst into another round of uncontrollable laughter, leaving
Wolfgang and Gromenko perplexed as to what was so funny. The Soviet commander carried on for a
full five minutes before finally calming down.
Gromenko turned to Wolfgang and looked at him with a combination of horror and anger.
Without looking back at him Wolfgang calmly said, “I could have killed you, Gromenko. I could have
killed you and the others, but I only scarred you with my hunting knife. God would not let me do
more.”
There was an uneasy pause as Wolfgang’s words settled in the minds of Gromenko and
Bobarov.
The Soviet commander stared at the major for a few seconds and broke the silence with a raspy
comment. “What Hauptmann Jaeger has said is true, Gromenko. Consider yourself fortunate that some
men in this world have God’s grace and mercy in their hearts. Now go, major. Go home and appreciate
the fact that you are alive and have someone to go home to.”
Gromenko shuffled out of the room without a backwards glance.
Bobarov looked at Wolfgang and spoke with a small smile on his face, “My family and millions
of my countrymen are dead because of the Nazis. Now here I am with, in my opinion, the Nazis’
greatest sniper, and, correct me if I am wrong, but I am probably one of the very few that knows the
truth about him. Hauptmann Jaeger, I cannot accept, after all the anguish that the Nazis wrought, that
God is good, but finding you surely indicates that He has a sense of justice and humour!”
Once again Bobarov laughed loudly.
When he was finished he took on a more serious tone. “Well, Hauptmann Jaeger, am I correct
in my conclusion that you did not kill anyone in Stalingrad?”
Wolfgang nodded and quietly said, “Yes.”
Commander Bobarov grinned in triumph.
Wolfgang looked at the Soviet and asked, “So what now?
Bobarov responded thoughtfully. “After the war I was duly rewarded with many medals for my
‘heroic’ contribution in leading the Soviet Union to victory over the Nazis. This recognition, plus my
ability to speak German, certainly factored in my superior’s decision to grant me any military post I
desired in the Soviet Occupation Zone. At first I took control over a military base near Dresden. I did
my duties well, but I always kept a quiet eye on what was happening on a little island to the southwest.
“Almost a year went by before Wolfland suddenly became interesting to the Soviets again. Our
intelligence agency learned that the Americans intend to give their zone back to the Germans in a few
years. We don’t intend to give our zone back without first installing a government sympathetic to the
Soviet system. This will cause tensions between us and the other Allies, who no doubt will install and
support a capitalistic government in their former zones before leaving.
“My superiors have now decided that Wolfland will become a Soviet military base so that we
can readily counteract any military intervention or pressure from the West to accept their political
system. I am to be the installation’s first commander.”
Bobarov, now tired from his long narrative, stood up wearily, and suddenly, like a lightning
storm that comes out of nowhere on a bright summer afternoon, his demeanour changed. The
commander lifted his right arm and slapped Wolfgang hard on his left cheek.
Through clenched teeth he hissed, “Where is your other cheek, Hauptmann Jaeger? Doesn’t it
say in the scriptures if a man hits you on one cheek you are to let him hit the other? Well? Let’s have it!
You’re not a good Christian if you don’t!”
Wolfgang tilted his head and exposed his right cheek. Bobarov lifted his arm and lashed at the
exposed skin. But this time, before impact, Wolfgang grabbed Bobarov’s wrist and slowly, very
slowly, he stood up and twisted the arm to a point where the Soviet screamed in agony. This caused
three soldiers to storm the inn with their machine guns ready to fire. Bobarov yelled at them to stop and
with a questioning look in their eyes they lowered their weapons.
Wolfgang slowly released his grip.
Bobarov regained his composure and asked, “So you are not a perfect Christian, Hauptmann
Jaeger?”
“I never claimed I was,” replied Wolfgang.
The Soviet commander observed Wolfgang with new respect. “You are pretty close though.
You have the strength and certainly a reason to have killed me just now. Yet, you continue to spare
me.”
Bobarov came up to Wolfgang and kissed him on each cheek in the traditional Russian way.
The commander then stood back, gripping Wolfgang’s arms with his stout fingers. “There are
God’s orders and then there are men’s orders. The Soviet Union is very clear on whose orders their
military commanders must follow. Stalin’s at all times! So I am in a bit of a conundrum. I am grateful
to God for finding you and believe it was providential that I did so. I desire to know Him better and to
follow His ways, even though they can be rather mysterious. Don’t you agree, Hauptmann Jaeger?”
Wolfgang grimaced slightly and uttered, “Indeed.”
“Yet I have made a vow to obey my earthly superiors. So for now, Hauptmann Jaeger, let me
make it perfectly clear that I intend to follow the orders of my commanding officers first. I have been
put in command of this island, and you will be subservient to me. The flag of the Soviet Union will
stand where the cross is now, to remind you who is in charge. A communication and observation tower
will be rebuilt on top of Rupert’s Berg. There will be over fifty Soviet soldiers living here on this island
on a permanent basis. No one will be allowed to leave Wolfland or enter it without my permission. A
barge will bring supplies from the east. My officers and soldiers have been ordered to imprison anyone
who does not abide by my laws. There will also be tanks and other military equipment brought onto
this island, Hauptmann Jaeger. Please, no more crippling wolf attacks, or sabotage. I will hold you
personally responsible if there are any incidents.
“Now as for the other Germans on Wolfland, and there is ample evidence of others, they will
come out of hiding and arrive at this inn within the hour or I will burn the forest to the ground. You
will see to it, Hauptmann Jaeger!”
Wolfgang bowed his head slightly, which was enough body language for Bobarov to feel some
compassion for him.
The Soviet spoke with sympathy, “Now, now, Hauptmann Jaeger, no need to feel despair. Some
wolves do get captured. It is God’s will that I am now your earthly master. You will be allowed to live
peacefully with your family and to continue making your excellent wine. I have a faithful assistant
named Chemitz who will sell it, and I will give you a portion of the profits. The rest I will hold in trust
for the Soviet Union. Finally, you will help me understand more about God, Hauptmann Jaeger. That’s
a good thing, is it not?”
Wolfgang looked at Bobarov with a blank expression.

•••

“Herr Liebermann, Herr Liebermann!” The shrill voice, which was accompanied by a loud
rapping on the door, startled Johann out of his tortured sleep. Once again he had dreamed of standing
naked in a seemingly endless line of humanity. The line always moved slowly, steadily towards a tall,
dark church spire. In every dream Johann ended up third in line from the door before waking up with a
start.
Gasping from the nightmare, Johann couldn’t remember where he was.
“Herr Liebermann, are you all right?”
Still disorientated, but nevertheless now cognizant of who was knocking on the door, Johann
responded wearily, “Yes, yes, thank you, Frau Mayer.”
Satisfied with her success of getting the boarder up, Frau Mayer declared sweetly that it was
6:00 a.m. and time for the aspiring doctor to have breakfast and get ready for class. Groping in the
darkness Johann turned on the light beside his bed, and its harsh yellow rays chased the last residue of
the nightmare away.

A year earlier, in the fall of 1945, Johann had gratefully taken Max Rosenberg’s offer of an
education and moved to Zurich to resume his study of medicine. Rosenberg and Sonnenheim had
remained in Bremen to rebuild their lives and jewellery business with the help of Uncle Max.
Johann had made an attempt to reach Wolfland on the trip down to Switzerland. It had been
unsuccessful due to impassable roads, damaged train tracks, and the threat of arrest from both
American and Soviet occupation forces. Johann had been advised to wait by Rosenberg and
Sonnenheim, but now, several months later, he had learned from them that Wolfland had become a
Soviet military installation and no one was allowed to either enter or leave.
Johann had also inquired at a relief agency for the whereabouts of his family and friends from
Wolfland. The organization gave him the names of Wolfgang and the women on Wolfland, but
communication with them was impossible due to the Soviet occupation. There was no news about his
family.
Johann’s dream of going back home to Wolfland was put on hold indefinitely. It was also
interrupted by the demands of university, a summer job at a restaurant, volunteer work at a children’s
hospital, and last but not least, a young, tall, and lovely dark-haired medical student named Angelika
Zauss.
Johann had met her in a biology class that they were both required to take. His admiration for
the only female medical student in Zurich awoke his dazzling charm, which had been held in check for
much too long. After some initial resistance Angelika fell under its spell.
Johann’s new-found love interest came from one of Zurich’s most wealthy and progressive
families. Angelika was the oldest of three girls, and both her parents were retired diplomats. They
enthusiastically supported their daughter’s interest in pursuing a medical degree with encouragement,
advice, and of course plenty of money. Angelika stood out in the medical faculty not only for her
gender and beauty, but also mainly for her marks, which were always near the top. Johann, meanwhile,
struggled in the middle. His skills and compassion during practicum times were obvious, but the
theoretical part was harder for him.
Despite that, the elder Zausses were still impressed with Angelika’s new beau. He was
handsome, tall, blond, well-mannered, a faithful church member, an aspiring doctor, and obviously
quite in love with their daughter. Johann also brought them and Angelika a bouquet of flowers once a
week. He was perfect. Well, not quite. Like their daughter, Herr and Frau Zauss had noticed breaks in
Johann’s spirit, breaks that denied him true peace. Johann’s melancholy filtered through in short bouts
of depression, angry outbursts over trivial matters, never talking specifically about his past, and times
of pensive quiet. He seemed oblivious to his moodiness and would simply deny anything was wrong
when confronted by Angelika. Despite this, a love, strong and true, was growing between the two
medical students.

Frau Mayer had a breakfast of toast and coffee waiting, which Johann gratefully consumed. The
robust and elderly Reggitta Mayer was sixty-five years old, but her energy level was at least thirty
years younger. Her husband, the late Roland Mayer, had been an absent-minded professor at the
University of Zurich. He had left her with a nice home, but to make ends meet Reggitta needed to take
in a boarder. Johann had now been with her for the past twelve months, and the pair had developed a
healthy and mutual respect for one another. Reggitta knew that Johann was a Jew, had grown up on
Wolfland, and that his entire family had probably died at Auschwitz. For the young man to divulge
such information to her was a risk, but Reggitta kept it to herself and treated him more like a son than a
boarder. Johann loved her for that.
Breakfast was over, and a knock on the front door was the signal that Angelika had arrived to
take Johann to a practicum at the children’s hospital. Her rather swank sedan sat purring on the street in
front of the house. The future Doctor Liebermann was too proud to have a woman drive him and had
convinced Angelika that not only was he a better driver but allowing him to drive would encourage him
to take her out more. It was one of the few manipulations that Angelika ever gave in to.
As Johann manoeuvred the vehicle onto the street, Angelika hit him with a question that
guaranteed a response. “Would you like to make some extra money?”
With money being a little tight, despite the generous funding from Uncle Max, Johann
responded predictably. “How?”
Angelika flashed her lovely eyes at Johann and demurely said, “There is a student psychiatrist
who needs to practice his skills on someone. He is willing to pay twenty francs an hour for someone to
be his patient.”
“Not interested.”
“Not interested? Pray tell me, Herr Liebermann, why would you pass up easy money like that?”
“I am much too busy to spend an hour telling a head shrinker my alleged problems.”
“But you do have problems.”
“No. I don’t have problems…well, actually, there is this tall brunette who is starting to create
some difficulties.”
“There you go. Sounds like you need some help.”
“Sure. Actually, it might be fun to find out what a student psychiatrist has to say about women.
What’s his name?”
Angelika squirmed a little. “Ahh, his name is Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein.”
“You’re kidding?”
“It’s right here in this ad.”
“Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein. With a name like that he probably has needed psychiatric
counselling due to all the bullies who have made fun of his name.”
“Yes, and now he can empathize with his patients better than someone who has never had
difficulties in his life.”
“True. Twenty francs?”
“Twenty francs.”
“For twenty francs I might give Tannenbaum-Finklestein a try.

•••

The day started on Wolfland with the autumn sun lighting up the cross on Rupert’s Berg to a
glittering gold. Its beauty was a jarring contrast to the nearby limp-hanging Soviet flag and the
grotesque observation tower, with its several antennas, but it clearly symbolized the existing state of
affairs on the island.
At first, before putting up the tower, Bobarov wanted to take the cross down because it was a
symbol that was officially rejected by the Soviet government. He sent several of his soldiers, loaded
with various tools, up to Rupert’s Berg to carry out his order. Yet after three hours of work, which
included attempts to saw it down, push it down, and the deployment of several sticks of dynamite to
blast it down, the only result was a lot of shattered rock and four soldiers in the infirmary with head
wounds.
Bobarov finally conceded. “The cross must be made of iron or God is perhaps not allowing us
to tear it down. It does not matter. We’ll try to obscure it with the flag. Now let’s quit wasting our time
and get the observation tower and antennas up.”
The tower went up in a hurry and was basically just a rectangular room with wall-to-wall
windows on each side. It was propped up on a set of four long spindly wooden legs, strengthened by a
grid of interlocking metal braces that went back and forth from leg to leg. Nearby, nine towering metal
antennas added even more ugliness to Rupert’s Berg.
Unlike the cross, other things on the island were easy to remove. Within two weeks of their
arrival the Soviets had taken everything of value on Wolfland and sent it east to the Soviet Union. The
Wilhelm’s Kirche bells, which had rung in the morning, noon, and evening on Wolfland for seven
hundred years, were melted down and disappeared. The priceless stained glass windows of the church
and the ornate wooden pews, carved by the Holzenbein family four centuries earlier, were
painstakingly removed, packaged and transported away. Anything made of gold, silver, or bronze, such
as cutlery, plates, candleholders, or picture frames, went.
Nothing was sacred. Crosses from tombstones, old medical supplies from the pharmacy, and
valuable cloth were all removed by the Soviets. Bobarov justified the actions by calling it war
reparations for the sins of the Nazis. More accurately, it was just looting. Anna and the others wept.
Only Wolfgang seemed untouched. He watched the stealing with baleful eyes and did nothing. Bobarov
and his soldiers noticed this and found it unnerving, but it did not stop them from committing their
crimes.

A grudging routine was established between the conquerors and the conquered on Wolfland. At
6:00 a.m. a high-pitched siren from the observation tower on Rupert’s Berg declared that the
inhabitants of the island needed to rouse themselves for their daily work of farming and working in the
vineyard. At noon the siren squealed again for lunch and finally at sunset to announce that it was time
to retire for the day. This routine repeated itself from Monday to Saturday. On Sunday the Wolflanders
were given a day off. Since the Soviet Union and its territories followed atheist communist doctrines,
church services were banned, but Bobarov did allow the villagers to walk on a prescribed path around
the island and soak up the hot waters by Frieden See. Soviet soldiers with loaded rifles always lurked
nearby, ensuring a kind of “peace.”
A day of rest was not a luxury Commander Bobarov allowed his soldiers. The fifty-man troop
was constantly on task, either as lookouts in the observation tower or patrolling the village and the
island. Fraternizing with the native population was strictly forbidden, punishable by imprisonment.
Those Soviets not on military manoeuvres stayed at the old Fleishmann estate, which had been
transformed into a small fortress. A high fence topped with barbed wire was set up on the perimeter of
the property. At each of the four corners was a guard tower, equipped with spotlight, siren, and soldiers
with submachine guns who were ordered to shoot at anything that might compromise the safety of the
Soviet sanctuary. Bobarov declared that the compound was for protection and to keep the “Western”
enemy out. More accurately it was to keep the Soviet soldiers in. Over time the commander established
several other “rules” on Wolfland.
No more than one visitor at a time was allowed into a villager’s home. A 10 p.m. curfew was
strictly enforced by around-the-clock Soviet patrols. The intimidating clip-clopping sounds of their
jackboots against the cobblestone streets constantly echoed throughout the island. Wolfgang and his
family, like the rest of the villagers, took most of the Soviet rules in stride and continued to live much
as before. Martin moved into a renovated shed behind the cottage while Christoff moved in with his
sisters.
Once or twice a month Bobarov met secretly with Wolfgang at a predetermined location on the
island to discuss “wine business.” It was always very clandestine for Bobarov was wary of spies.
Chemitz had acquired several new contracts for Wolfland Weiss, and because of this, Bobarov’s stash
of money “for the glory of the Motherland [Soviet Union]” was growing at a very considerable rate.
Despite the Soviet commander’s initial promises Wolfgang hadn’t as yet received any money for his
efforts.
After Bobarov got updates from Wolfgang on the progress of the winemaking, he would
invariably broach the subject of God. Wolfgang answered his questions as cordially as possible. It was
an opportunity that allowed the men, for a few moments at least, to speak as equals.

The harsh regulations established by Bobarov on Wolfland were maintained for months until
suddenly, after a particularly profitable week for Wolfland Weiss, the Soviet commander relented
somewhat on his strict statutes. He decreed that Wolfgang would be allowed to have ten guests at a
time, on Sunday nights at the cottage, as long as they were home by midnight. The normally stoic
Wolfgang actually gave a thin smile at the rotund Bobarov in gratitude.

•••

It was a cold, wintery Sunday night, but the crackling fire in the Jaegers’ hearth lit up the front
room with a comfortable and reassuring glow. Martin and Christoff sat in front of the blaze on either
side of Wolfgang and Hannelore. Anna sat at the side in a rocker, knitting and smiling at the boys. The
Holzenbein sisters were placed close by on separate chairs.
A fresh bouquet of Anna’s flowers rested in a vase on top of the mantel. The flowers released a
fresh, wholesome aroma, which along with the smell of the burning fire evoked memories for
Wolfgang and Anna. How many generations of Jaegers, Liebermanns, Holzenbeins, and others had sat
in front of a similar fire, talking deep into the night? A glass of Wolfland Weiss for everyone made the
comfortable atmosphere complete.
After some light banter and reading of Scripture by Anna, Wolfgang began speaking and
provided more details about his experiences during the war. His listeners experienced a kaleidoscope of
emotions. Wolfgang finished and a hush came over the room. It was hard to know what to say. Only
the fire could be heard. Hannelore squeezed Wolfgang’s hand. Anna slowly stood up and with tears
streaming down her face came up to Wolfgang and reached down to hold him for several moments.
The “saint” of Wolfland then returned to her seat, looked over at Martin and Christoff, and
quietly said, “Well, now it’s your turn, boys. We want to know everything. Christoff, you start.”
Christoff looked at Anna with some discomfort, took a breath, and started talking. The arrest on
Wolfland, the journey to the forest, Sepp and the others, the death of Phillip, capture by the Americans,
and the time in Hamburg were all covered.
Martin then relieved Christoff by relating what happened after the ambush at the Rathaus. “I
woke up in a reeking, dirty, dingy cell. My arms and legs were shackled, and the iron was chafing my
skin. The clothes that I had worn on the night of the ambush were in shreds, blood- stained, and
smelling of sweat.
“Christoff lay unconscious beside me, tethered in chains just like I was. It took me a long time
to remember both my name and Christoff’s, let alone what had happened. I had a huge bump on my
head, and my brain was throbbing painfully.
“Finally, Christoff woke up, but for a long time we didn’t talk. We were so beat up that any
movement, even talking, hurt. Except for the bit of sunshine coming through the small barred window
high above us, we had no light.
“Eventually, Christoff and I started talking. Obviously, we had been set up. Both of us said that
we remembered hearing English spoken before getting knocked out, so more than likely we were now
prisoners of the British. At least, we hoped so. Sure enough, just as it was getting dark, we heard
English voices through the door of our cell.
“It was opened, and three soldiers of His Majesty’s Army lifted us up and forced us out. It was
almost impossible to walk with the heavy irons strapped to our legs, but the three soldiers kept hitting
us with clubs as we climbed a set of stairs that seemed to have no end. Finally our torture ended when
we entered an office and were made to kneel in front of Captain Harold Pierce.
“All I can recall about Pierce was that he was rather tall with a waxed moustache that made him
look rather severe and formal. Captain Pierce looked down at us with disgust. His words were
translated through one of our guards who spoke German. He told us that we were to be hanged for
black market activity and attempted murder of British soldiers.
“With that we were dismissed and our guards half-pushed, half-dragged us back to our cells. I
remember the banging of the door as it crashed shut, the turning of the key, and the laughter of the
soldiers. I have never felt such despair as I did at that moment. It was hell.”
Christoff nodded his agreement, and Martin continued, “We had no idea when we were to be
executed, and this uncertainty made us extremely nervous whenever a guard came by our cell. For a
while any time an Englishman came near us we broke down in tears. This made the first few days in
the cell very nerve wracking, and we barely ate or slept. A week dragged by and nothing happened;
then another slid away. For some reason, unknown to us, our execution was being delayed.
“The only highlight of our time in prison was mealtime. It was the same every day: soup and
bread. Our toilet was a bucket that we shared. It may have been cleaned out twice during the whole
time we were there!
“One night, just when we were starting to relax about our fate somewhat, we were rudely
awakened, and I thought that was the end. We were going to hang. I have never been more terrified.
Christoff and I started crying again. The soldiers’ response was to hit us with clubs. They forced us
upstairs again to Captain Pierce’s office.
“We must have smelled terrible, because Pierce held a handkerchief up to his face. The captain
told us, through the interpreter, that we were being exchanged to the Soviets for a couple of British
agents. We were immediately brought outside, put on a truck, and driven to a Soviet garrison near
Dresden. The trip took several hours and reminded us of the time we had to fight for the Nazis.
“It was at the garrison where we first met Commander Bobarov. He got us to shower, gave us
new clothes, provided a room with beds, and, most importantly of all, fed us. Yet, despite him treating
us so well, it was clear that we were still prisoners. Bobarov ensured that we couldn’t run away by
keeping us in leg irons. We spent most of our days cleaning toilets and doing other chores around the
base.
“Bobarov often asked me about you, Wolfgang. He always wanted to hear stories about your
shooting skills and your life on Wolfland. Finally one day, we all packed up and headed to Wolfland.
And the rest of the story you know.”
Again, just like at the end of Wolfgang’s story, a hush came over the room. The silence was
broken when Anna stood up and reached out to the boys, enveloping them with her hugs and sobs.
It was close to midnight and time to go home. Wolfgang and Martin escorted the Holzenbeins
and Anna back to their houses.
On the way back to the cottage Martin quietly said to Wolfgang, “Thank you for taking care of
me, brother, but I don’t think I can live much longer under Soviet rule. Bobarov is crazy, reasonable
one moment, a raving lunatic the next. He scares me. Home is home, but without certain freedoms is it
really worth staying? No one is allowed to come here, and no one is allowed to leave. We’re prisoners,
Wolfgang.”
“Patience, Martin, I’m sure things will get better.”
“I’m here because of you and the fact that Wolfland is my home. But you have a wife and
children. The vineyard is fine, but I want to go see places and, maybe, meet women.”
“Patience.”
“That’s something I’m losing.”

•••

Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein was huge. His chest was like a beer keg, set on legs thick as tree
trunks. He had to bend his neck to get through a doorway, and when someone shook his hand it
disappeared into a massive hairy paw. Once Oskar released the hand—and it was always Oskar who
determined the length of the shake—it was returned hot and covered in sweat. The shaggy black hair on
the top of Oskar’s enormous head refused to be tamed by brush, comb, or any other hair product on the
market. On his face was a dark, ragged beard, which was also resistant to grooming. Despite the wild
appearance and intimidating size, Oskar’s smile was so expansive and charming that it lit up a room
with the charge of a firecracker. His gentle, sincere, caring ways, quick wit, and deep rumbling laugh
also disarmed any initial feelings of fear one might have had when first meeting the giant student
psychiatrist.
Born into a simple woodcutter’s family near the town of Kaltbrunn, Switzerland, Oskar was the
seventh child of nine. His parents were also gigantic, yet their love for their six girls and three boys was
even greater than their incredible physical dimensions. Education for the children had been the forest
and school, five kilometres away in Kaltbrunn.
A schoolteacher had recognized Oskar’s extraordinary gifts with people and had encouraged
and even partly financed his student’s quest to become a psychiatrist.
The teacher had said it best during Oskar’s graduation: “The love you give to people is going to
help heal a lot of hurting souls. You are special. Now go and help someone.”

It was a rare occasion indeed when Johann Liebermann ever had to look up at someone, and his
eyes registered surprise as he entered Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein’s temporary office at the hospital.
The giant noticed this and grinned. The two went through the ancient Germanic rituals of greeting:
standing straight and solid in front of one another, shaking hands while giving a quick head nod, and
saying an efficient, unemotional “Good day.”
Oskar waved Johann to a chair in front of his desk and then sat himself behind it on a huge
recliner. The men stared at each other for a moment, and the student psychiatrist instantly recognized
from both Johann’s body posture and facial expression that he had no interest in divulging anything to
him.
Oskar sighed, leaned back, brought his monstrous legs up onto the desk, and decided to still try
and get something out of Johann. “You must excuse me, Herr Liebermann. I am rather tired. My father
came to visit last night, and we talked for far too long.”
Johann did not interrupt Oskar’s verbal output.
“Father says there is going to be lots of snow this winter. Animals in the forest are extra busy
getting ready.”
Once again Johann did not respond.
Oskar transferred his frying-pan-size hands from his lap to the back of his head, interlocked the
fingers, and sighed once again. The thought that Johann did not want to be with him but was carrying a
burden that would soon kill him or, worse, leave him alone for the rest of his life swept through his
mind.
Oskar brought his sleepy legs back to earth and sat up. He pulled open the top drawer of the
desk, got out twenty francs, placed it in front of Johann, and quietly said, “It was a pleasure to have
become acquainted with you, Herr Liebermann. I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you.”
He stood up, towering over Johann, nodded, reached out his hairy right hand, and said,
“Goodbye.”
Johann, although surprised by Oskar’s abrupt dismissal, was nevertheless relieved since he
indeed, as the giant had so astutely guessed, was not going to say anything. Trying to show no
indignation, he stood up as well and took Oskar’s right hand with his own. He gave it a shake, waited
patiently for the huge and powerful Tannenbaum-Finklestein to release it, nodded, said a perfunctory
“Goodbye,” and turned to go.
Oskar halted him by saying, “Herr Liebermann, don’t forget your twenty francs.”
Johann protested. “No, Herr Tannenbaum-Finklestein; the agreement was that I stay for an
hour, and as I have not done so I will not take the money.”
“As you wish.”
The door slammed shut. Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein remained standing for a moment and
then murmured to himself, “Herr Johann Liebermann, I will see you again.”

•••

On Christmas Eve frigid winds from the north swept over Wolfland. It caused much of the
snow that had fallen a day earlier to be whipped into rock-hard drifts. High up on Rupert’s Berg the icy
blasts howled angrily, shaking the antennas and metal supports of the poorly constructed observation
tower.
The five unlucky Soviets who were inside desperately searched for extra clothing and blankets
as freezing air blew through every crack of the structure. Unfortunately for them, there was nothing.
Eventually they gave up and sat shivering around a little heater that was making guttural noises, a sure
sign that it was going to break down momentarily. Finally, half frozen and fearful for their lives, the
guards got up and contacted Bobarov, via radio, at the Soviet compound.
The commander listened to the transmission from the frightened men in the tower with a look of
disdain. His men, who had experienced innumerable tribulations during the war, wanted to abandon
their station because violent air currents were on the verge of blowing it off Rupert’s Berg. Bobarov
couldn’t believe it. They were scared of the wind and cold! He gruffly ended any hope of further
discussion by threatening the guards with execution if they left their post. After the communication
ended, the commander paced back and forth in his office, seriously considering whether to kill the
cowards anyway as a lesson to the others.
Bobarov’s draconian ways with the Soviet soldiers, such as maintaining early wake-up times,
daily military exercises, harsh disciplinary actions for the slightest infraction, and twenty-four hour
patrols throughout the island, had kept them in check. No one questioned the commander’s orders. The
guards in the tower would be dealt with.
As Bobarov mulled over his options, two impromptu and very illegal gatherings were taking
place on Wolfland. One of them involved a fifteen-man Soviet patrol who, in an incredibly blatant
breach of Bobarov’s orders, had gathered in Herzog’s Inn to not only escape the inhumane weather but
to discuss grievances against the leader they had all come to despise.
The second meeting was taking place in the caverns. Anna had spread the word that the Soviet
patrol was spending the day at the inn and had suggested that the villagers gather in the caves for a
christening. Everyone readily agreed, so Anna went first and got things ready. She was also praying. A
lot.
Within an hour Wolfgang and family, Margarita Bauer, Sophie Muller, Meta Fischer with her
brood, Moritz, Luther, and Klara arrived at the caverns. Wolfgang had ensured a safe journey by
keeping an eye out for Soviets and helping the intrepid travellers through the snow. The wind wiped
out their footprints in seconds.
The hardships of the little trip to the middle cavern were quickly forgotten as several
strategically lit candles cast a reverent glow around the wooden cross that stood in front of the gently
gurgling hot springs. A small fire, a table laden with cups of warm tea, bread with assorted meats, and a
bottle of Wolfland Weiss helped the villagers to warm up.
Soon they became a congregation and started singing hymns. The incredible acoustics of the
cave made their voices clear and loud, and it sounded like there were hundreds of them. Hardships
were soon forgotten as God’s peace, hope, and love reigned. Eventually the singing gave way to the
hushed murmurings of prayer as each, in their own way, spoke to the Lord. As the praying faded, Anna
walked up to Wolfgang, Hannelore, Jan, and Edna.
She gave them each a tender kiss on the cheek before gently taking the baby out of Hannelore’s
arms.
Anna’s voice brimmed with passion and joy as she said, “It wasn’t that long ago when I
witnessed another baby dedication here on Wolfland. Actually it was at the church, but for now this
cave will have to do. We had also suffered hard times: war, the influenza epidemic, hopelessness, and
death. The baptism of little Wolfgang Jaeger and Johann Liebermann, God bless him, was the start of
our recovery. As the boys cried and pulled the beard of our pastor we laughed and smiled for the first
time in years.
“It says in the Bible that friends are to grieve and laugh together. I say we have grieved enough
and it is time we laugh together again. Not frivolously, but genuinely with joy. Our departed ones are
safe with God. We still have our faith and each other to get through the day.
“The Soviets, much like the Nazis before them, have taken away so many of our freedoms.
Freedoms that we once considered were our rights. They have also taken our material possessions, and
we now work for them like slaves. But if we remember whom we really serve and whom we will be
accountable to in eternity, if we remember how much He loves us, we can live through these times.
This baby is a gift from God and represents hope for better days filled with freedom, joy, and
prosperity.”
Anna cupped her right hand and dipped it into the water of the spring. As the water slid over the
baby’s head she declared, “I dedicate your life, Johann-Jens Jaeger, to Jesus Christ. May you come to
know Him. Lord, help his parents bring him up in Your ways, with love and patience. May his siblings,
Jan and Edna, be moved by Your love and have great patience for their little brother, as well. Finally,
Lord, help us as a community to encourage the Jaegers to bring their son up to worship and revere You
always. Amen.”
Cheers echoed throughout the chamber. Little Johann-Jens was passed around, and his face
became wet with kisses and tears. Anna started singing, and soon the cave resonated harmoniously as
others joined in.
Wolfgang looked into Hannelore’s eyes. “God bless you and happy birthday,” she said.
For the first time in months they both broke into smiles of gladness.

1947

Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein sat with a pensive look on his face while sipping tea behind a large
polished oak table in a small, comfortable Zurich restaurant called the Zehn Vogel. He had come early
to pray. The rest of his party was to join him at 8:00 p.m., and since his guest was a German, there was
no question about punctuality. So Oskar sat and prayed. Deeply.
At one minute to eight the small bell attached to the front door of the restaurant jangled. Within
seconds, the handsome, blond Johann Liebermann stood in front of the giant, who rose, bowed slightly,
and then swallowed the student doctor’s outstretched hand with his own. Johann suppressed a grimace
as they exchanged greetings. Physically he felt like a child around Oskar.
The men sat down across from each other and began to fill the air with mundane information
about the weather and their studies. A stern-looking waitress with a heavy change purse dangling at her
waist came to their table, and Johann ordered a small apfelstrudel and coffee. Oskar had his teacup
refilled. More useless information was exchanged until the order was brought and the waitress moved
on to other customers.
Oskar looked at Johann and declared, “You carry a knapsack full of ten kilo rocks on your back.
That is figurative, of course, but it is the truth.”
Johann glared at him, smiled nervously, and responded, “Have you been talking to my
girlfriend or her parents?”
“Never met or spoken to them in my life.”
“Ahh, then it must be Frau Mayer. She seems to know everyone and their business.”
“Who is she?”
Johann shrugged and sighed, “We all carry around ten kilo rocks.”
“I disagree.”
“Why do my problems concern you?”
“Your life is none of my business, unless you want to tell me. But since you arranged this
meeting I am assuming you want to talk to me about something other than the weather and
apfelstrudel.”
“Well, Herr Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein, in that case, I thought maybe you could help me
remove one of those ten kilo rocks.”
“One?”
“One.”
“Sure, I’ll try for one. But before I listen to you, let me tell you the origins of the name
Tannenbaum-Finklestein, since, from the tone of your voice, you obviously find it rather odd. My
parents fell in love in a forest of tannenbaume [pine trees]. The unfortunate name Finklestein is from
my father. I am a twenty-second generation Finklestein. The name stays.”
Johann took a deep breath. “Fine. You sent me on my way last time. Why?”
“Body language never lies to me, Herr Liebermann. You were not interested in being
counselled.”
“Anyone come to you just for the money?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So what do you do?”
“Nothing. Some, like you, leave quickly. Others try to make the session a farce, but I quickly
end that. You, however, were the first not to take the money. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Now tell me about the girl, Johann. I can call you Johann now, can’t I?”
“Sure, Oskar. How did you know…never mind. Yes, I thought you might shed some light on
women. You have any understanding about them?”
“Limited.”
“Great. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“I loved a girl once. Rebekka Schmidt. Beautiful. That was back in the eighth grade. Sadly,
nothing since.”
Johann thought for a moment before saying, “All right. I am still interested to hear what you
have to say. I’m here, I’ve got some time, and I will be paying for your tea. So amuse me, Herr
Tannenbaum-Finklestein.”
With just a hint of sarcasm Oskar responded, “Paying for my tea, are you? Well, then you are
definitely entitled to hear my limited observations about the fairer sex.”
The giant flashed his electric smile and laughed his thundering laugh. Johann couldn’t help but
grin as well.
Oskar stretched, took a breath, and was about to say something, then shook his head, paused,
and spoke. “Since you are considering marrying a special woman in your life…”
Johann looked startled, was about to say something, and then just shook his head.
Oskar smiled at Johann’s reaction and repeated, “Since you are considering marriage, it is only
logical to assume that you are pondering the costs: emotionally, financially, and physically.”
“Of course.”
“Of course. The woman in question is perfect, and from all appearances the future Herr Doctor
Johann Liebermann is a prize as well. He goes to church, is intelligent, well-mannered, educated,
handsome, healthy, and soon to be wealthy. My, my, what woman would not fall over in a swoon of
ecstasy upon getting to know the aspiring doctor Johann Liebermann?”
Johann’s face turned red in a flash of annoyance at Tannenbaum-Finklestein’s presumptuous
comments. Oskar noticed Liebermann’s discomfort, but ignored it, for he knew his words were true.
The large psychiatrist pressed on. “Yet the woman you love has not fallen in a swoon over you.
She loves you yes, but she has taken a hard look into your hurting soul, and unlike other women who
would be just content with the attributes I mentioned earlier and therefore simply ignore the tormenters
that you allow to fester inside, she wants you whole. Healed and cleaned out. Herr Liebermann, you are
deathly afraid of the process in becoming well. You are also angry that this woman is so perceptive and
quite determined that you become healthy. How dare she!
“However, in your quiet, sane moments, you know you will never have that kind of intimacy
with anyone else on earth. Ever. You hate her for that, and yet you love her more than anyone on earth
for that. Are you willing to give up control of your pain, Herr Liebermann, or has it become who you
are? Can you love her as much as she loves you? Can you love her with the love that she deserves? No
way. Not with the pain that infects your soul.”
Johann’s breathing became erratic as he stared at the giant. Finally, with tears turning the rims
of his eyes red, he pleaded, “Help me. Help me, Herr Doctor Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein.”
“I can only point you in a direction. It is up to you to walk towards it.”

•••

Commander Bobarov opened and read every letter and package addressed to his soldiers and
the villagers. He did two things with the correspondence—burnt it if he deemed it detrimental to the
cause of communism or, if he considered it safe, passed it on to its intended destination.
After reading a letter addressed to Wolfgang Jaeger on a bitterly cold winter morning, Bobarov
decided to personally deliver the correspondence to the winemaker-forester.
The Soviet found him in the barn behind the cottage, sharpening his axe. Bobarov entered and
raised his hand to get Jaeger’s attention. Wolfgang stopped, still clutching the tool.
The overweight and overbearing commander said with a tiny smile, “I’m afraid I have some bad
news for you, Hauptmann Jaeger. You may take a moment from your work and read this letter.”
Wolfgang continued to hold the axe with his right hand. His face was hard, with eyes of ice, as
he snatched the letter from Bobarov’s hand. The Soviet expected Wolfgang to read the letter
immediately, but he did not. Instead, he stood still as a statue.
Bobarov’s lips flickered nervously as he stuttered, “V-v-very w-well, I will leave you
alone now, Hauptmann Jaeger. Remember to deliver the wood to the compound by 6:30 p.m.”
Wolfgang answered back in a monotone, “Yes, Commander.”
Bobarov’s face blushed briefly, and he limped out quickly. Wolfgang listened to the Soviet’s
laboured shuffling on the gravel road leading back to the village until he was out of earshot. He set the
axe down on the ground and sat on the chopping block.
The letter from the refugee organization led off with “I regret to inform you” and then briskly
listed the people Wolfgang had inquired about. There were over a hundred names on the list. Each
name evoked an emotion, but the ones that affected him most were

Marie Jaeger – deceased, Dresden.


Dietrich Liebermann – deceased, The Hague.
Krista Liebermann – deceased, Auschwitz.
Uwe Liebermann – deceased, Auschwitz.
Ulrike Liebermann – deceased, Auschwitz.
Japp de Graff – deceased, executed by the Gestapo, The Hague.
Johann Liebermann – alive, medical student, Zurich, Switzerland.

Wolfgang left the barn and found Hannelore in the kitchen, preparing the midday meal. He let
her read the letter. They then embraced and Wolfgang held Hannelore tightly as grief overwhelmed
them both.

•••

April rain showers had left the air in Zurich cool and moist. The scent of a thousand new
blossoms spiced a gentle breeze. Angelika and Johann met at the downtown park just as the final rays
of the day’s light turned the trees to gold. They had visited the park together often over the last several
months. It was where they had come to escape from the rigours of their studies and also where they had
fallen in love.
Tonight was different.
Angelika felt the heaviness of Johann the instant they met. She said hello, but her greeting was
not returned in kind. They started walking side by side, but Johann avoided eye contact or touching
Angelika. There was no small talk.
After ten long minutes of weighted silence Johann started speaking with a dispassionate voice.
“I received several letters a few days ago from a man named Fritz Unterstutz, who lives near Koenig’s
Tal. A relief organization gave me his address several months ago; they said he knew people on
Wolfland. I made contact with him, and we write to each other once a week. Anyway, in Unterstutz’s
last letter to me he included an official notification from a refugee organization.”
Johann stopped as grief filled up his mind. With a quiet, broken voice he continued. “The
notification stated that my father, mother, brother, and sister are dead, murdered by the Nazis. What I
knew in my heart is now official. The document also listed practically everyone else I knew on
Wolfland. Most of them were killed during the war. Those that survived have been captured by the
Soviets, scattered throughout Germany, or are trapped on Wolfland.
“Unterstutz’s initial correspondence with me included a note from my best friend, Wolfgang
Jaeger. It was a letter that he wrote to me from Stalingrad. It said he was going to desert and come back
home to Wolfland. Unbelievably, he did so, only to find most of us gone. Later the Soviets took over
Wolfland and have made it into a military installation. It’s repressive, to say the least. No one from the
outside is allowed to visit with those inside, and vice-versa. They’re in a cage. It is also impossible to
send letters to anyone there, because the Soviets detain all personal letters from the West.”
Johann paused his depressing dialogue for a moment and then continued, with some
amusement. “Herr Unterstutz wrote that despite the heavy Soviet presence on Wolfland and their
atheistic belief system, the cross that has stood on top of Rupert’s Berg for centuries is still there. It can
be seen for many kilometres on either side of the border. There was an observation tower beside it for a
few months, but apparently it blew down in a winter storm, severely injuring those inside.”
Johann shook his head. “It is impossible to take down that cross on Rupert’s Berg.”
Then he looked whimsically at Angelika and said, “Wolfgang married Hannelore. Can you
believe that?”
The beautiful medical student looked oddly at her beau and shrugged.
Johann responded with a small smile. “Never mind. That’s neither here nor there. Just an old
flame now burned out.”
Angelika asked, “Why did you not tell me about the letters before tonight?”
Johan stopped under a large willow tree. Darkness had now descended, and the streetlights cast
a feeble glow on the park pathway. Johann reached out and held both of Angelika’s hands and looked
into her eyes.
He exhaled heavily and exclaimed in despair, “The letters have brought me to the edge of my
sanity, Angelika! I did not want you to see me in that state, so I pretended that everything was fine!”
“You should have trusted me.”
Johann responded harshly, “Everyone I have ever loved is gone! Even my home is gone! What
a disaster! Do you have any idea how it feels to lose everything? Can you understand that? Could you
ever understand that?”
“No. Not ever. But I’m here for you.”
Johann looked skeptically at Angelika and grimly said, “The nightmares of Auschwitz that have
tormented me every night for the last two years have gotten worse. I thought my father had died at the
concentration camp like the others, but the notification says he died in The Hague. Something terrible
happened there, and it is driving me mad because I can’t remember. Just these odd, horrible feelings
come over me when I think about it. I’m so tired and emotionally spent from them that I can barely
study, let alone function as a normal human being. I need to remember what happened in The Hague. I
need to grieve over those I’ve lost. I need to stop dreaming about Auschwitz.”
Johann paused for a few moments before declaring, hoarsely, “I’m quitting my studies,
Angelika, and going away. Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein has graduated and is setting up a psychiatry
practice right here in Zurich. I am going to be his number-one patient. He has also found me a cabin in
the woods, and I will become a woodcutter.”
Johann continued staring into Angelika’s tear-filled eyes and said, “I love you, Angelika. I have
never loved anyone more than you. Yet I cannot give back the love you generously pour over me. The
pain in my heart is too great, and my mind is sick because of it. Losing you and your love terrifies me,
but I must go through this with Oskar. I don’t know how long I will be gone or if I will be ever healed.
You are a beautiful woman. Don’t wait for me; get on with your life, finish your studies, and find
someone new.”
Angelika could barely speak as she fought her rising emotions. “No, Johann! I believe you will
get healed. You are the one I love! I want to help you!”
Johann looked at the tears jaggedly moving down the beautiful face of his dear Angelika and
shook his head.
“I will always love your idealism. I love you too much to hurt you. And in this state, I will.”
Johann kissed Angelika on the cheek and said, “Goodbye.”
He turned his back on her and quickly strode into the gathering darkness.
Angelika shrieked, “No, Johann!” and ran after him.
Johann turned around. His face was contoured in an angry mask as he snarled, “Go away,
Angelika. Get on with your life.”
Johann stormed away, leaving Angelika with her heart shattered.

1948

The Soviets close the 1,378.1 kilometre border between their occupation zone and the others because
most Germans in their sphere are disenchanted with the repressive political system imposed on them
and are fleeing by the thousands to the democratically free American, British, and French zones.
Initially the Soviets erect primitive barbed wire barriers to stem the tide of East Germans escaping to
the West.
Over the next several years, the Soviets and East German communists will “improve” the
barrier to such an extent that it will include a 1,266.5 kilometre long metal fence, a 1,196.4 kilometre
long electrical fence, a 10 metre wide no man’s land that is constantly raked, 595 bunkers, and 621
watchtowers.
The communists call this monstrosity to mankind the Anti-Fascist Wall. In reality it is built to
keep those from the capitalistic West out and, more importantly, those from the communist East in.

The crisp gales of late October swept through Wolfland, blasting the fire-coloured leaves off the
trees. Harvest had just been completed, but there was no celebration in the fields. Official policy of the
Wolfland Island Soviet Military Base forbade any public celebrations or demonstrations. Wolfland’s
supreme ruler, Dmitry Bobarov, only allowed authorized Soviet holidays to be acknowledged.

Night fell over Wolfland like black ink poured on a canvas. It blotted out everything, including
the cross and the hideous communications centre on Rupert’s Berg.
Back in the cottage Wolfgang woke up with a start. It caused Hannelore to come drowsily to
life as well, and she asked what was wrong. Wolfgang’s response was terse. “Martin!”
He quickly put on his clothes, found a flashlight, and headed outside to the shed. Wolfgang
flashed the pale yellow light into Martin’s room and found it empty. A note lay on the bed. Wolfgang
read it, then angrily crumpled the paper and threw it down. With leaden steps he came back to bed.
Hannelore immediately knew that something was wrong.
Wolfgang sighed and wearily said, “Martin is gone. He repeatedly told me over the last few
years that he was getting tired of Wolfland. I told him to be patient, that things would eventually
change for the better.”
Hannelore suppressed a sob, reached out to Wolfgang, and said, “Well, things have only gotten
worse. He’s a young man; I’m surprised he lasted this long on Wolfland.”
Wolfgang turned to Hannelore and grimaced in resignation. “Christoff and his sisters fled from
the island several months ago. I don’t think Martin got over losing his best friend, but why didn’t he
tell me that he was going?”
“He used all his courage in deciding to leave. There was nothing left over to tell the man he
respects more than anyone in the world,” said Hannelore.
Wolfgang, discouraged, held his head in his hands. “You are right. I definitely would have told
him not to go.”
“And Martin would still be here if that had happened.”
Wolfgang breathed in exasperation and said, “Well, no doubt Bobarov will be at our door in the
morning when he finds out that Martin has not reported for work. It does not look good when the
workers start leaving the so-called ‘workers paradise.’”
Hannelore responded, “In a way I am happy about what has happened. Martin will build
himself a great life over in the West. Things will eventually get better here, and he will come back to
visit us as a strong, independent man.”
Wolfgang looked hurt but conceded, “I suppose you are right.”
Hannelore said, “Let’s pray.”

The rapping of Commander Bobarov’s knuckles on the Jaegers’ front door, just as the early
morning sun brought colour back to Wolfland, was the cue for the dogs to start barking and the geese to
start squawking.
Wolfgang smiled wryly at Hannelore and leisurely lifted himself up from his chair at the
kitchen table. “Guess we’ll have to finish our tea later,” he said.
Hannelore shrugged.
Bobarov rapped the door impatiently again and called out, “Hauptmann Jaeger!”
Wolfgang sauntered to the door, opened it, and stepped onto the porch. Bobarov stood beside a
tall young Soviet soldier holding a loaded rifle.
Ignoring the weapon, Wolfgang stared down at the flustered leader of Wolfland’s military base
and said, “Good morning, Commander Bobarov; promising day, isn’t it? To what do I owe the pleasure
of this visit?”
“Cut the nonsense, Jaeger. You know exactly why I’m here. Your brother did not report for
work.”
“Work? Most of the harvest is done, the vineyard is ready for spring, and there is plenty of
wood for the winter. What work should my brother be doing?”
“He is a worker and must report every morning to work detail. No exceptions. We just checked
his quarters, and he is not there.”
“Very observant.”
Bobarov did not catch the subtle slight and pressed on. “So where is he?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously!”
“I am not sure.”
Before Bobarov could reply another Soviet solider came running up to the cottage. It was
obvious from his body language that he had something terribly important to say.
Bobarov curtly demanded, “What is it?”
The soldier gasped out, “Chemnitz is missing, sir.”
The commander was losing control of his senses. “What! How could he possibly be gone?
Chemnitz is loyal to the Soviet Union!”
He turned to the soldier and cried out, “Sound the alarm! I want every soldier in the compound!
Go! Go!”
The hapless soldier saluted and stumbled away.
Bobarov looked at the Jaegers and warned, “I will deal with you two later.”
The commander was true to his word. Within two hours, after briefing his soldiers at the
compound, he had the villagers gather at the square. After counting and recounting those who were left,
Bobarov issued several decrees: All villagers were on house arrest, and, to ensure compliance, every
dwelling was assigned two Soviet guards. Soldiers escorted the villagers to and from work. Armed
guards keenly observed them for the duration of their labours. No meetings and gatherings of villagers
were allowed in homes, the forest, Wilhelm’s Kirche, or any other building. The special Sunday
meeting time at the Jaegers’ cottage was rescinded. No one was allowed to leave Wolfland, and non-
adherence to the rules meant immediate arrest.

•••

The years after Fritz Unterstutz’s return to Koenig’s Tal from Stalingrad had not been kind to
him. The lack of a nose caused most people in the city, even those who had known him before the war,
to consider him inhuman. They directed condescending looks, laughter, and gasps of horror at Fritz.
His only friends were Christoff and his sisters, who now lived in Koenig’s Tal, and those on Wolfland,
but contact with them was now impossible due to Bobarov’s regulations. Slowly, Fritz’s sense of worth
began to erode until his life became one of seclusion. He built a small abode for himself in a grove of
trees on his parent’s farm. Every day, after helping them with chores, he retreated to his small
sanctuary, where he read philosophical books and wrote beautiful poems and stories. A dog, a few
geese, and a horse kept him company. In the evening his aged parents, Werner and Hilda, would visit,
bringing him food and look at his heart rather than his face.
The foggy, cool fall day had been like any other for Fritz Unterstutz. Breakfast, some cleaning,
a long walk, harvest work, a ride on the horse, back to the shack for reading, and the daily arrival of his
parents. They came as usual with food, mail, and, for once, something very unusual: a guest.
Fritz met them on the front porch of the shack, and he became visibly excited. “Welcome,
Martin! We met a few years ago. I’m sure you remember when I visited your family on Wolfland?”
Martin Jaeger responded by giving Fritz a hearty hug and declaring, “Thank you for taking me
in. My brother said you would!”
“Of course. Welcome to freedom, Herr Jaeger,” said Fritz.
“Thank you.”
“Let’s eat; you must be hungry. Papa and Mama, thank you, but I need to talk to Herr Jaeger
alone.”
Werner and Hilda shook hands with Martin, smiled, and shuffled off. From the porch the two
men entered into the main room of the humble house. The area served as both sitting room and kitchen.
Another door to the back led to Fritz’s bedroom. The basket of food that Hilda had prepared was set on
the kitchen table. Wurstals (sausages), black bread, coleslaw, and beer were removed and spread out.
Martin ate with some relish.
After several minutes of quiet eating Martin opened the conversation by saying, “My brother
always spoke highly of you. I knew that my first stop after crossing the Ebene had to be with you.”
Fritz smiled and said, “Anyone from Wolfland, except Soviets, are welcome to visit me at any
time. The Soviet system is paranoid and ungodly; East Germans are fleeing the Soviet occupation zone
by the thousands because of it. I think, though, that your brother, his family, and all the other good
people on Wolfland should leave like you have. It is only a matter of time before the communists are
going to do something drastic to stop the exodus.”
Martin nodded his head in agreement and wistfully said, “My brother loves Wolfland too much
to ever leave.”
Fritz nodded slightly.
After a short pause Martin changed the direction of the conversation and asked, “Where do I go
from here?”
“Well, first you get some sleep. We will meet Christoff and his sisters tomorrow. Then we’ll
visit the refugee centre. From there you will be assessed for employment.”
“It’s that easy?”
“Welcome to freedom.”
The two men moved to the porch, and as darkness surrounded the little kerosene lamp the two
men forged a friendship as they talked deep into the night about various topics and issues, such as God,
politics, the war, women, and life. It was well past midnight when Martin finally lay down on the spare
cot. He was asleep within minutes. Fritz meanwhile continued sitting on the porch and slowly went
through his mail. A letter postmarked with Swiss stamps caught his attention.

•••

Two weeks after Martin’s escape Bobarov ordered the villagers to the square. The Soviet
commander watched them gather with steely eyes, and when everyone was accounted for, Bobarov
limped pompously up the stairs leading to the ruins of Wilhelm’s Kirche. At the top, he stood beside a
large tarp-covered object. It had been put there an hour earlier by several Soviets, using a heavy-duty
winch and hoist machine. The object towered at least two metres above Bobarov. The commander
paused a moment and viewed his subjects with a look of smug superiority.
Then, with a large booming voice, Bobarov announced that Wolfland, due to its location, was a
highly important Soviet military installation, and security was paramount. As a consequence, a
protective barrier was to be immediately erected on the island to prevent enemies from compromising
the vital communications centre on Rupert’s Berg. The barrier was also necessary to stop fascist or
capitalistic influences from infiltrating the island and seducing people to leave the worker’s paradise of
Wolfland and the “protective” care of the Soviets.
Bobarov babbled on for another twenty minutes about the evils of capitalism and the greatness
of the communist system. Throughout the ponderous speech the villagers stood still with blank faces.
Finally, the commander’s tirade was done. Slowly he walked up to the mysterious tarp. With
dramatic flourish he pulled it off, revealing a bust of Stalin.
With a trembling voice Bobarov exclaimed, “This is Stalin, the esteemed leader of the Union of
Soviet Socialist Republics, the one who led the Red Army to victory over the Nazis, the one who has
freed you from fascism, the one who will lead the USSR to victory against the capitalists, those evil
ones whose presence in this world has caused nothing but suffering and death! Every time you see this
monument, you must be grateful for what he has done! Stalin is to be revered and loved by everyone
here at all times!”
Bobarov waved at the door of Wilhelm’s Kirche, and suddenly a hundred Soviet military
labourers and engineers strode smartly out of the church and gathered behind the commander in neat,
organized lines. They stood rigidly, with absolutely no expression on their faces. One of the men
carried a large floral wreath that Anna had been forced to make a day earlier and stiffly laid it at the
base of Stalin’s bust.
Bobarov’s face glowed with pleasure as he pointed to the workers behind him and declared,
“Now you will see, first-hand, the power of Stalin and the Soviet Union!”
Bobarov dramatically swept his right arm skywards, and the troops stomped down the steps and
headed to the western edge of the island, where they would begin the task of building an anti-fascist
barrier. The villagers hastily parted down the middle, allowing the Soviets to march, unimpeded, to
their work. Unlike any of the others, whose eyes were either filled with tears or fear, Wolfgang stared
at the spectacle with disgust. Bobarov made brief eye contact with him, and their looks of contempt for
one another was chilling.

Within three days the large Soviet platoon had erected around the perimeter of Wolfland two
parallel—ten metres apart—five-metre high chain-link fences. The fences enclosed the village, forest,
and Rupert’s Berg. Curly razor wire was positioned on top of each fence. In the middle of the two ugly
barriers was a no-man’s land covered with plain brown dirt. Every tree or other living thing that had
grown there previously had been ripped out. Once a day a tractor, pulling a rake, went over the dirt,
keeping it well groomed.
After completing the barrier, the house arrest was lifted and the villagers were free of the
guards. There was no need; they were now in a giant cage. However, as before, the forest was still off
limits and no large unsupervised gathering of the villagers was permitted. Bobarov also refused to let
Wolfgang continue with his Sunday meetings.
The two gates to this colossal jail were located at the ancient bridge and by the dock on the east
side of the island. There had been some discussion amongst the Soviets about dynamiting the bridge
into dust, but the argument that the centuries-old span could prove useful for an invasion to the West
was brought forward by a Soviet sergeant. That saved the bridge. Crossing it from Wolfland brought
one into West Germany and freedom, so the bridge’s gates were heavily fortified and guarded. Only
Bobarov had the keys to the gateways.
The original old spotlight that the Soviets had put on Rupert’s Berg was replaced by four new
ones of much higher quality. Three were rigged to a machine that made their powerful beams sweep
through the black of night in a steady constant pattern that left no part of Wolfland in darkness for more
than three seconds. The remaining spotlight had its beams directed to the East, and it slowly ran along
the barbed wire that had been erected on the Ebene’s eastern river bank by the Soviets and their East
German brethren.
Well-armed Soviet guards were ordered to shoot anyone trying to swim across the Ebene to
either the West or East. Once a week, a small barge loaded with supplies drifted from the eastern
riverbank and landed at the dock. Five of Bobarov’s most trusted soldiers hauled all the supplies onto a
truck, which then raced to the Soviet compound for storage. Outside of a few medical supplies, the
Soviets did not share any of the cargo with the native population on Wolfland.
Wolfgang and the rest of the villagers worked hard to provide food, much as their forefathers
had done for centuries. Unfortunately, the villagers also had to give much of their harvest to the Soviets
as tax. After much negotiating, Wolfgang was allowed at certain times of the week to fish, under heavy
guard, as long as half his catch went to the Soviets.
Wilhelm’s Kirche was left in ruins and boarded shut. Other buildings fell into disrepair for lack
of building supplies and skilled workers. The grey November sky was the appropriate colour for the
mood of the people and the ugly scars that had been carved into Wolfland. An oppressive drabness
hung over the island.
Only on a clear night did some beauty break through. The newly installed communication tower
and antennas on Rupert’s Berg actually lit up the cross in a strange red and white glow. It could be seen
from as far away as Koenig’s Tal. To some people the cross looked like a beacon from heaven and
gave them a sense of reverence and hope.
Bobarov used valuable supplies and skilled workers to set up several billboards around the
village. Each one loudly proclaimed that the people of Wolfland must be grateful for the sacrifices and
heroic efforts of the Soviets. After all, the Red Army had freed them from the Nazi oppressors. The
irony of this was not lost on the villagers.
Finally, Bobarov replaced Chemnitz with two former KGB agents and had them visit several
USSR military installations throughout the East Bloc. They easily found clients from the Soviet elite
who eagerly paid for the privilege of sipping the famous wine from Wolfland.
It was a grand time to be Commander Dmitry Bobarov.

1949

The British, French, and Americans return their occupation zones back to the German people, and it
officially becomes a new nation: Federal Republic of Germany (FRG). Most, though, refer to the new
country as West Germany. It is modelled after the United States: democratic government and capitalist
economy. America’s Marshall Plan pours millions of dollars into the rebuilding of West Germany, and
it soon becomes a world economic power.
The Soviets also allow the Germans in their occupation zone to establish a government. This
one, however, is modelled after the communist system of the Soviet Union: one party rule and a
centralized, government-controlled economy. The former Soviet Zone officially becomes known as the
German Democratic Republic (GDR), or East Germany.
Berlin becomes a miniature copy of the new Germanys. The Soviets establish a municipal
government in their zone that embraces their form of communism. They also make East Berlin the
capital of the GDR. Despite the protestations of the Soviets, the other three occupation zones of Berlin
become a state of the Federal Republic of Germany, and it is protected from the communists by the
presence of large British, French, and American military forces. West Berlin becomes a democratic,
capitalistic island in a sea of communism. The Soviets refuse to recognize West Berlin as a valid
political entity, and for decades thereafter the city becomes a centre of Cold War tensions between the
democratic powers of the West and the communist powers of the East.
The GDR is the furthest thing from being democratic. The election ballots have only one person
to vote for. As a result, many government leaders, not held accountable by political rivals and voters,
become self-serving and immoral. Many embezzle money and live in luxury.
The GDR government, backed by the Soviet army, which has bases all over East Germany, and
their own infamous secret police, the Stasi (Stadtssicherheitsdienst), intimidate people into submission.
Dissent or any questioning of government policies, whether verbal or written, is illegal. Informants,
generously paid by the Stasi, are everywhere, reporting on neighbours, co-workers, and even family
members. Arrest by the Stasi is quick and brutal; justice through a fair trial is non-existent.
Churches are banned; the Bible is suppressed; students are instructed by schoolteachers to
believe that God is irrelevant. Citizens of the GDR are subjected to constant Soviet propaganda about
how the “big brother” from the east liberated them from Nazism and is protecting them from the
wicked Western powers. The message is clear: Citizens of the GDR must be grateful to the Soviets!
Also, the benefits of communism, compared to the evils of capitalism, are reported daily in the
only newspaper allowed in the country. Schoolbooks, comic books, films, and other media in East
Germany must contain material deemed appropriate (i.e., pro-communist, anti-capitalist views) to be
published and released in the East German market. Media that is considered a threat to communist
doctrine is banned and deemed illegal. As a result most Western publications, television shows,
movies, and music are not allowed in East Germany.
The GDR economic system (modelled after the Soviet Union’s) causes severe production
problems and widespread corruption. Most products built in East Germany are shoddy, since there is
no competition from other firms to make them better and more appealing. Materials and equipment are
in either short supply or obsolete.
Many people, particularly the young of the GDR, become disenchanted and flee to the West—
mainly through West Berlin—where they can be free to practise their faith, to vote for politicians who
promise to serve the people, and to partake in the fruits of a capitalistic system.
Fifteen kilometres of the Ebene River becomes part of the border between East and West
Germany. The island of Wolfland, located in the middle of the river, continues to be part of Soviet-
dominated East Germany despite protests from the West. The island is only 104 metres from the
Federal Republic of Germany.
The Soviets deem Wolfland a strategically critical military installation. The rebuilt observation
and communication tower, solidified with more steel girders and cement pillars than before, is filled
with the latest spyware technology. Several technicians listen to Western radio broadcasts, secret and
public, around the clock. The information is recorded and dutifully sent to Moscow for further
analysis.

1950

Johann swung the axe deftly at the thick trunk of the Tannenbaum tree. The impact of the razor sharp
axe against the hundred-year-old tree yielded a resounding thud and a deep indentation. Johann pulled
the axe out and swung again. His incredible arm strength and technique, sharpened by three years of
steady woodcutting, made short work of the magnificent evergreen, and within seconds the majority of
it lay flat on the ground. Johann moved on to the next designated tree and with the same aggressive
efficiency felled it like the last one.
A short distance away stood Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein and his father, Edgar, the only man
equal in physical size and compassion of heart to himself.
The elder Tannenbaum-Finklestein looked at his son with some concern and said, “Johann has
been a woodcutter and living alone in our old hunting cabin for three years now. Will he ever get over
his mental pain?”
Oskar shook his head and said softly, “If Johann was my only client I would consider myself a
failure. He talks about how God brought Rosenberg and Sonnenheim into his life to help him survive
the horrors of Auschwitz. What happened there is now nothing more than a bad memory. Johann
believes his mother, brother, and sister are in heaven, so he is at peace with that.
“But something disturbing happened in The Hague with his father. Something so terrible that
his mind simply won’t allow him to remember. Yet the feelings from the event constantly torment his
subconscious, and he will eventually kill himself if he doesn’t find out what really occurred. I have
tried everything. I’ve contacted authorities in The Hague to shed some light on what happened, but
their efforts have been fruitless. I’ve prayed, tried psychoanalysis, dream therapy, and hypnotism to jog
his memory, but all have failed. So I watch him slowly wasting away like a patient with a terminal
disease.”
The father looked at his son with compassion and said, “You’re a good man and a good friend
to Herr Liebermann. That is all you can do. The rest is up to God.”

•••
The cold winds started up in the Alps just as the sun was setting. It blew through Zurich, angrily
kicking up snow, debris, and any hats not firmly planted on heads. Inside Oskar Tannenbaum-
Finklestein’s office a storm was raging as well.
A chair flew through the air, splintering into several pieces as it shattered against a wall.
Guttural high-pitched screams vibrated off the windows. Papers were thrown into the air; others were
torn apart. Oskar’s stately office desk was tipped, and everything on it, including the recently
purchased lamp, exploded as it impacted the floor.
Dr. Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein finally stood up from his recliner. There was fire in his
eyes. He seized Johann by the scruff of his neck and lifted him off the ground. The shorter man flayed
futilely at the huge man’s chest and head. Oskar tightened his grip and drove Johann against a wall.
The psychiatrist looked into his patient’s eyes and very calmly said, “Enough.”
The door to the office was timidly opened from the outside, and a very scared, very young
nurse, who had heard the commotion, looked at the mess and the towering doctor holding his patient a
half-metre off the floor by his neck. With a shaky voice she asked if everything was all right.
Oskar stared back at the petite dark-haired nurse with surprise and said, “Of course everything
is all right, nurse. Let everyone in the hospital know that all is well and under control here. There is no
need to be alarmed. Next time, please knock. You may go.”
The nurse took another quick look around the damaged room and squeaked, “Sorry, doctor.
Please forgive me.”
Oskar smiled and demurely said, “Already done.”
The door was hastily shut, and the sounds of the nurse scurrying off quickly disappeared. Oskar
half-carried, half-dragged Johann to the couch, which besides Oskar’s recliner was the only piece of
furniture still standing. He gruffly placed the patient down, got his recliner, and moved it into position
near the couch. Oskar waited for Johann to catch his breath.
Then in a very peaceful voice he said, “You are very close to freedom, Herr Liebermann.”
Oskar pulled out a notebook from his inner coat pocket, opened it, and spoke serenely as he
reviewed what he had written during Johann’s last visit. “You talked about being captured with your
family in The Hague. After being loaded onto a truck you all were transported to Gestapo headquarters.
Upon arrival, your mother, brother, and sister were taken away to points unknown, while you and your
father were brought to the outside lobby of a room. A Gestapo officer took your father into the room.
You remained in the lobby under guard. For approximately an hour you heard your father scream off
and on in pain. Finally, there was silence, and the door opened and you were led into the room.
Obviously, from the little episode you just had here in my office, what you saw was disturbing. What
did you see, Johann? What was happening to your father?”
Johann stared blankly ahead for several minutes.
Finally, in a soft perplexed voice, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening, he spoke. “A
guard ushered me into the room. I was absolutely terrified, but there was a white glow that lit
everything up. It was so strange because there was only a single light bulb hanging over a simple
wooden table. Yet once I was in that light, a feeling of peace came over me. It seemed so inappropriate
considering the circumstances, but that’s what I felt.
“My father was sitting in a chair, by a table, across from a man dressed in black. Lepschmidt.
Yes, that’s who it was. Herr Inspector Lepschmidt. He was the only one who introduced himself.
Another man, dressed in the same way as the inspector, was standing off to the side. Lepschmidt
motioned me to sit on a chair beside my father. I couldn’t see any of the Gestapo’s faces because the
white glow was too bright. My father was slumped in his chair. He tried to look up at me, but since he
had been beaten his eyes were nearly swollen shut, and there was blood all over his face and clothes.
My father smiled at me, and he said—”
Johann gasped as a wave of emotion shuddered through his body. Oskar put his gigantic right
hand on Johann’s chest.
“What did he say, Johann?”
Johann’s eyes stared up at the roof as he sputtered out the words that needed to come out. “My
father said, ‘Son, I am going to glory soon. I am so proud of you. I love you.’
“Lepschmidt started reading from a file. ‘According to this, Doctor Liebermann, you were a
faithful church member. Obviously though, considering your situation now, you went to the wrong
one.’
“Lepschmidt laughed over this for the longest time. It was horrid. Finally he continued. ‘You
know, Doctor, I grew up in a Lutheran church. In fact, as a youth I was even confirmed. I know the
Christian belief about laying down your life for your friends. But, Doctor Liebermann, what does it say
about me taking your son’s life?’
“Lepschmidt snapped his fingers, and the other Gestapo agent stuck the cold barrel of his Luger
under my chin.
“The inspector screamed, ‘Shoot.’
“My father lunged forward, but the man with the Luger pushed him back. I still felt that strange
peace. There was a clicking sound. The gun wasn’t loaded. Lepschmidt started laughing again.
“Then he said, ‘Dying for your friends and family is one thing, but watching your son die is
another. Is God talking to you, Doctor Liebermann? Is He making it clear that your son is to be
sacrificed? For what, Doctor Liebermann? For people you hardly know? Will your son’s death be
worth it? Could you live with yourself, knowing you had an opportunity to save your son? Now is not
the time for bold proclamations about God’s revenge or about me going to hell! This is war, Doctor,
and I have a job to do! Now come, do we have to kill your precious son? ’Cause if we do, we’ll just get
your other one, and we will go through the same process! So start talking! Where are your Jewish
friends hiding, doctor? Who is the ringleader of your little terrorist group? Tell us, and your son lives.’
“My father remained quiet. Lepschmidt then slapped me hard across the face. Blood came out
of my nose as he yelled, ‘In five seconds I will have your son killed! Tell me what I need to know!
One, two, three!’
“Father screamed, ‘Wait!’
“Lepschmidt stopped counting, smiled, and said, ‘You have something to say, Doctor?’
My father looked at me calmly and said, ‘Repeat after me son. Oh Lord, though I walk in the
shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil.’
“Time seemed to stand still. Words, movements—it was so strange. Lepschmidt pulled out a
gun and held it to my head. My father just smiled at me as if nothing was happening and kept on
reciting Scripture. The Herr Inspector then pointed his gun at my father’s head. There was a loud
cracking sound, a flash of light, and blood sprayed over all of us. Father slumped forward in his chair
and fell in a heap to the floor. He had been murdered right before my eyes.
“Suddenly the white glow was gone, movements became fast again, sounds loud and harsh. I
came to another reality. The room was dark and musty. It smelled of sweat, smoke, cheap cigarettes,
and death.
“Lepschmidt called me a filthy Jewish pig and spat in my face and also spat on the body of my
father. Two guards barged into the room, grabbed my arms, and led me out of the office, down several
flights of stairs, and then threw me into a cell. I don’t know how long I lay there, but I was very
nauseous. I threw up and must have fainted.
“Next thing I knew, I was brought out of my cell and put on a train with absolutely no memory
of what had happened at the Gestapo headquarters. Until now.”
Johann fell apart. His body contorted in pain, and his anguished wailing could be heard
throughout the hospital as the years of pent-up agony and grief were released. Oskar watched him with
pity but felt relieved. It was the breakthrough that he had worked so many years for.
There was a knocking on the door. Oskar responded. The same nurse who had come earlier was
back again, offering assistance. Oskar gently shooed her away. Everything was fine. Perfect.
A half-hour passed before Johann finally stopped.
He looked over at Oskar and whispered, “Thank you.”
Oskar nodded and asked, “How do you feel?”
“Exhausted, but relieved.”
“That was an unbelievably heavy burden you were carrying.”
“It was hell.”
“Your father was a great man.”
“In the end, he was a great man of God.”
“You rest now, Johann.”
Oskar threw his massive overcoat over Johann, who within minutes was sleeping blissfully.
Finally.

The lamp.
It was the lamp that Johann had shattered in his earlier, brief, insane rush of rage that had finally
triggered his memory of that fateful night in Lepschmidt’s interrogation room. Oskar had innocently
purchased and placed the lamp on his desk just an hour before Johann’s weekly counselling session,
without any idea there would be such dramatic consequences.
The brightness of the lamp’s new bulb and its peculiar design had bathed the office in a white
glow much like Johann had seen just before his father’s murder.
Johann’s transformation as he entered Oskar’s office for his weekly meeting was electric. His
brow furrowed; his movements slowed down; and then he looked right through Oskar as the big man
asked him if anything was wrong. Johann was swept to another place, another time, another
circumstance, as the bright glow of the lamp brought back conflicting memories of heavenly peace and
ghastly human terror. It overwhelmed his sanity, and he mistook Oskar’s room and the psychiatrist
himself for the place and the one that had traumatized him so.
Thankfully, Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein had rescued him from the madness that damaged
much of his office.
Then came revelation.
Oskar heaved himself up from the recliner and moved to the window and stared at the
darkening shadows of twilight. The wind had stopped, leaving the streets messy with debris.
“Much like my office,” thought Oskar. “The wind made a mess, but it has stopped and
everything can easily be picked up now.”
The big psychiatrist quietly walked back to his recliner. He settled his gigantic frame onto it,
tipped back, and let himself relax. His eyelids were starting to flutter, but then he noticed the letter,
with the German postage stamps, lying on the floor. Curiosity pushed some of the fatigue away as he
picked up the letter.

1951
After the Second World War, several Nazis, wealthy from the plunder of those they had conquered,
managed to escape arrest from the Allies by fleeing Germany. Many headed to South America, where
lax laws, large cities, jungles, and great geographical distances provided cover from those seeking to
convict them. Occasionally, however, some were found.

By late afternoon, the hot humid air over Sao Paulo was thickly saturated with the sweat and
toxic waste from millions of people and machines. Seeking respite from the putrid stench, many of the
citizens of Brazil’s largest metropolis, particularly men going home from work, fled inside to the
relative cool of bars and coffee shops for a drink and rest.
The coffee shop where the meeting was to take place was like any other that dotted the city
core. Dirty, run down, and dingy, it provided good sight lines and was in a neighbourhood where police
rarely dared to go. It was ideal.
It had been a while, but as Georg Lutz walked in to the Laredo Coffee Shop, he recognized his
former superior instantly. He was sitting alone at a small table, drinking a cup of bittersweet java. Egon
Kratzer, upon seeing his old assistant, acknowledged him with a sharp nod of the head.
Two large men suddenly came up to Lutz and blocked him from going any further. One quickly
and firmly grasped Lutz’s arms from behind, while the other frisked him for weapons. None were
found. Satisfied that their boss, Kratzer, would be safe, the thugs led Lutz to the empty seat across from
him and then seated themselves at a table nearby.
The former SS Lieutenant and adjutant stared at each other with complete disdain for several
moments. Lutz eventually pulled out a wedding band, plus a large silver button, from his right-hand
suit pocket and placed it on the table.
With a triumphant grin creasing his face, Kratzer smugly said, “Obviously, the delivery of your
wife’s wedding ring and the button from your four-year-old daughter’s blazer was successful.”
“Where are they?”
“Ah, hasty, hasty now, are we? That’s understandable, of course. But, before we get to that, I
want to discuss a few other items.”
Lutz stood up aggressively, but so did Kratzer’s henchmen. One of them came from behind,
placed his giant hands on Lutz’s shoulders, and pushed him back down onto the chair. Kratzer pointed
a gun at his once faithful helper’s head. The quick one-sided scrimmage caused the patrons of the
coffee shop to quit their conversations and look over.
Kratzer waved his two bodyguards back to their table and loudly said, so everyone could hear,
“Please, have no fear. Everything is under control. Just a little business problem.”
The crowd, used to the rough dealings of the neighbourhood, shrugged, and as they resumed
their normal level of conversation Kratzer put the gun back into the holster underneath his coat and
quietly said to Lutz, “The next time you stand up like that or threaten me in any shape or form, I will
put a bullet into your head.”
Lutz stared at Kratzer and as his shoulders sagged in defeat Kratzer laughed and asked, “How
long has it been since we saw each other last?”
“Seven years.”
“That long? My, my, my, time certainly passes by quickly, does it not? I congratulate you, Herr
Lutz, on your ability to evade my security team for so long. There is no question you have been their
greatest challenge.”
Lutz’s response was timid, laced with false praise. “Your escape from the SS is more
impressive than what I did. May I ask how you escaped capture in Germany? I watched as you got
arrested by at least five military police. My sources indicated that you were later executed.”
Kratzer laughed and gleefully explained, “Money talks, Herr Lutz, and you know that. Even the
most ardent Nazi couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make several thousand reichsmarks for just a
small favour. After my arrest I was brought to SS Kommandant Holgar Buchberger, who quickly
condemned me to death and had two guards take me out of his office. He should have followed us.
“When we arrived at the execution chamber, one of the guards, whom I had paid off earlier,
took over the proceedings and ordered the other to leave. Since ‘my’ guard had the higher rank, there
was no argument. He quickly transferred me out of the basement through a side door, and I was
replaced by a blindfolded wino who had been in and out of the SS jail for several months. The drunk
was first drugged into silence and then executed as Lieutenant Egon Kratzer. My guard assured me,
after I gave him a few more thousand marks, that he was the one who would dispose of the corpse and
that the true identity of the executed was safe with him.”
Lutz shook his head in amazement.
Kratzer sneered down at his former adjutant and exclaimed, “I can’t tell you how long I’ve
waited for this moment Lutz! Yes, the money I made from the spoils of war, specifically the art I
plundered from the Jews, is more than I’ll be able to spend in a lifetime. The money from Wolfland
Weiss was pocket change in comparison. But I have principles, Herr Lutz. Don’t ever betray me, and
don’t ever take what is rightfully mine. If you do, it will cost you what is most dear.”
Lutz looked downcast and shook his head. His voice was dry, each word coming out slowly.
“You constantly humiliated me with your patronizing comments when I was your assistant. Now,
halfway around the world in Brazil, you have hunted my family down like animals and kidnapped my
wife and child. I only took a small fraction of your fortune. Consider it payment for the hard and loyal
work I provided for you. Why can’t you just let me be?”
Kratzer’s face immediately darkened in anger. “Nonsense, Lutz! As I said before, I have
principles. Plus you are a lowly clerk, a mental simpleton. You were fortunate to have been able to
work for me. I am embarrassed that someone like you got away with my money for so long. Now you
have fifteen minutes to give back the funds you stole, or I will have your wife and child strangled.”
Lutz stared at Kratzer for a moment and said, “I don’t need fifteen minutes. I can give
something of value to you immediately.”
“Is that so?” replied Kratzer skeptically.
“Sure.” Lutz took out a gold wristwatch from his coat pocket and handed it over to Kratzer.
“Is this a joke?”
“Come now, Herr Kratzer, don’t you recognize that watch?” asked Lutz.
Kratzer shrugged his shoulders, “Can’t say I do.”
“It’s from that skinny man who kidnapped my wife and child. Today, however, I have some
rather sad news about that gentleman. He’s dead. Now, truthfully, Herr Kratzer, that probably doesn’t
really matter to you. What does matter is that the ones who are most precious to me are safe and secure.
Mercello!”
Lutz fell to the floor, and from behind the coffee bar a hired assassin, Mercello, held the trigger
down on his submachine gun, eliminating Kratzer and his thugs before they could move. The violent,
lethal outburst was over in seconds.
The other patrons stayed frozen in shock, cowering in their seats. Lutz slowly stood up and with
a sharp motion of his hand shooed them away. The customers stumbled over each other while getting
out of the coffee shop.
Lutz looked down at the dead Kratzer and mumbled, “You were always an arrogant fool.”
Lutz and Mercello did not linger. Money and a few short words were exchanged, and the two
men parted company at the door of the coffee shop and disappeared into the teeming metropolis.
•••

The months following the breakthrough at Oskar’s office was a time of mental rebuilding for
Johann. He continued being a woodcutter and lived alone in the same little hunting cabin in the forest
as before, but the tension and the moodiness that had invaded his entire being like a disease slowly
faded away. He let himself grieve for his family, particularly his father, who had died so violently in
front of his eyes.
Oskar brought Johann a violin, and the Auschwitz survivor allowed music back into his life,
which for much too long had brought back awful memories of Kommandant Dorn and time at the
camp. He played the instrument while wandering in the forest, and as the music filled his mind with the
bittersweet pictures and feelings of family and friends, Johann healed.
Then finally, one day, as the music from his violin echoed sweetly and at times hauntingly
through the trees and in his soul, Johann made his peace with God.
It was shortly thereafter, while he was chopping wood by the cabin, that Oskar appeared. The
two men nodded a simple greeting and went for a walk through the trees. Oskar, sensing Johann’s new-
found peace, did not take long in making a suggestion to his good friend.

•••

Several billion stars sparkled on the cold, black night’s backdrop. The moon hung half full in
the southeastern sky. The four spotlights from the guard tower high on Rupert’s Berg searched eagerly
for fascists and deranged communists.
The villagers had celebrated Christmas Eve privately in their own homes. Bobarov’s decree
about meetings, increased patrols, and powerful spotlights made large gatherings at homes or in the
caverns much too dangerous.
In the refurbished shed by the cottage, a lit candle and a sweet smelling bouquet of flowers in
an old ornate vase sat on Anna’s nightstand. Anna clung to her Bible in bed as she drifted away in
prayer and sleep.
In the white cottage, Wolfgang was also lying in bed. Hannelore rested beside him. Since the
barrier had gone up, Wolfgang had become withdrawn and surly with his wife, his children—in fact,
everyone. Even Christmas and his birthday had not pulled Wolfgang out of his dour attitude, and it
strained the household.
Anna thought at first she was dreaming when she heard the strains of “Ode to Joy.” For several
moments she let the music soothe her, and she smiled at the familiar tune. Suddenly, with a startled cry,
her eyes snapped wide open. The music was real. It was a violin from afar. Anna lit another candle,
dressed, and ran outside, where she was joined by others. As if in a trance they followed the music.
Hannelore heard the music first. At first she could not believe it. Then, yes. It had to be. A
violin was playing “Ode to Joy.” A wave of recognition swept through her body. “Wolfgang? Can it
be?” she asked.
Her husband leaned over, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “God has given us a miracle
tonight. Stay with the children. I’ll be back soon.”
“Wolfgang?”
He was gone.

Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein, Rosenberg, Sonnenheim, and Uncle Max stood beside Fritz
Unterstutz, Martin Jaeger, Christoff Holzenbein, and his sisters. Each held a candle. Close by, Johann
Liebermann played his violin at the western edge of the bridge. His playing was magnificent. As the
music echoed over the island the hearts of those on the west bank and those behind the barrier were
filled with joy and hope. It was the first time since Auschwitz that Johann had played the violin for
someone else.
Just over one hundred and four metres away, behind the two five-metre high fences, near the
bridge’s gates, stood Anna, Margarita Bauer, Sophie Muller, and Meta Fischer with her three children,
Moritz, Luther, and Klara. Each person held either a lantern, flashlight, or candle. They waved their
lights; those on the other side waved back.
Johann started playing “Silent Night,” and the people on either side of the grim barriers
responded with singing. The sounds of the music and voices were lifted and carried by the swirling
breezes coming off the Ebene, before echoing off towering Rupert’s Berg.
Hannelore was both too curious and excited to follow her husband’s orders and arrived with
Jan, Edna, and Johann-Jens. She found Anna sobbing and hugged her. Johann finished the final chords,
and as the sound slowly dissipated in the wind another sound from up high on Rupert’s Berg took its
place. It was both mournful and terrifying, but for those who knew, there were tears.
It was the howl of a wolf. Johann listened to Wolfgang’s howling for nearly a minute. He then
laid down his violin and, in an incredible display that left those around him stunned, Johann arched his
back, swung his head up to the moon, and howled back. Short, high-pitched yelps at first and then a
long drawn-out howl. For the next several minutes Wolfgang and Johann howled back and forth to
each other in perfect harmony.
Suddenly, the spotlights from Rupert’s Berg stopped their rotation and focused on the villagers
gathered by the barriers and those on the other side. They could actually see each other’s faint figures
now, but the distance was still too great to distinguish faces. The two groups of people waved and
shouted frantically at each other. Then, startlingly, the Soviet siren on Wolfland started screaming. A
truck could be heard rumbling towards the villagers.
On the western bank, three American jeeps filled with soldiers, lights, guns, and a megaphone
came screeching to a halt behind the people.
Johann put his hands beside his mouth and started yelling, “Wolfgang, Wolfgang, Wolfgang,”
over and over again.
The American sergeant was brash and indignant while pointing to the sign at the edge of the
river. “Can’t you idiots read the sign? It’s right there! This is an American military zone, no
trespassing, and those are Soviets over there! You are to have no contact! Understand? Understand?”
Gesturing to the American soldiers he bellowed, “Get those people in their vehicles and bring
them back to base. They’re all under arrest!”
Soldiers stormed out and forced Johann and the others to move to the cars.
Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein came alongside Fritz Unterstutz and said under his breath,
“Thank you for organizing this evening, Herr Unterstutz.”
Fritz grinned and said, “I am glad that Johann gave me your address. Herr Liebermann provided
much needed hope for Wolfgang and the other villagers tonight. It has been a beautiful evening”
“It has been perfect.”
“Let’s keep writing to one another.”
“Definitely.”
As Johann and the others were climbing into their cars, loud and angry Russian commands
could be heard on the island as the women and children were gruffly put into the waiting truck. Some
American and Soviet soldiers yelled at each other across the barriers. No one understood the words, but
the tones were clearly aggressive.
The truck brought the villagers to Herzog’s Gasthaus, where they were forced inside and made
to stand against a wall with their arms up. Bobarov, red with fury and rapidly losing a battle with his
self-control, stormed into the inn.
He threatened the villagers with his fist and shrilly demanded, “Where is Jaeger? It is forbidden
for anyone on Wolfland to fraternize with fascists and capitalists! That is why the barriers were
erected! You have all broken the law and will be severely punished! ”
Three Soviets with submachine guns stood in front of them, ready to fire. At least twenty other
soldiers were looking for Wolfgang Jaeger. Bobarov was about to release another verbal barrage when
the front door of the inn swung open and Wolfgang strode in.
Curtly he said to Bobarov, “I’m the one you want. The villagers are harmless. Let them go.”
Bobarov stared at Jaeger for several tense moments before suddenly acceding to his request.
With a stern voice Bobarov ordered the soldiers to escort the villagers back to their homes.
The Soviet commander of Wolfland was left alone with Wolfgang. He was too proud to be
supported by armed guards. Man to man. That was the way he always wanted it. Bobarov limped up to
Wolfgang, lifted his right hand, and hit him hard against the cheek. Wolfgang didn’t register any
emotion. Bobarov reared back again and his hand sliced through the air, connecting viciously against
Wolfgang’s other cheek. The winemaker did not react.
Bobarov screamed, “I am going to punish you and your family!”
Wolfgang stared down at his oppressor and softly said, “You touch me again, and that is the end
of your lucrative wine deal. You harm my family or any of the other villagers, and I will hurt you and
every Soviet on this island.”
“We outnumber you and have all the weapons.”
“That didn’t make any difference for me in Stalingrad and won’t make any difference here on
Wolfland. Let’s be clear on a few things here, Commander Bobarov. The only reason I remain on
Wolfland is because it is my home. Your intrusion does not change that fact. Allow my family and
friends to live quietly with our faith and traditions, and you will have your profits and military base.”
Bobarov did not respond and looked placid. Sensing vulnerability in the Soviet, Wolfgang
coolly made some more demands. “On Sundays all the villagers will meet at my house to worship God.
During the week we will be allowed to visit one another and have free access to the forest for walks or
for gathering firewood and plants without any supervision from your soldiers. Once a year you will
allow us to sing at the barrier to our loved ones on the other side. Afterwards we will gather at my
cottage for Christmas celebrations.”
Bobarov and Wolfgang then stared at each other, with cold menacing eyes, for several seconds
in silence. The Soviet commander, thinking of his huge bank account from the selling of Wolfland
Weiss and Wolfgang’s chilling history, finally relented by nodding his head slightly.
Wolfgang calmly asked, “Do I have your word?”
There was another long silence before Bobarov grudgingly answered, “Yes. You have my word.
I will grant you your wishes.”
Wolfgang walked out, leaving the door behind him open and swinging wildly in the cool
evening breeze.

So it was regulated, by Soviet commander Dmitry Bobarov of the Wolfland Island Soviet
Military Base, of the German Democratic Republic, that the villagers of Wolfland were allowed access
to the Jaegers’ cottage every Sunday morning for a traditional church service, from nine to noon.
Private home gatherings and free access to the forest were granted as well. Finally, the villagers of
Wolfland were given permission every December 24 to stand at the barrier from 11:00 p.m. to
midnight, to sing Christmas carols and to howl.
However, no talking with the fascist capitalists on the other side would be permitted.
Captain Roger Enwright, a forty-three-year-old American career soldier, scratched the red crew
cut on his massive angular head, sighed, and looked at the prisoner quietly sitting in front of him.
In a heavy Texas drawl he reviewed what he had been told by the interpreter. “Let me get this
straight. You were playing a violin and then howling like a wolf across the river from the Wolfland
Island Soviet Military Base because that used to be your home, and you wanted to inspire the
indigenous people still living there?”
The interpreter, a young man named Heinz, repeated the captain’s words in German.
Johann wearily returned the gaze of the American commander and said through Heinz, “As I
have told you twice already, for several years I played violin at the Christmas Eve service in
Wolfland’s church. My best friend, Wolfgang Jaeger, and I learned to howl like wolves from our
fathers. When I heard the howling tonight from the island I knew at once it was Wolfgang. There was
absolutely no intention to fraternize with the Soviets or to disobey the American military. However,
Wolfland is my home, and I wanted to be home for Christmas and my birthday.”
“Well, I can certainly understand that, pardner.”
The interpreter tried to translate. Johann nodded his head and smiled. He understood.
“Okay, Herr Liebermann, tell you what,” said Enwright. “Your actions actually shook up those
Russkies a bit, and that is okeedokee with me!”
Heinz shrugged his shoulders and asked, “Sir, how can I translate that?”
“Never mind. Tell the Kraut that as long as I am in charge here, he has my authorization to play
that fiddle every Christmas Eve.”
“Fiddle, every Christmas Eve?”
“Violin, man! He can play that thing, that instrument, across the river from Wolfland every
Christmas Eve from now on!”
The interpreter passed on the good news.
In rough English Johann exclaimed his gratitude. “Tank you. Tank you.”
“Naww, don’t mention it. It’s my pleasure to help some German folk, and besides, it’s great
propaganda.”
With that Captain Roger Enwright stood up and with a slight head nod dismissed Johann from
his office.

So it was decreed by the American Military Forces Commander Roger Enwright of the United
States Army military base, Koenig’s Tal, Federal Republic of Germany, that every December 24 from
2300 hours to 2400 hours, Herr Johann Liebermann and guests approved by the American Commander
at least three months before said date of December 24 be granted permission to enter the American
military zone at the Ebene river, across from the Wolfland Island Soviet Military Base, for the sole
purpose of Herr Johann Liebermann playing his violin and his approved guests singing American-
military-approved Christmas carols.
Howling was also allowed, but no talking or fraternization with those under Soviet rule was
permitted; otherwise the right to gather would be revoked.

Two days later Johann sat across from Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein in a train compartment,
heading for Zurich. The time near Wolfland had been an incredible experience for everyone. Johann
was initially skeptical of Oskar’s suggestion about going to Wolfland for Christmas. Would the Soviets
allow Wolfgang and the others to listen to the music? It was, after all, a high-security Soviet military
base. Would they even get close to the base? Who was going to pay for the trip? Where would they
stay? Max Rosenberg had been in touch with Oskar. Contacts were made, and money was not an issue.
Johann looked over at his friend and said, “Thank you.”
Oskar looked back with a small smirk and a twinkle dancing in his eyes.
“Okay, what are you thinking now? And, oh, by the way, it is no,” said Johann frantically.
“Sure. Whatever you want.”

1952-1955

Johann’s passion for playing the violin was rekindled on that incredible Christmas Eve on the Ebene.
After his return to the woodcutter’s cabin, he played every day for several months in the forest; it was a
balm to his soul and connected him with God. Only Oskar ever heard Johann’s brilliant playing, and
eventually he convinced Johann to audition for the Zurich Philharmonic. This he did, and although the
auditioning panel was a rather jaded and overly critical group, they were absolutely stunned by
Johann’s heartfelt effort and technical excellence. They offered him a position on the spot.
Within a year Johann’s abilities with the Zurich Philharmonic had become world-renowned. He
was invited to play as a guest for orchestras around the globe. For the next few years, Paris, London,
Madrid, New York, Buenos Aires, and Sydney became some of Johann’s many stops.
He moved into a comfortable apartment in Zurich, and his life became a blur of practices,
concert engagements, travel, late nights at restaurants with musician friends, up early again the next
day for practice, concerts, and travel. Women friends came and went because there was no time for
commitments; the demands for his talent were much too great. The dream of becoming a doctor was all
but forgotten. The commitment to Wolfland, however, was never forgotten. Johann was always there,
year after year, on his birthday, December 24, no matter what his schedule was dictating, on the west
bank of the Ebene to play the violin and howl.
The only other steadying constant in Johann’s life was his phone call to Oskar on Sunday night
at 9:00 p.m., Zurich time, to let the big man know where he was and what he was thinking. Oskar and
Johann’s phone conversations always followed a predictable pattern. Short prelude on how things were
going, then another discussion on how things were really going, finally ending with “Oskar’s
question.”
“Whom are you playing the violin for?”
“God.”
“Really?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“You tell me.”
“Goodbye.”
“Have a good week.”

1956

Spring had arrived in Zurich, and with it warm, pleasant evenings. Johann, weary from the rigours of a
recent tour to Argentina, opened the windows of his apartment and let the gentle spring air waft
through. He collapsed on his front room couch and casually looked through the mail that had
accumulated over the two weeks he had been away. There were letters from fans, some bills, and
requests to play for other orchestras. Suddenly he found an envelope postmarked from Israel. Curious,
Johann opened it immediately. His eyebrows rose up in surprise as he read the letter.
Soon he was on the phone to Oskar. He had an invitation to play in Israel with an orchestra
made up of former Nazi concentration camp survivors. They would travel around the country playing
in towns, cities, and kibbutzim. Their mission was to bring culture and inspiration to a people who had
suffered persecution and hardship before finding refuge in Israel.
Johann said, “I think I may have found an answer to your question.”
Oskar agreed.
After hanging up Johann dialled the phone number provided in the letter.

•••

Hot, humid semi-tropical air hung heavy over Tel Aviv and enveloped Johann as soon as he
stepped off the plane. After enduring a long process through customs, Johann got a cab to take him to
his hotel. Due to the heat, the windows of the vehicle had to remain open. The ride was an assault to
Johann’s senses. The chatter of Hebrew and other languages, mixed in with chants of men in prayer,
plus the clatter of army trucks next to carts pulled by donkeys, screeching tires, honking horns, smells
of car exhaust, exotic food, spices, flowers and the sea drifted in and out of Johann’s cab. Dramatic
views of ancient mosques, churches, and synagogues and people from every walk of life, culture, faith,
and tradition passed by the cab as it fought for space and survival in the wild uncontrolled river of Tel
Aviv traffic.
Johann smiled. He loved it. Finally, the mad ride ended and Johann arrived at the hotel.
Drenched in sweat and with his mind desperately trying to filter and understand the strange sounds,
smells, and sights he had just experienced, Johann entered the cool quiet of the hotel’s lobby. He
checked in, got to his room, showered, changed, and rested.
At 6 p.m. he went downstairs to the hotel’s restaurant and met the slender, dark-haired, well-
groomed middle-aged organizer of the Survivors’ Orchestra, Herr Thomas Shilling. A waiter led them
to a table, where they ordered roasted lamb. After a few general pleasantries the men got down to the
business of getting to know each other and reviewing the tour.
An accomplished pianist from Vienna, Shilling had been condemned to Bergen-Belsen during
the war. He had barely survived. Upon liberation he rejoined the Viennese Philharmonic. Yet his
yearning to learn more about the Jewish faith that had caused him to be condemned for a year of torture
at Bergen-Belsen brought him to Israel. He never returned home. A resident of Tel Aviv, married with
two children, Shilling’s main purpose in life was to organize musical tours around the Israeli
countryside. His efforts had gained him much favour and appreciation, from not only the general
populace, but also from many prominent businessmen and politicians in Israel. They, in turn, supported
the tours with both money and an army escort.
“As I outlined in the letter, your honorarium for this tour is relatively small to what you are
used to, Herr Liebermann,” said Shilling with some reservation.
Johann shrugged. “That is not an issue.”
“Are you sure? I must confess that I am very curious as to why you, a world-renowned violinist,
have committed yourself to a three month musical tour for very little pay in a dangerous country that
you know little about.”
Johann leaned forward, looked directly into Herr Shilling’s eyes, and said, “Before I address
that, please tell me something. How did you know that I might be interested in playing for your
orchestra?”
Shilling provided a bland reply. “Considering your background and skill level, my committee
thought you would consider our invitation.”
Johann stared at Shilling, causing the Jewish musical director to squirm somewhat. A long,
awkward silence ensued.
Finally Johann asked, “Are there not many excellent but inexpensive musicians out there with
the background you require?”
“Yes, of course, but the orchestra committee and I are always interested in hiring the best. We
had nothing to lose in approaching you. The worst that could have happened was for you to say no to
our invitation.”
“You don’t give me the impression, Herr Shilling, that you would waste your time pursuing a
musician for your orchestra unless you had some information on his availability. Nod if the name
Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein means anything to you.”
After a long delay, Shilling grudgingly nodded.
Johann leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Of course! Oskar was who alerted you about me.
He also provided you with a complete review of my history and analysis of my mental condition.”
Shilling shrugged sheepishly.
“Herr Shilling, I have suffered many setbacks in life, but when it comes to having a true friend
like Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein, I am truly blessed.”
The music director nodded in agreement. “Indeed, but I still want to hear it from you. Why did
you accept our offer?”
“Direct from the horse’s mouth, eh?”
“As it were!”
Johann paused for a moment and took a deep breath before speaking. “I believe ‘Oskar’s
question’ will be answered.”
Shilling raised his eyebrows and gave a puzzled look. “Oskar’s question?”
“Whom are you playing the violin for?”
“I see. Whom are you playing the violin for, Herr Liebermann?”
Johann sighed and quietly said, “Tannenbaum-Finklestein has probably told you this already,
but I suffered severe mental trauma during the war. After my liberation from Auschwitz, I was also
quite angry and bitter at Christians. Where were they during the reign of the Nazis? Why hadn’t they
come to the aid of my family? Why did they let Jews suffer and die?
“As a result, I slid into a severe depression, yet I suppressed my anguish and tried to carry on
as if nothing was wrong. For a few years I managed to do this, but I was moody, prone to bouts of
gloominess and anger. I also refused to play the violin, which at one time was a big part of my life and
had always brought me joy. During my mental illness it only revived bad memories.
“I hung on to threads of sanity, but after getting the news that my family had been murdered by
the Nazis, they snapped and I mentally collapsed. I gave up on my medical studies, ended a relationship
with a woman who I truly loved, and finally sought counsel from Oskar.
“After much work I recalled that the Nazis had murdered my father because he wouldn’t reveal
the whereabouts of Jews who had gone into hiding and those that had helped them. Despite my father’s
courage, the pastor who had helped my family in The Netherlands was betrayed by cowardly members
from his own church and executed by the Gestapo. I also found out that the Nazis killed the pastor of
Wolfland and the father of my best friend, for helping my family escape Germany and harbouring
mentally disabled people.
“Although this news was grim, the faith and sacrifice of these men rekindled my love for
Christ. I started playing the violin again and received God’s healing comfort; the bad memories were
replaced with good.
“Sadly, a few years later I was mainly playing the violin for money, rather than for Him.
Coming to that realization, even though I always answered ‘Oskar’s question’ with ‘God,’ was
disappointing for me, to say the least.
“So in short, Herr Shilling, you have given me a grand opportunity to honour, albeit in a small
way, the fine Jewish men who helped me survive Auschwitz, the friends and Christian pastors who
died helping my family and others escape the Nazis, and my dear late mother, brother, sister, and
martyred father, who died doing what God had commanded him to do. The sacrifice of these beautiful
people can never adequately be repaid, but at least ‘Oskar’s question’ will be answered.”
“Well, I am certainly clear about the reasons why you are here,” said Shilling. “Now tell me.
What are you? A Christian or a Jew? I guarantee you that Israel will challenge your faith and
perception of God.”
Johann looked thoughtfully at his new boss. “I believe I am a Christian Jewish sympathizer, if
that makes any sense. I love Jesus. I love Jews. Will playing with fellow concentration camp survivors
throughout Israel make it more clear who I am or want to be? I hope so.”
Shilling looked at Johann for the longest time with a mix of sympathy, compassion, and respect.
Finally, he said, “I believe you have made the right decision in joining us here in Israel.”

1957

Through the only newspaper allowed in the German Democratic Republic (GDR), through the only
official radio and TV station allowed in the GDR, through the GDR-approved school curriculum,
through youth groups sponsored by the GDR, and through the ever-present Soviet army and the
despised Stasi, the communist system was forced onto the villagers of Wolfland. More billboards were
erected on the island, and each carried a message proclaiming the magnificence of the GDR and the
Soviets:
The border of the German Democratic Republic is fortified with an anti-fascist barrier to
prevent fascists and their insidious influences from ever penetrating or perverting our glorious nation.
Be grateful to the brave soldiers of the Soviet Union who freed the German people from the
twin evils of Fascism and Capitalism.
The German Democratic Republic is a worker’s paradise. There is no unemployment in our
people’s state. Statistics confirm that over three million workers in the Federal Republic of Germany
are unemployed.
The German Democratic Republic is a technologically advanced, modern republic with no
need for ancient religious beliefs. Religion and its rituals are a threat to the German Democratic
Republic for they demand adherence to a God rather than to the communist doctrines of the nation.
Thank the Soviet Union, your Big Brother, for their wise and benevolent leaders.

A young East German man named Ulrich Kloster, who, according to Bobarov, not only had
impeccable qualifications but a deep grasp of communist theories that governed the GDR, was installed
as the schoolteacher on Wolfland. It was no secret that Kloster was also an informant for the Stasi and
met regularly with Commander Bobarov to report his observations of the villagers.
Fall was approaching, and the air was starting to get noticeably cooler in the mornings and
evenings. Extra workers were brought in from Dresden to harvest the grapes that ripened faithfully
every year under Wolfgang’s watchful eye.
Communist law stated that all able-bodied adults in the GDR had to work and that workers
could not be fired. As a result, there were always too many people for the harvest on Wolfland. Many
had no interest in harvesting grapes and had little inclination to learn. Most reported late to work; many
indulged in the cheap government-subsidized beer and arrived drunk. Grapes were ruined, and
equipment was constantly being broken or stolen.
Wolfgang had long since given up trying to reason with Bobarov about the deplorable situation.
The commander was under strict orders from his superiors to provide work, regardless of how
inefficient it ended up being. There was not much he could do. All labourers, no matter what their
effort or how much time they had worked, were given the same wages at the end of the day. Most of
these wages were spent on beer. A tent village was set up for the workers on the edge of the wheat
fields. It was a haven of debauchery. Conflicts between workers and Soviet soldiers happened every
night. No villagers dared go outside during the evenings of the grape harvest for fear of the wild,
drunken behaviour that ran rampant among the guest workers. Finally, mercifully, after a week, the
grape harvest would be completed and the workers sent away to some other harvest or project.
Wolfgang made the wine, and as usual, despite the difficulties with the workers, it was
exquisite, bringing riches for Bobarov and some small freedoms for the villagers.
It was during Sunday worship times at the cottage that the adults taught their children from the
Bible and debunked the communist theories that Herr Kloster had imparted to them at school. The
youngsters were instructed that the words of the Bible were truth but that they should never openly
resist the communist theories taught by Kloster. The children obeyed their parents and parroted
Kloster’s teachings back perfectly.
The schoolmaster became convinced that the children had become firm believers of
communism and that the old beliefs of their parents were no longer relevant. As well, Wolfgang and
the adults of the village met with Kloster and Bobarov for mandatory communist theory meetings on
Tuesday and Thursday nights at the Herzog Inn. Listening attentively and asking questions, they left
Kloster, like the children did, with the impression that communism was important and worthy to
believe in.
One night, after a particularly rousing meeting, Kloster walked with Bobarov back to the
compound. The ardent communist schoolteacher was glowing with excitement and exclaimed,
“Commander, that was a brilliant meeting. You spoke well, and based on their response, I am
convinced that the villagers are becoming devoted communists.”
Bobarov did not share his accomplice’s glee. Frowning, he said, “You underestimate the power
of the villager’s Christian beliefs, Herr Kloster. Let me tell you a little story. Many years ago we tried
to take down the cross up there by the watchtower. We tried to pull it down, saw it down, and blast it
down. Nothing worked, and some of my soldiers were injured. So we gave up and surrounded it with a
flag and nine telecommunication towers. The cross may be obscured somewhat, but it remains. That
cross is like the villagers’ faith. No matter how much communist doctrine or philosophy you or I force
them to learn and adhere to, their faith is solid and will never be destroyed. Give to Caesar what is
Caesar’s.”
“Pardon me, Commander?”
“It’s from the Bible.”
“But that is forbidden.”
“Oh, stop it. When I first came here to Wolfland I was an idiot, much like you, thinking I could
make everyone a communist. The villagers and their forefathers have believed in the cross and the
Bible for centuries. You think you can come in here and change that? Nonsense. I know these people,
Kloster. Look in their eyes. They’re playing you for a fool. We can oppress them, indoctrinate them,
even kill them, but their faith will never change. Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s. When you understand
that, Kloster, you will have some inkling of what we are up against.”
The schoolteacher thought to himself for a moment before asking, “If that is true, then why are
you here, Commander Bobarov? You could have any post in the Soviet sphere and not have to deal
with the villagers’ indomitable faith.”
Annoyed by Kloster’s arrogant tone, Bobarov answered sarcastically, “It’s the wine, of course,
Kloster. Also, challenging the reality of God is interesting.”
“I could have you arrested for such flippant talk.”
Bobarov whistled sharply.
Three seconds later five well-armed soldiers appeared out of the darkness and surrounded
Kloster. Two of them shone their flashlights directly into his eyes. Bobarov snapped his fingers, and
one soldier kicked the back of the teacher’s legs, causing him to crash to the ground. Another snap of
the fingers and a soldier drove the cold barrel of his semi-automatic pistol into Kloster’s neck.
Bobarov spoke quietly and slowly, with menace. “Herr Kloster, you will never threaten me with
arrest or ever report on any activities here on Wolfland.”
Kloster remained on the ground, shivering and whimpering with fright.
Bobarov smirked and said, “Remember, we, the representatives of the Soviet Union, are your
Big Brother, your protector, your master. Now pick yourself up, and hopefully you’ve learned
something new this evening.”
The schoolteacher got up and scurried towards the schoolhouse. Bobarov watched for a
moment, shook his head, and then, surrounded by the five soldiers, continued walking towards the
well-fortified Soviet compound.

1959

No matter where they lived or what challenges—personal, professional, or financial—that they had
incurred over the year, Johann and friends always arrived on December 24 at 23:00 hours on the west
bank of the Ebene, across from Wolfland.
For the villagers, Christmas Eve was the greatest day of the year. The experience of hearing
Johann and seeing the dozens of lights gave them sweet hope for better days ahead. They spent the
majority of the 24th at the cottage, praying, eating, and spending time with one another. At 10:45 p.m.
they bundled up and headed for the bridge.
As the years progressed those on the western side of the barrier brought more relatives and
friends to support the wonder of Johann’s playing and the gathering at the border. More people meant
more candles and more light. This did not go unnoticed by the villagers on Wolfland whose own light
increased only through marriage or when children were born. The added light encouraged everyone.
After forty-five minutes of Johann’s violin playing, interspersed with carol singing, it was time
for just Johann and Wolfgang. The cadence and tone of their howling always sliced through the frigid
air and rebounded dramatically and hauntingly off Rupert’s Berg. For those listening it was at once
both terrifying and beautiful. No one in the world, outside of wolves, could come close to repeating the
incredible howling of Johann or Wolfgang.
Promptly at midnight, an American soldier drove up in a jeep and ordered Johann to stop. At
the same time on Wolfland three grim-looking Soviet soldiers, loaded down with the latest military
hardware from the Motherland, arrived and barked out a command to cease activities.
The candles on each side were blown out one by one until only two candles remained, one held
by Johann and the other by Wolfgang. As the two men blew out their candles and darkness returned,
applause broke out on either side of the barrier. A few tears were always shed.
Johann and company then slowly returned to their vehicles. The trip back to Koenig’s Tal was
always quiet and reflective. Upon arrival at the city the convoy headed to the Lutheran church, where
the group would have a candlelight service and afterwards enjoy food and good cheer provided by the
Unterstutzes in the basement of the sanctuary. There was always a birthday toast for Johann as well.
Meanwhile on the island, Wolfgang and the others sang the old Christmas carols while walking
each other back to their homes. The first stop would be at Margarita Bauer’s. Margarita, short, squat
and jolly, had never remarried. Yet her happy disposition and farming skills were greatly appreciated
by all the villagers. Margarita also worked at the old Herzog Gasthaus serving Wolfland Weiss, beer
and delicious pork chops with dumplings to the villagers and Soviets alike. It was the only time the
conquerors and conquered ever mixed informally.
Next was Sophie Schutz (nee Muller), who, a few years earlier, had been remarried to a German
engineer named Hansi Schutz. Herr Schutz had been commissioned to improve the Soviet installation
on top of Rupert’s Berg. During the first week of his assignment the engineer had visited the Muller
bakery to acquire some breakfast buns. He fell instantly for the slender, dark-haired Sophie, who was
working behind the counter. Within a year Herr Schutz had won Sophie’s heart and had also become
the head engineer of the island. It was his job to ensure that all communications and electrical
equipment on Wolfland were kept in order.
Commander Bobarov had conducted the first part of Hansi and Sophie’s wedding at his office
in the Soviet compound. The couple spent thirty minutes signing various legal documents and contracts
under the watchful eyes of the commander and his lieutenant. From there they moved to Stalin’s bust,
where several villagers and some Soviet soldiers were waiting. Commander Bobarov extolled the
virtues of the freedom that had been won by the Soviets for the East Germans. He also praised the
Soviet communist system and exhorted the newly married couple to be good communists and to be
constantly on guard against the insidious influences of Fascist capitalists. Later that night after a feast
at Herzog’s Inn, Hansi and Sophie went to the cottage.
They entered the front room to a round of applause and cheers from the villagers who had
gathered there. The hearth had a crackling fire in it, the mantel was laden with Anna’s flowers, and
several candles were placed strategically throughout the room. It all provided a warm, reverent
atmosphere. Anna gave Sophie a huge bouquet of flowers and led the couple up to Wolfgang, who was
standing in front of the hearth.
The greying winemaker smiled, opened his Bible, and turned to 1 Corinthians 13. His voice was
loud and clear as he read the verses about love. Anna came up to the couple with several others, and
they spent the next hour praying fervently for their marriage. At the end, Anna declared Hansi and
Sophie husband and wife, and another round of eating and drinking commenced.
A Soviet patrolman came to Commander Bobarov’s bleak, dark office that night and informed
him that there was a questionable gathering of people taking place at the cottage. The Soviet leader
could only grimace as he dismissed the soldier gruffly. This was not the first time that Jaeger had been
reported for having a “questionable” gathering at his abode. The fact that his soldiers were too
intimidated to deal with Jaeger themselves and confront him on any suspicious activity irked him
immensely. However, the commander’s secret stash of money from Wolfland Weiss was large and
growing. He was also, much like his soldiers, scared of Jaeger’s dark brooding eyes, his curt
demeanour with them, and the fact he was once a sniper. So, Commander Bobarov did nothing.
Within a year following their marriage, Hansi and Sophie were the proud parents of twin girls.
The next Christmas Eve stop was Meta Fischer’s. She had all but given up hope for remarrying
until a German agricultural expert from Dresden arrived one day to inspect the vineyard. Albrecht
Lindt was a widower with four small children of his own. He found the robust and sturdy Meta
absolutely charming. She was also a fantastic mother to her own children and would no doubt be
generous to his offspring. Herr Lindt had himself reassigned to become agricultural inspector of the
region. After a short but intense courtship, he married Meta. They too went through the same rituals as
the Schutzes—first communist, then Christian. Commander Bobarov was not stupid. It was obvious
from the body language that the communist ritual had no meaning or significance to Albrecht, Meta, or
the other villagers. Yet Bobarov carried on with the charade, following the orders of his earthly masters
with respectful efficiency.
Twenty-six months later the Lindts had produced two more children to go with the other seven.
The final stop was Anna’s. She had been convinced by Wolfgang to become the official
housekeeper and babysitter of the Jaeger household, which numbered four busy children. Anna had
moved into the converted shed formally occupied by Martin. Shortly thereafter, Wolfgang built her a
lavish greenhouse nearby. Still relatively healthy and clear-headed at ninety-eight, she remained
beloved, respected, and honoured by everyone. Her flowers were also, like always, a part of every
household on Wolfland.
Finally, Wolfgang, Hannelore, and their children, Jan, Edna, Johann-Jens, and two-year-old
Anna, entered their warm, white cottage. The family wished Wolfgang a happy birthday and then
headed for bed.

In the basement of the Lutheran Church in Koenig’s Tal the evening was winding to a close as
old friends and new friends bid each other farewell till next Christmas.
Christoff Holzenbein had opened a cabinet-making shop in Koenig’s Tal. Orders for his work
were steady, and it provided him a comfortable living. Christoff was too busy with his work to consider
marriage.
The Holzenbein sisters, Susanna and Bettina, had both married and settled into domestic life
with their families in Koenig’s Tal.
Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein had married Juliette, the petite nurse who had opened the door
to her future husband’s office not once, but twice, on the night of Johann’s breakthrough. They had a
three-year-old son named Felix, who resembled a large bear cub and looked completely out of
proportion in comparison to his little mother. Both parents still worked at the same hospital in Zurich.
Sonnenheim and Rosenberg had both remarried and were fathers of two boys each. With a loan
from Uncle Max, the two old friends had re-established their jewellery business in Bremen. Once again
the two contrasting personalities of Sonneheim and Rosenberg made it a successful operation.
Martin Jaeger had done a variety of jobs in West Germany for a few years before finally
immigrating to the United States. He had used his winemaking skills to land a job as a manager in a
California vineyard. A letter from Martin always arrived at the Unterstutzes’ for Christmas. Fritz was
more than happy to answer back. When or if Martin was going to come back to Germany was
unknown.
As for Fritz Unterstutz, life was peaceful and prosperous, albeit lonely. A year earlier, within
three months of each other, his parents had died peacefully. As a result he moved back into the old
farmhouse, and his comfortable shack was converted into a horse shed. Over time, many in Koenig’s
Tal had finally overlooked his bizarre facial features and respected him for his generosity and friendly
demeanour.
1960

Snow fell heavily for three straight days on Wolfland. The Soviets traded their guns for brooms and
tried to sweep the “heavenly” powder off the two electrical generators on top of Rupert’s Berg. It was
to no avail. The weight of the snow eventually overloaded the generators, and they simultaneously
burned out with a loud zap and a puff of smoke.
Wolfland suddenly had no electrical power. The Soviets lost radio contact with their masters to
the east and could not eavesdrop on the vital messages being transmitted from the west. Herr Schutz,
with a nervous Commander Bobarov mercilessly prodding him along, frantically tried to rectify the
problem.
The cross, unencumbered by the flashing lights of the surrounding antennae, came into clear
focus, standing out black against a light grey sky.
Without power the villagers relied on dim kerosene lamps and their wood burning hearths to cut
through the darkness and cold.
The weather, the dark cross, and the lack of electrical light and warmth all added to the
melancholy that the villagers were already feeling.
Anna was dying.
Several days earlier, well before the snow, Anna had suddenly become deathly ill. It forced her
into bed, and a doctor was brought in from Dresden. His prognosis: cancer and old age. At age ninety-
nine, the life of Wolfland’s saint was drawing to a close.
Anna became too weak to move or even feed herself. She started having vivid dreams of
heaven. The villagers took turns attending to Anna, and all brought her flowers from the greenhouse
until Anna’s bedroom floor was covered with them. Many tears were shed. It was hard to imagine life
without Anna. Wolfgang, the one who “never” cried or showed emotion, spent hours alone in the
forest.
One evening, on what had been a particularly blustery day, Anna summoned Wolfgang to visit
her. She wanted to talk to him. Alone.
Wolfgang entered Anna’s cool, dimly lit room and quietly took a chair next to her bed. She
acknowledged his presence with a faint smile.
“Do you need anything, Anna?” whispered Wolfgang.
Anna responded in a strained and raspy voice, “No, no, I’m fine; just prop me up a little.”
Wolfgang gently adjusted the pillows and carefully helped Anna to sit up.
She gave a grateful smile, and once Wolfgang had settled back onto his chair she quietly said,
“You know that your father was like a son to me and your pastor. And you have been like a grandchild.
Still are. Thank you, bless you, for letting me love you like my own.”
Wolfgang replied, “Your love for me has been a precious gift.”
Anna looked up and said hoarsely, “I have something to say to you that will change your
perception of me. For so long I have kept secrets because I didn’t want anyone to think unkindly of me.
I’ve tried to forget the awful things that I did in the past, but I cannot. Now in my last days I want to
confess and have release. Will you hear my confession?”
Wolfgang answered, “I would be honoured.”
Anna started gasping for air. Wolfgang held her hand and tried to reassure her.
Anna eventually recovered and said, “Promise me that what I have to tell you will never leave
this room. I don’t want Hannelore or anyone else to ever know.”
“What, Anna?”
“Promise me.”
There was a long silence.
Finally Wolfgang nodded and quietly said, “I give my word.”
Gingerly and with some effort Anna started talking in a sickly, raspy whisper. “Thou shalt not
murder. That’s what it says in the Bible. Remember when you came to Wolfland for a short time as a
Nazi war hero, how you and your father, at great peril, secretly visited your pastor and myself?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Remember your confession of killing others?”
“Yes.”
“At that time I couldn’t imagine killing someone, and I have to admit I felt disgust for what you
had done in Poland. I judged you, but now I’m here before you to say that I am no better. Do you recall
the time in the cave when I told you how Herzog had died and that Steinkuhler had gone missing?”
“Yes.”
“I lied. The truth is that I murdered them both.”
Wolfgang could not hide his look of surprise.
Anna suppressed a sob and held her head with both hands.
Wolfgang let her cry for a few moments and then firmly asked, “What really happened, Aunt
Anna?”
The saint of Wolfland took another sob-filled breath that rattled her fragile windpipe. Gaining
some composure, she pressed on. “I’m ashamed to admit that I thanked God when Herzog, Steinkuhler,
and the Fleishmanns died. But I couldn’t stand what those Nazis were doing to us, Wolfgang. They
constantly criticized the church and our ministry. Except for your family, everyone was scared of what
those terrible men might do to them if they associated with us. Their evil was so intimidating. So
people avoided us and didn’t attend church. So strange to love and be loved and then lose it so quickly.
It was as if we were dead.
“I prayed to God every night for Him to do something. Yet Herzog, Steinkuhler, and the
Fleishmanns just became more evil. They demanded that the villagers come to Nazi meetings at the
inn. Some were even on Sunday mornings, and those who did not attend were mercilessly pressured to
do so. The meetings were long and arduous as Herzog and Steinkuhler ranted against Jews and
glorified Hitler’s government.
“Hanzi and Tobias Fleishmann constantly bullied the villagers into giving them money or
goods. They had big parties at their farm with lots of alcohol and loose women from Koenig’s Tal.
Sometimes Nazis from other towns joined them and afterwards they drove around Wolfland throwing
empty bottles onto the ground and harassing anyone foolish enough to be wandering outside.
“My mind started to fray from fear and anger. I kept praying and praying. I tried telling our
pastor that we must fight back, but he would not hear of it. He said we were to follow Christ’s example,
that Christians had quietly suffered for their faith throughout history. I reluctantly agreed, but
realistically there was nothing we could do. We were alone and powerless.
“Your pastor believed that if the villagers would just come to Wilhelm’s Kirche and worship
the true God in heaven, the Nazi evil on Wolfland would die. He believed this could have happened all
over Germany.
“Despite praying fervently, your pastor’s psyche became fragile like mine when no one outside
of your family came to church and the Nazi evil kept persisting. He started questioning God. Where
was He? Did He not hear our cries?
“Yet things got even worse after Kristall Nacht. Andreas and I were put on house arrest, and,
even though I was over eighty years old, Herzog also ordered me to clean his inn and the school. I had
to do this every day, and it was the only time I was allowed off the church grounds.
“When Herr Herzog was not travelling to some Nazi function, he would wait for me at the inn
and inspect everything I did. Without fail he always yelled at me for not cleaning properly. It was
terrible what he called me. Herzog also made me serve him drinks. This I did, but one day, while I was
preparing him a brandy, I poured in some sleeping medicine that Krista had given me before she fled.
“Herzog drank the potion, and within a minute he was asleep at a table. It was nice not to be
screamed at. So I gave Herzog the sleeping medicine every time I had to clean the Gasthaus in his
presence. I would first serve him two or three normal drinks, and then, just before he got rude with me,
I would serve him a drink with the medicine. Within minutes he was either asleep at a table or had
retired to his bedroom. He never suspected what was going on.
“Then came the announcement that you, Wolfgang, were to return to Wolfland as a Nazi war
hero. Your father came to us and spoke with our pastor; he desperately wanted a time alone with you
but had no idea how. Herzog had very clearly told your father that he was to have no contact with you.
Pastor prayed for him and asked me to do so as well. I did more than pray.
“The next day on the way to my duties at the school I met Herr Schafer, who, besides your
family, was the only one sympathetic to us during the Nazi time on Wolfland. I told him it was
imperative that you and your father see each other and that I had concocted a plan for that to occur.
After listening to my scheme Herr Schafer said he would be glad to help.
“Oh, the Nazis were so proud of you, Wolfgang, when you came to the island as a hero! Herzog
was absolutely thrilled that you were staying overnight at his inn and that he and the Fleishmann boys
were in charge of guarding you. That same evening Herr Schafer brought him a rare vintage of
Wolfland Weiss, compliments of the villagers who were allowed to work in your father’s vineyard.
Herr Schafer implored Herzog that the wine should be shared with Tobias, who was guarding your
bedroom. Herzog took him up on the suggestion.
Twenty minutes later Herr Schafer found the two Nazis snoring loudly in front of your door.
The sleeping medicine that I had poured earlier into the wine had worked perfectly. Herr Schafer took
Herzog’s key, opened the door to let you out, and then gave you the key, which I assume you returned
to the still sleeping innkeeper later that night. You followed Schafer to the back entrance of the inn and
from there, as you recall, you met your father, whom Herr Schafer had notified earlier about my plan. I
was skeptical that it would work, but after you and your father came to us that evening I later became
much bolder in fulfilling my secret hope.”
Anna stopped for a moment and took another long breath of air. It was obvious that what she
was about to say was going to be difficult.
“What was your secret hope?” Wolfgang asked.
Anna suppressed a sob and whispered, “That Herzog would die. Krista had told me that the
sleeping medicine that I was giving him was dangerous. Taking too much of it, over a lengthy period of
time, could cause a weakening of the heart. The next morning, after our visit with you and your father,
I doubled Herzog’s dose. I did this every day for several months until the sleeping medicine was all
gone. Krista was right. The medicine was indeed dangerous, because Herzog died at Ulrich
Holzenbein’s funeral just as they were lowering his casket into the ground. Heart attack was
determined as the cause of his death. I have no doubt that the sleeping medicine was to blame.”
Anna paused and looked despairingly at Wolfgang. The former sniper’s eyes were cold. Coolly
he demanded, “Tell me about Steinkuhler!”
Anna continued. “Steinkuhler became the next Nazi leader. I still had to clean at Herzog’s, but
at least he wasn’t there any more to yell at me. The job at the school didn’t change either. I cleaned
every day just after the children left. Steinkuhler was always at his desk marking or preparing for the
next day. Unlike Herzog, however, he just ignored me. Not once, in all my time working at the
schoolhouse, did Steinkuhler acknowledge my presence.
“Then came that horrible day.
“It was a Sunday evening, well after the service that we had earlier with your family. Pastor and
I were at the altar praying when all of a sudden we heard the front door of the church opening. It was
Steinkuhler. I remember how odd it was for him not to close the door again. A cold draft followed him
in as he walked up to us, and it lowered the temperature in the sanctuary so quickly that we actually
started shivering.
“Steinkuhler was there, but his eyes weren’t. They were so dark and terrifying. Pastor said
‘hello,’ but there was no response. The schoolmaster slowly pulled out a revolver from his coat pocket.
He waved it slightly, and that got us up off our knees and moving towards the door.
“I remember the weather that summer day as being cool and very windy. It caused the tops of
the trees to whip back and forth and make a lot of noise. Steinkuhler instructed us to head for the forest.
I don’t believe anyone saw us, because it was suppertime and the streets and fields were empty. No one
was in the forest either. We walked and walked until we came to a clearing on top of Margarita’s ridge.
In the middle were two shovels standing upright in the earth. Your pastor asked what they were for.
The schoolteacher’s response was a curt one-word answer: ‘Graves.’
“Steinkuhler ordered us to pick the shovels up and start digging. As we dug into the hard
ground the schoolmaster announced our crime and sentence: ‘For the crimes of being Jewish
collaborators and conducting unapproved religious services, your sentence, Andreas and Anna von
Himmel, is death.’ Steinkuhler then declared that the Fleishmanns, once they returned from Koenig’s
Tal that night, would be executing the Jaegers for their crime of helping the Liebermanns as well.
“So we dug and dug. I couldn’t help but think how pitiful it must have looked having an aged
over eighty years old couple digging their own graves in a hard, rocky soil while a relatively young
man guarded us with a loaded gun. The cross could be seen clearly from where we were, and as I gazed
on it I prayed with silent desperation.
“After an hour we were exhausted, but the task was done. Steinkuhler made your pastor kneel in
front of his grave. Tears were running down both our cheeks as he gave me one last look. Steinkuhler
pressed the barrel of his gun onto your pastor’s temple, and a shot rang out.
“The Nazi schoolmaster looked at me with an odd expression for several horrifying seconds
before slowly crumpling face first into the grave meant for my husband. My first and only shot with a
gun had put a bullet into Steinkuhler’s head.
“Your pastor looked over at me, and I will never forget his look of total shock and
bewilderment. I just stood there as well in total disbelief with the smoking gun that I had stolen, in a fit
of self-righteous rage, from Herzog’s just a month earlier. The old Nazi had never missed it and had
never asked for it.
“Your pastor slowly came up to me and pried the gun from my hand. The thing was so hot, so
burning hot. There was no way we could have ever lifted Steinkuhler out of the grave. We threw the
gun into it and didn’t say a word as we refilled the graves with dirt.
“Your pastor held me for the longest time as I cried and cried. I had been responsible for the
ending of two lives. It was too much for me to handle. I never told your pastor about Herzog. I think it
would have broken his heart. Your pastor tried to reason with me. It was to no avail. I kept crying and
crying. Eventually he grabbed my arm and we headed for the cottage to seek solace from your parents
and to also warn them about the Fleishmanns.
“We told your parents what had happened, and they hid in our cellar that night. I remember
your father had a shotgun, and I am sure he would have killed the Fleishmanns if they had tried to harm
us. But they never came. It was not till the evening of the next day, after Steinkuhler was reported
missing, that they came back to Wolfland. Some other Nazis returned with them and asked a few
questions, but no one knew anything. For some reason they didn’t interrogate us. The Nazis must have
thought we were too old to be killers.
“The Fleishmanns were appointed as the new Nazi leaders, and a day later your father bribed
them to keep all of us alive. He also ensured that all profits from the wine business would go to the
Fleishmanns. They were so smug and happy with their good fortune, but two weeks later they drove
their vehicle off the bridge and that was the end of them.
“Your father then made some type of deal with Kratzer, and the Nazis did not return to
Wolfland until that terrible foggy summer day. Nevertheless, for a time, we had peace again.
“It was several months after the death of the Fleishmanns when your pastor finally said
something about what had happened on Margarita’s Ridge. He said, ‘It is God’s will that we have
survived to live another day. Sometimes He works in mysterious ways. It is not our purpose to
understand. Our enemies have died. God bless you, Anna.’”
Anna reached out and held Wolfgang’s hand.
“Wolfgang, do you agree? Do you think it was God’s purpose that I killed two of His children?
What will He think of me?”
Wolfgang looked into the eyes of Anna with compassion and said softly, “Soon you will see
Jesus, and you will see your husband and pastor, my father, my mother, the Liebermanns, and all the
others who have left before us. I have no doubt of that. They’re starting to celebrate already. God loves
you.”

•••

The lofty balcony attached to the seaside apartment in Tel Aviv, Israel, offered an incredible
view of the gentle Mediterranean and the setting sun, whose last long rays shimmered golden over the
gently rolling waves. The air wafting up to the lofty perch was warm and scented with blossoms. Two
men came on the balcony carrying glasses filled with iced tea. They eased themselves onto well-padded
chairs, put their feet up, and for several minutes talked about nothing important while enjoying the
magnificent vista in front of them.
It was Shilling who first eased into deeper waters. “Well, Johann, at first you were going to stay
with us for three months; then it stretched to seven. And now, behold, five years have passed and you
have acquired this wonderful apartment and are still with us. I have to admit I certainly appreciate your
friendship. Plus your spirit, character, and skill with the violin have all been tremendous assets to our
orchestra. We all love you. Now you are, of course, welcome to tour with us indefinitely, but have you
no inclination to live in Europe again?”
Johann smiled to himself and thought quietly for a few minutes before answering, “Everyone,
including you, has treated me so kindly here in Israel. What I have given in return seems so small and
inadequate compared to what I have received.”
Shilling declared, “It is we that have received more than we have given.”
Johann laughed, “Well, I disagree with that, but as I have learned, arguing with you about
anything is rather futile.”
“Quite right. Now tell me, what are your plans?”
“I want to remain with the orchestra indefinitely.”
“Excellent.”
“Yes, the peace and joy it has brought me is priceless. However, I do have some unfinished
business in Europe that I must attend to. I’ll need ten days.”
“Certainly. When do you want to leave?”
“Early next month.”
“Early next month? Am I correct in assuming that your unfinished business is with a woman?”
“You are correct.”
Shilling stood up from his chair, looked out to the horizon, sighed deeply, and said, “Good
luck.”
“I need more than just luck. I may need divine intervention!”

•••

The dreary, cool, wet March skies and an outbreak of flu over the last three weeks had left most
citizens of Vienna, Austria, sick and miserable. The sour attitude of the Viennese had, thankfully, not
affected Doctor Angelika Zauss as she made her way to work on another morning where the sun was
screened behind a dome of grey. Angelika was a children’s doctor, and her patients’ spontaneous
humour and innocent questions made her smile and laugh every day. The only real stress in her practice
was the occasional overprotective and overbearing parent who fussed and intruded into Angelika’s
work like a rotten odour.
Dr. Zauss had first come to the city because of her husband. She had met the young Austrian
diplomat, Sepp Prochenski, at one of her parents’ parties twelve years earlier. Still hurting from the
breakdown of her relationship with Johann Liebermann, she had been swept away by the polished
manners of Prochenski. Within a year they were engaged; in two they were married and settled in
Vienna. Prochenski made it clear that no wife of his would ever work. Her place was at home.
Angelika grudgingly relented, but it soon became quite clear that for Prochenski, his wife was nothing
more than a prize, a trophy, and his due for his hard work and status as a young and promising
diplomat. The marriage lasted three hard years. When Prochenski was given a diplomatic post in
Venezuela, he left. She stayed. It was over.
Angelika found a position with a kindly old doctor who needed help with his practice. As time
went on he kept giving her more and more of the clients he didn’t like, namely, the children. Angelika
discovered that she had a knack for the little ones, and after a year she left, with the kind doctor’s
blessing, and established her own children’s clinic.
Angelika poured her life into it. A social life became almost nonexistent. The years fled by,
time marked only by visits to Zurich. Despite her professional success it was clear to Angelika’s
worried parents that she needed someone to love and for someone to love her.
There were a few men constantly in pursuit of Doctor Zauss, but they always gave up the hunt
due to becoming intimidated by Angelika’s high intelligence and strong, independent nature. Others
soon took the place of the spurned beaus, only to meet the same fate as the previous ones. Thirty-five
years old, but still beautiful, Angelika had acquired a sour indifference for men.
Dr. Zauss came up to her practice, located near Stephen’s Cathedral, and entered the building.
She quickly ascended the steps and at the top found, much to her surprise, that the door to her waiting
room was already open. Angelika treaded in suspiciously. And there he was, reclining comfortably in a
chair:
Johann Liebermann.
He stood up immediately when he caught sight of the doctor. Tall, fit, handsome, with still
plenty of blond hair remaining, he was clutching a bouquet of flowers in his left hand. He looked at her
with a grand smile plastered on his face and said, “Hello, Angelika. Your parents said I could find you
here. How are you?”
Angelika stood dumbfounded for a moment but quickly regained her composure. Coolly she
demanded, “How did you get in here?”
Johann was visibly nervous as he answered, “The watchman—I said I was an old friend of
yours…showed him a picture of us and slipped him some money. I wanted to catch you before you
started your day…told the old fellow you would be thrilled to see me.”
Angelika clenched her hands into fists, put them on her waist and with a weary monotone voice
declared, “You broke my heart thirteen years ago, disappeared into the woods, and the next thing I
know you are some renowned violinist travelling the world, and, according to a few sources, women
are falling all over you. I didn’t even know you could play the violin. Tell me, are all those women as
devoted to you as I was? No, don’t! Let’s go back to what you told the watchman. Am I thrilled to see
you? No!”
Johann held his arms out in surrender and said meekly, “If you would just allow me to take you
to dinner tonight, I’ll tell you everything. Shall we say 6:30 p.m.? I’ll pick you up. What is your house
address?”
“Wait, wait, hold on there, mister. You broke up our relationship, which, outside of my family,
was the only one that has ever mattered to me. Now, well over a decade later, you suddenly appear,
unannounced and uninvited, and want to take me to dinner so you can tell me everything!”
“That’s right.”
“Your gall is incredible.”
“Please, hear me out. Give me an hour. You’ll get a free meal, an interesting story, and if after
sixty minutes you have had enough, just leave, and I promise not to grovel or make a scene. I will then
stay out of your life forever. What have you got to lose?”
Angelika paused for an agonizing fifteen seconds before meekly asking, “An hour?”
“An hour. You choose the restaurant.”
“Pick me up at 18.00 hours, Glanzinggasse 270, telephone 31 30 37, if you get lost.”
“I’m sure the taxi driver will get me there.”
Noises could be heard coming up the stairs. The first patients of the day were ascending the
staircase.
Angelika snapped her fingers and reached out her left hand. “Hand me those flowers. Looks
like they could use some water.”
“Of course.” Johann sheepishly handed the bouquet over.
“Goodbye,” said Angelika with exasperation.
“Thank you,” stammered Johann.
The patients had arrived. A five-year-old girl suffering severe stomach cramps and a wailing
two-year-old with a broken finger were ushered into the foyer by very concerned looking mothers.
Johann looked back one more time before heading down the stairs. Angelika was busy dealing with her
patients and did not look up.
Angelika wore a tasteful dress that complemented her shapely figure. Her long brunette hair
gently caressed her shoulders. She was beautiful. Seated across from this vision of beauty at the little
intimate restaurant in the Grinzing area of Vienna was Johann, despondent over the fact that he had let
her go so many years ago. What a fool, but his mind at that time was too hurt to give Angelika the care
she deserved.
Over wine and Wiener schnitzel, the conversation started off tentatively; the weather, family,
career, and old friends were discussed. It was during dessert, strawberry torte with whipping cream and
a cup of coffee, that Johann started telling Angelika everything: The Hague, Auschwitz, Oskar, the
woodcutter years, the letters, the mental breakdown and then breakthrough, Wolfland at Christmas, the
violin playing, orchestras, travel, women, Israel.
Suddenly, in the midst of talking, Johann stopped and looked at his watch. “I’m sorry. I’ve
spoken for seventy-five minutes. My time was up fifteen minutes ago. I need to let you go.”
Angelika looked at Johann sharply and touched his right arm with her delicate fingers. “You’ve
been granted an extension. Another forty-five minutes.”
“Thank you. Any reason for the increase in time?”
Angelika gazed at Johann with eyes hard as stone. “The torte is delicious, and I want to take
time to savour every bite.”
Johann stared back a moment, eyebrows held high in mock disbelief. “Of course. Excellent
reason.”
Angelika said, “Please, carry on with your story.”
Four hours and seven cups of coffee later, a taxi was summoned to deliver Angelika back to
Glanzinggasse 270. Before stepping into the taxi she turned to Johann and said, “Thank you.” She
kissed him on his left cheek and whispered, “Call me tomorrow at home.”
Then she was gone. As Johann watched the taxi roar away, a young male waiter, who had been
on a cigarette break and had watched the whole interchange between the former lovers, remarked, “Sir,
I know it’s really none of my business, but you are one lucky man. That is a beautiful woman, and I
think she likes you.”
Johann was too happy to be offended. He looked at the waiter and asked, “You really think so?”
“I’m not an expert, but she looked back as the taxi was driving off. And her eyes were soft.”
Johann stared ahead and mumbled back, “Her eyes were soft.”
The waiter walked over to Johann and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Congratulations,
sir. Shall I call you a taxi?”
Johann pulled out a few coins and handed them to the waiter. “Yes, that would be excellent.”

•••

Angelika lifted her head wearily off Johann’s shoulder and asked, “Where are we?”
The sun had set several hours before, and Angelika had given in to her exhaustion shortly
thereafter.
Johann, fighting fatigue as well, responded, “Only a half an hour more and we’ll be at Fritz
Unterstutz’s.”
Angelika sighed in relief. Being able to use her father’s vehicle for the drive from Zurich to
Koenig’s Tal had made the journey easier to take, but enough was enough. She looked at Johann’s
profile in the darkness, and her mind wandered back to the incredible past eight months.
Shortly after Johann re-entered her life, Angelika decided to go on a year’s sabbatical and
practise medicine in Israel at a Kibbutz called El Shedah near the Mediterranean. She maintained, to
anyone who asked, that the move was to further her medical career, because she would be working
with children from all over the world at El Shedah. With Johann Liebermann also in the same small
country, no one believed that was her only reason. Angelika’s family strongly urged her not to go. They
finally backed off when Angelika promised it would only be a year and if she and Johann were not
serious after that, the relationship was off. Permanently.
For Angelika, the first few weeks at El Shedah were bewildering. New culture, languages,
climate, food, and job provided their own challenges. The children, however, helped her get over it.
Angelika had a way with them that overcame any cultural differences. The youngsters in turn poured
out their affection to the pretty doctor from Switzerland. Angelika soon became a very valuable and
highly esteemed doctor at the kibbutz.
In Zurich, Johann’s charm, compassion, faith, and intelligence had been enough for Angelika to
fall in love with him. However, she had experienced Johann’s moments of despair and it had given her
cause for concern. Now, in Israel, she encountered a Johann who, unbridled by the old burdens and
pain of the past, had no more moody episodes. His charm soared even more than it had in Zurich. Yet,
what made Johann so fascinating for Angelika was that he had found joy in a country where, like in
himself, Christianity and Judaism coexisted, albeit uneasily at times. Johann’s character had changed
for the better due to the Christian and Jewish beliefs, sympathies, and passions that he encountered
every day. At times they conflicted, but for the most part it made Johann a compelling and thoroughly
interesting man. While at home in Tel Aviv or on tour with the orchestra, Johann went randomly to
Jewish and Christian services, without regard to what anyone thought. He was not a stranger in either
one.
The small size of the country allowed Angelika to attend a few of Johann’s concerts during her
time off. It was in Israel that Angelika first heard Johann play violin. She found it inspiring, and it was
another new aspect about Johann that Angelika fell in love with. Johann also found time to visit
Angelika at least once a week at El Shedah. Their one or two days together were filled with long walks
on the beach, explorations of historic sights, and leisurely meals at a restaurant. It was during these
meals that Johann and Angelika shared their thoughts, dreams, and emotions.
The money that Johann and Angelika earned for their work was not nearly as much as they had
earned in Europe. However, in Israel they were much happier. The culture, the weather, the beach, the
children, the sense of mission and purpose all contributed to their sense of joy. As the days, weeks, and
months went by, the love Johann and Angelika had for each other deepened, making their time in Israel
even more special.
One day, while walking on the beach, Johann stopped Angelika and kissed her for the first time
in over thirteen years. It was long and passionate.
Later, as the pair stood in front of Angelika’s little cottage at the kibbutz, Johann said, in a
rather nervous voice, “Thank you once again for a great day. The next tour is only three days long, so
I’ll see you again soon.”
Johann paused and then gulped out, “You know, Angelika, I have always loved you. I’ve been
thinking about asking you to marry me.”
Angelika stepped in front of Johann, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “Stop thinking. Just
ask.”
With that Angelika turned, entered her cottage, and closed the door, leaving Johann staring and
frozen to the ground.
Since then there had been no talk of marriage. The two had arranged a week off for Christmas
and headed first to Zurich to visit the Zausses. They were now off to Koenig’s Tal, where Johann
would introduce her to the many friends who gathered with him every Christmas Eve across the Ebene
from Wolfland.

December 24th arrived on Wolfland on a brisk, cold wind. Up on Rupert’s Berg, the icy air
currents breezed against the antennas, causing them to wobble and make harsh screeching sounds. The
cross, as always, stood quiet and firm.
Wolfgang started his fortieth birthday by walking into the forest with a bale of hay. He had
finally managed to convince Bobarov to reintroduce a few head of deer on the island. The original herd
had been slaughtered by the conquering Soviets for sport and food. Deer meat with mushrooms and
Wolfland Weiss was a delicacy that needed to be savoured. The hay was to be placed near Frieden See.
As Wolfgang crunched through the hard packed snow of the forest, his mind started spinning
over what had happened several months ago on Wolfland.
In early March, Anna Von Himmel had died peacefully in her sleep. Her last request to the
villagers who gathered around her deathbed was simple: “Don’t give up your faith in Jesus Christ.”
They buried Anna beside her son. Bobarov personally supervised the proceedings from a
distance. No other soldiers were allowed to be in attendance.
Wolfgang led the service. He spoke first from his heart, then moved to the love passages of 1
John, his deep voice easily heard by all around him. The Soviet leader, despite Wolfgang’s constant
references to Christ, remained still and silent.
“God is love. Wherever there is love, there is God. Wherever Anna was, there was His love. It
was an appropriate love, an encouraging love, love that inspired and brought peace. Thank You, God,
for Anna. We will miss her dearly. We now commit Your faithful servant to Your care. Amen.”
The casket, laden with hundreds of flowers from Anna’s greenhouse, made its slow descent into
the grave. Everyone cried—except Wolfgang and the Soviet lurking nearby.
For several hours after Anna’s burial, Wolfgang walked with Hannelore through the barren
trees of the forest, in silence. Only Hannelore’s soft sobbing and the Ebene’s current could be heard.
Just as darkness descended and the spotlights started their nightly search for fascists or escapees,
Wolfgang and Hannelore returned to the cottage.
Later, as the two lay beside each other in bed, Wolfgang broke his silence by saying, “A place
becomes home because someone or some people make it a special place to be. Only when you leave or
someone dies do you realize that there are very few people who have the ability to make a place home.
Without Anna, Wolfland is just a place. With her, it was home.”
Hannelore stroked her husband’s hair and said, “You don’t know it, but you are like Anna. You
make this place special. You make it home.”
Wolfgang dismissed the words with a wave of his hand and a grunt.
Hannelore, in a flash of anger, grabbed Wolfgang by the lapels of his pyjama shirt and spewed
forth, “You stubborn old German goat. It is all right to accept compliments! People love you. They love
your faith, your loyalty, your steadfastness, and your strength. Yet you keep yourself so distant. I know
better. Underneath that ridiculous Germanic pragmatism, you’re a soft man, a man who loves flowers,
animals, children, and those less fortunate. You’re a great man. You make this cottage and Wolfland a
wonderful place to be. My greatest prayer is that one day those gates will come down and we can have
Martin, Johann, and all those on the other side with us again. It’s one of my greatest prayers, and I
know it is yours.”
The strong, stern winemaker and land manager looked at his wife with some bemusement and
then held her in his arms.

Wolfgang arrived at Frieden See. He tossed the hay to the ground and trod softly back into the
thick evergreens, downwind from the lake. He found a tree with low hanging branches and stepped
behind them, disappearing from sight. A small opening in the branches allowed him a grand view of
the lake. Within twenty minutes the buck appeared, horns regal, body big and solid. He sniffed the air
and looked suspiciously all around. Finally, he bent down, sniffed the hay, and started eating. Soon
seven other deer appeared and started feeding from Wolfgang’s offering and drinking from the lake.
Wolfgang smiled in satisfaction. The two fawns born earlier in the spring looked large and
healthy. After several minutes, the magnificent buck raised his head and led the herd slowly and
silently into the safety of the trees. Wolfgang waited for a while and then quietly left for the cottage.
Seeing the herd of deer at the lake had been a simple peaceful moment, which did not happen enough
in Wolfgang Jaeger’s life.
At the Unterstutz farmhouse the feasting and good cheer had started at noon with the arrival of
Rosenberg, Sonnenheim, Uncle Max, and their entourage of loved ones. Philip Holzenbein, his sisters
and families, Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein, Juliette, Felix, Johann, and Angelika had all arrived
earlier. Each arrival was greeted with great excitement and hoopla, for they had not seen each other in a
year, and the excitement and uniqueness of what they were going to do at 11 p.m. that night had never
faded over the years. Everyone was suitably impressed with Angelika.
Margarita Bauer arrived at the cottage around noon with a roasted duck. Hansi and Sophie
Shutz came next, bringing their brood of children and a wide assortment of bread. The Lindts made
their entrance shortly thereafter, carrying even more food. By early afternoon the cottage was rollicking
with Christmas and birthday cheer for Wolfgang. As evening came, Wolfgang led the group through a
short service, and then the rest of the time was spent sharing presents, playing games, eating, and
talking by the fire. It was the first Christmas without Anna and there was sweet sorrow. Then the time
came to bundle up, light the candles, and walk to the bridge.
The night, like all the previous Christmas nights, was clear, and the cross stood tall and
silhouetted against a backdrop of countless stars. Blinking antennas, spotlights, and fences were
forgotten as the lit candles on either side of the barrier and river were swayed back and forth in
greeting. The beautiful sounds of “Silent Night” from Johann’s violin drifted through the air, and
everyone, adult and children alike, started singing the words in harmony. After forty-five minutes
Johann stopped playing. The crowd hushed as Johann and Wolfgang started howling. Exactly at 24.00,
the spotlight on an American army jeep turned on and the Soviet guards also arrived, signalling the end
of the event.
The candlelight service at the Lutheran church in Koenig’s Tal was once again followed by a
meal in the basement. The annual birthday toast to Johann was given with much enthusiasm.
Afterwards, everyone mingled and talked about the evening.
Angelika met up with Oskar and said, “Doctor, I have to be honest. When I first heard Johann
howl, I was absolutely embarrassed for him. How ridiculous. Yet, once I got over my scorn, I realized
that Johann and Wolfgang were not only howling in key but harmonizing as well. It was incredible.”
Oskar smiled in agreement. “Yes, when I first heard it I felt the same way. Childish, absurd,
stupid—you name it. Yet they learned to howl at a young age from their fathers, and apparently they
have howled at each other ever since. They love each other like brothers, you know? It was a letter
from Wolfgang that spurred Johann to get out of the severe depression he was living in. Their
friendship is special. Now, since they can’t communicate any other way due to this insane political
situation, they howl.”
Angelika smiled and asked, “Why do you and all these people come here every Christmas?”
“At first it was to support Johann. Today, it’s because we have all become good friends, almost
family. It is an honour to be with these people and to sing with those trapped on Wolfland. Some day
that barrier will come down, and we will hear Johann and Wolfgang howl together high on Rupert’s
Berg as free men. What a great day that will be for everyone.”
It was late when Johann dropped Angelika at Susanna (nee Holzenbein) Hubner’s house, where
she would spend the night. Johann planned to stay with the Unterstutzes.
As the two stood in front of the doorway, Angelika came to Johann and held him tightly. Softly
she said, “I pray that you will see Wolfgang and everyone else you love on that island again. I believe it
will happen some day. Thank you for allowing me to share this. Thank you for bringing me to Israel.
I’m more alive than I ever have been. You know I’ve always loved you Johann. I’ve been thinking
about asking you to ask me to marry you. What do you think about that?”
“What?”

1961

Since its inception over a decade earlier, the government of the German Democratic Republic had
extolled the virtues of communism to its citizens. They had also sealed the GDR’s western border and
used Stasi intimidation to sway the GDR population to accept their dominion.
Despite that, every year thousands of young, well-trained East German citizens managed to
evade the communist barriers and escape to the West. One of the major portals to freedom was in
divided Berlin. East Germans simply slipped into West Berlin and sought refugee status, which was
quickly granted by the Federal Republic of Germany.
The loss of many of its best citizens began to hurt East Germany’s economy. The Big Brother
(Soviet Union) expressed its concerns and demanded that the GDR government do something.
They responded dramatically. During a single summer’s night, the communists built a wall
between West and East Berlin to stem the exodus. “The Berlin Wall” became the most infamous
symbol of the Cold War raging between the Americans and the Soviets since the end of World War II.
The East Germans also fortified the border between East and West Germany, making it almost
impossible for its citizens to move freely to the West.

The beams of light from the evening summer sun danced through the rustling leaves of the
forest. The air was warm, buzzing with the sounds of insects and the songs of birds. It was pleasant and
peaceful.
Bobarov met Jaeger at Frieden See. As usual, whenever they met alone, there was no greeting,
not even a nod.
Instead, Wolfgang curtly demanded, “What do you want?”
Bobarov, as per custom, didn’t waste time getting to the point. “Your younger son, Johann-
Jens.”
Jaeger turned and looked into the commander’s eyes. “He is only sixteen and still very much a
child. You are not taking Johann-Jens.”
“Now, now, come, Hauptmann Jaeger. Your oldest son, Jan, will always be with you. He’s an
excellent winemaker; you have trained him well. And your two daughters, Edna and Anna, are
beautiful. I’m sure they’ll both be married off to excellent men who live close by. But Johann-Jens has
shown remarkable talent in science, and his test scores on the national exams prove it. You should be
proud, Hauptmann Jaeger. Officials in Berlin are very interested in developing your son’s talents. Just
think of the prestige Johann-Jens will bring to you and his country.”
“Developing military hardware for the security of the GDR. Oh, how noble, Commander,”
retorted Wolfgang sarcastically.
Bobarov ignored the rebuff and turned and faced Wolfgang. “In two days Stasi officials will
arrive in Wolfland to pick up Johann-Jens. You have no say in this matter.”
With nothing further to discuss, Wolfgang turned and disappeared into the trees. He did not
look back.

•••

Marie, Jan, Edna, and little Anna sat in front of the fire that was raging in the cottage’s hearth.
It was well past midnight when the front door opened and Wolfgang appeared, without Johann-Jens.
Despite a day of heated discussion, despite all the logical reasoning, despite all the prayers, despite
knowing they had made the right decision, Marie had secretly held out hope that Wolfgang would not
return back home alone. Her husband closed the door and without a word sat on an empty chair near
the fire.
With tears sliding down her cheeks Marie said in a whisper, “Is he really gone?”
“He signalled me from the west bank with his flashlight.”
As his wife and family wept, Wolfgang remained still.

•••

The Stasi arrived from the east bank of the Ebene on a hot, humid afternoon. The three officials
had spent an hour passing through several checkpoints before they were allowed to travel across the
Ebene on a small military boat to the island.
Upon arrival the three officials had to endure one last checkpoint before the gates were finally
swung open and they were allowed to enter the Wolfland Island Soviet Military Base. Due to a gas
shortage and lack of available parts for a broken transmission, the only motorized vehicle on the island,
a 1946 Soviet truck, was unavailable to carry the officials to the Soviet compound and a meeting with
Bobarov.
Instead, a young Soviet soldier with no knowledge of German directed the men to the
compound with hand signals. The humidity was oppressive, rendering the three men wet and exhausted
as they plodded behind the Soviet. No other person could be seen. The weather had driven people
either indoors or to Frieden See. Work had been done early, in the cool of the morning, and would
resume for a few more hours when it got tolerable again in the evening.
After a torturous twenty-minute walk, the three officials were ushered into the Soviet compound
and led to the foyer of Bobarov’s office. There were no chairs available, and the heat of the room was
actually a few degrees higher than the temperature outside. It was unbearable.
The Soviet guard knocked on an office door and opened it at the sound of a muffled bellow
from the other side. The three Stasi officials heard a few Russian words from the depths of the office,
and then the guard hurriedly closed the door, marched past the men without even glancing at them, and
headed outside. The East Germans looked at each with a combination of amusement, bewilderment,
and a touch of fear.
The minutes passed: five, ten, fifteen. One of the officials raised his fist at the door. The other
two shook their heads in unison. One whispered fearfully, “No, no, don’t you dare. I’ve heard of
Soviets sending men to prison for intruding on them. No, we wait.”
Twenty minutes, forty-five minutes crawled by. Two of the Stasi gave up and flopped onto the
floor, too dehydrated and exhausted to care about protocol.
One hour, two hours dragged by.
Finally the third Stasi, like his comrades too exhausted and dehydrated to care, slowly collapsed
onto the floor. Thirty more minutes passed.
The office door suddenly swung open, and a cool, contented Commander Bobarov, carrying a
tall glass of water in his left hand, entered the foyer. He was not impressed at the sight before him—
three semi-conscious men in wet wrinkled dress suits lying on the floor. Bobarov quickly got himself
into a rage and yelled in both Russian and German.
Five Soviet guards burst into the foyer from the outside, their machine guns ready to dispatch
the ones bringing such displeasure to their commander. They encircled the three Stasi officials with
eyes blazing. The three hapless officials slowly rose to their feet, lifted their arms over their heads, and
stood trembling in fear and humiliation.
Bobarov walked slowly around them, head tilted up, jaw out, his eyes filled with disdain. He
stopped in front of the three and barked, “Who’s in charge?”
The shortest man, the one in the middle, gulped out, “I am, sir. Lieutenant Schuller of the
Staatssicherheitsdienst [Stasi].”
Schuller pointed to his right and declared, “This is Officer Gerber.” Schuller then shifted to his
left and said, “This is Officer Dackel—”
Bobarov interrupted the introductions by screaming, “I didn’t ask for your name or the names of
these other men! Answer my questions precisely, Lieutenant!”
Schuller nodded timidly.
Bobarov carried on with his tirade. “You were two hours late for your appointment with me!
Lieutenant Schuller, what is your explanation for that!”
Schuller stuttered, “We were at the checkpoint on the other side of the river one hour before we
were to meet you. The security checks there took more time than we anticipated. We apologize, sir.”
Bobarov shook his head and grinned through gritted teeth. He repeated Schuller’s words
mockingly: “We apologize, sir.”
Then he gave a bitter, hollow, sarcastic laugh. Bobarov looked coldly at the three East
Germans. With an icy voice he said, “This incident will go on your records. Not arriving on schedule to
meet a Soviet commander is insubordination.”
Turning to one of the machine-gun toting soldiers he said, “Lipshkin, take these men and do the
necessary paperwork for their records. Name, rank, length in service, commanding officers, etc.; I want
everything. Then take them to the Jaegers, make sure they get the boy, and get them over the river. Any
more nonsense, bring them to me and I will deal with it personally.”
Lipshkin saluted. “Yes, sir.”
With that Bobarov took a long, obviously satisfying drink from his glass of water, entered his
office, and slammed the door shut.
Lipshkin smirked at the three men and in broken German ordered them into the room beside the
commander’s office. Two arduous hours later the paperwork was done and the Soviet waved the three
Stasi officials outside. All three made signs to Lipshkin that they were very thirsty, but their pleadings
were simply ignored.
Thankfully, the shadows were getting a little longer and the air was mercifully starting to cool
when the three officials and their one-man Soviet escort arrived at the cottage.
Wolfgang was in the barn chopping wood with a giant axe. One stroke from his massive arms
and the axe’s razor-sharp blade split the wood instantly, with a sharp crack. Wolfgang didn’t bother to
look up when the men came up and stood in front of him. The three Stasi men noted with some
satisfaction that the Soviet soldier seemed to be a little nervous around the man with the axe. His black
flowing beard, streaked with grey, and dark hooded eyes gave him a rather menacing look.
The Soviet soldier, with feigned bravado, asked, “Hey you! Where is your son? See here, we’ve
brought three men to take him away.”
His words faded into the moist air and an uncomfortable silence ensued as Wolfgang stepped
away from the wood block, still clutching his axe. The soldier gripped his weapon a little tighter.
Hannelore, Jan, Edna, and little Anna came out of the house noisily, with some concern, but when they
saw the machine gun and the three wrinkled suits they stopped and timidly walked behind Wolfgang,
where they remained standing.
The Soviet spoke again. “No, we don’t want your oldest son or your daughters. Where is the
other boy?”
Again an uneasy silence hung in the air. Wolfgang strode back to the woodpile, picked up a log,
and put it on the chopping block. He then drove the giant axe through it in less than a second. The echo
of the crack still hung in the air when Wolfgang answered, “He’s not here. He is gone.”
Another piece of wood, another whistling stroke through the air, and another sharp crack split
the air.
Befuddled, the Soviet asked, “What do you mean he is not here? These three men have come all
the way from Berlin to take your son. You knew that. So where is he?”
Wolfgang got another piece of wood. “He is not here. Search for yourself.”
Within fifteen minutes every Soviet soldier on Wolfland was scouring the island for Johann-
Jens. An hour later all of them were gathered by Jaeger’s woodpile, including Bobarov and the three
officials from the Stasi. Wolfgang kept chopping like they were not there. There was no sign of
Johann-Jens. The Soviets had checked every house, every basement, attic, woodshed, and the forest.
Everything.
Wolfgang kept chopping. Bobarov broke into a knowing smile. He ordered the Soviets back to
their posts, and they quickly departed, leaving only himself, a bodyguard named Zholkov, Wolfgang,
his family, and the three perplexed Stasi officials.
Schuller asked, “With all due respect, Commander, we came here to pick up a boy. Why are
you calling off the search?”
Bobarov looked at Wolfgang and replied calmly, “The search was a waste of time. The boy is
not here, like Hauptmann Jaeger says. Zholkov will take you to the gate for your departure.”
“But, Commander, I insist—”
The other two Stasi officials shook their heads to shut Schuller up.
Bobarov turned to Schuller with a blank stare. “This is a Soviet military installation. You have
ten minutes to remove yourself, or I will throw you in prison.”
Zholkov led the defeated Stasi men away.
Wolfgang chopped another piece of wood.
The rest of the Jaegers drifted back into the cottage.
Bobarov said a few words to Wolfgang and left.

They met on the southern tip of Wolfland as the sun started its descent behind the cross, flag,
communication tower, and forest of antennas on Rupert’s Berg. Tonight, in light of what had happened
earlier, Bobarov wanted a special meeting.
Wolfgang was looking through the two chain-link fences at the western bank and the freedom it
offered, unfettered by barriers or walls. Shifting his gaze to the east, the impenetrable silver wall
running along the eastern bank of the Ebene seemed to go on forever. Incredible.
Bobarov came up behind Wolfgang and said, “The three Stasi officials are gone. I am sure their
report will not be very positive concerning their visit here on Wolfland. Shame, really; it is, after all, a
beautiful place.”
Wolfgang did not acknowledge Bobarov’s presence or his words. He simply asked, “Why did
you tell me the Stasi were coming?”
Bobarov chortled, “ Come, come, Hauptmann Jaeger, our arrangement over the years has been
mutually beneficial, yes? You’ve enjoyed some freedoms, unheard of in the GDR, whereas you have
provided me some money so that I can enjoy my retirement later. Consider what I told you as a
business move. You know, I keep you happy; you keep me happy. It’s obvious that a surprise visit by
the Stasi would not have made you happy, especially since they were after your son.”
Wolfgang kept looking at the river and nodded slightly.
Bobarov’s voice was filled with admiration as he said, “You are the most remarkable man I
have ever known. Our antifascist protection barrier on Wolfland is the most advanced in the East Bloc.
We have the best surveillance equipment and soldiers to keep people where they need to be. Yet you
still managed to get your son off the island. I’m sure you could get every villager off this island without
us knowing about it. That is almost as impressive as your stubbornness and determination to live on
Wolfland. I know you love it here and this is home, but to have your own son leave, at such a young
age, is quite the sacrifice.
Wolfgang gruffly said, “He is free from you and the Stasi. That is no sacrifice. We’ll see
Johann-Jens again soon. The moment you Soviets leave, he’ll be back.”
With that Wolfgang brushed by the Soviet commander and disappeared into the forest. Bobarov
watched him go. Then he turned and stared at the river through the two chain-link fences.

•••

A rooster announced the advent of a new day as the sky turned from pitch black to grey.
Johann-Jens woke up sharply, his face flushed red. Where was he? He gasped loudly. The door to his
bedroom opened, and there stood the man with no nose: Fritz Unterstutz. Behind him with a concerned
look on his face was Elsa, Fritz’s new, short, solid, rotund wife. Johann looked at them with fear, and
then he remembered. His face relaxed, his heartbeat slowed down, and his head collapsed back onto the
pillow.
Fritz asked, “Are you all right?”
Johann-Jens nodded.
Elsa fussed, “Fritz, stay with him a while. I’ll make breakfast.”
The suggestion to stay was more of a command than a suggestion, and Fritz dutifully obeyed.
He pulled up a chair beside Johann-Jens’ bed as Elsa scurried off on her mission.
Fritz softly asked, “Had some bad dreams?”
Johann-Jens replied, “ I woke up and didn’t know where I was.”
“Well, you are in safe hands. Your father is a great man. His friends are my friends; his family
is my family. It was so good to read that letter you brought from your father. He’s asked me to take
care of you until we contact your Uncle Martin. And that’s what my wife and I intend to do.”
Johann-Jens said, “My father says I’ll be returning to Wolfland soon.”
Fritz was careful not to show any doubt. “If your father says so, then it’s probably true.”
He moved the conversation in another direction.
“You arrived so late last night we didn’t get much time to talk. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure.”
“How did you get off one of the most secure military installations in the world? And why
doesn’t your father and the rest of your family escape off that island as well?”
Johann-Jens nodded and said, “Two nights ago my father called me into the front room of our
cottage. Mother was there as well, and I could tell by their faces that they were going to tell me
something serious. At first I thought I was in trouble, but my father told me that the Stasi were going to
come to Wolfland and take me to a science lab in Berlin. I was actually kind of interested in going, but
my father and mother would not hear of it. They told me I was going to the other side—that’s what we
call the West—and spend time with you before going off to live with Uncle Martin in America. That
struck me as even more exciting than Berlin, so I readily agreed, not that I had much choice in the
matter.
“The next day I worked in the vineyard, like I did every day in the summer, and spent some
time at Frieden See. Normal things. When I got home that evening things weren’t normal. I said
goodbye to my family, and that was harder than I thought. Mother cried a lot, and so did my sisters.
Even Jan looked like he was going to cry.
“Finally, my father took me out of the house and into the forest. It was so dark I could barely
see. We walked for quite a while, and then we entered a cave that I did not know even existed. My
father turned on a flashlight, and we carefully hiked through two caverns before stopping in the third
and last one. There was an opening at the end of it, and we walked towards it. This, as you can well
imagine, made me extremely nervous.
“When we arrived at the entrance Father gave me another flashlight and ordered me to follow
him through the opening. The passageway was narrow with a few curves, and quite frankly it scared
me a little. I could hear rushing water in the distance. We walked for at least fifteen minutes.
Eventually, the passageway opened into a large cavern. To get in we had to use a rope and rappel down
a slippery five-metre wall. The bottom was sandy and sloped down for about four metres to an
underground river. When we got to the edge of the water my father looked at me and said, ‘Here is
where we say goodbye.’
“I just stared at him. Father looked back grimly and said, ‘When I was younger, and very
foolish, my friend Johann and I found this cave on the night before we were to go to the Hitler School
in Koenig’s Tal. Underneath the water is a passageway that leads to the west bank of the Ebene.’
“I glanced at my father and said, ‘No.’
“He just stared at me. You know, that stare. He spoke very quietly. ‘When Johann Liebermann
and I found this cavern several years ago we had to go into and under this river, otherwise we would
have died. I’m ashamed to admit that I was terrified. Johann went in first. I counted up to thirty
seconds, and Johann never emerged—a minute, a minute and a half, two minutes, two and a half—the
time just kept ticking away. He never came back up.’
“‘Finally, with my flashlight fading, I jumped in the river. A powerful current caught me and
sucked me through a tunnel. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to panic. I was under water for a
long time. Just as I thought my lungs were going to burst, the passageway ended and I was shot out
three metres below the Ebene. I could see moonbeams breaking through the water, and I stroked up.
When I came to the surface I was totally out of breath. I drifted in the current for a bit until I saw
Johann sitting on the west bank waiting for me. I waded to shore, and we walked over the bridge back
to his home. I haven’t breathed a word to anyone about that day. Until now.’
“‘I can’t hold my breath for more than thirty seconds,’ I protested.
“‘Actually you need to hold it for almost two minutes,’ Father responded.
“From a knapsack that he had been carrying, he pulled out some goggles and a small air tank.
He looked into my eyes and said, ‘There is no other way off this island. I’ve checked everything.
Unless you can fly, and the Soviets will probably shoot you down if you did, this is the only way.
Getting this equipment was hard work. Herr Shutz took a considerable risk to get it for you.’
“I asked, ‘What if the tunnel is blocked and I can’t turn around?’
“My father pulled out a long rope. ‘I’m attaching this to your ankle, and I’m going to keep it
taut. Two yanks means pull me back; nothing means you’re through.’
“‘Did you and Johann ever swim through that passageway again?’
“My father looked at me and said, ‘I did some pretty interesting things with Johann when I was
younger, yet we usually never did a stupid thing twice. The old-timers would probably disagree with
that, but they’re not here, so I’m sticking with that.’
“I just stared at my father and said, ‘Well, I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life too,
but this is not going to be one of them.’
“My father’s voice was rather firm when he said, ‘We’ve gone over all the reasons why you
have to go. If you don’t go, the Stasi will turn you into one of them; go, and you will find your destiny
with God. Go.’
“I admit the thought that went through my head was ‘I’d rather become a Stasi than go down
into that black hole,’ but I was definitely more scared of my father than of the East German secret
police. I obeyed the old man. He wouldn’t let me cry, just shook my hand, provided some brief
instructions on how to use the air tank, and gave me a plastic bag filled with your letter, money,
Scripture, and extra clothes. Then he tied the rope around my right ankle, and I slipped into the river.
“Just like father said, within seconds I was swept into a pitch-black tunnel. I came out into the
Ebene and for a few moments I wasn’t sure whether I was up or down. Finally, I made my way up,
untied the rope, got my bearings, and headed for the west bank.
“From there you know the rest of the story. I got picked up by an American patrol, interrogated
for a while in Koenig’s Tal, and then brought to you. So does that answer your questions? Unless my
father finds several small air tanks and goggles, the people on Wolfland are trapped.”
Fritz looked at Johann-Jens with amazement and asked, “What does the Scripture say?”
“No testing has overtaken you…” (1 Corinthians 10:13, NRSV).

1963

A cry sliced through the air, stabbing the eardrums of the sleeping couple. It was 2:37 a.m. In the
corner of the bedroom a female infant was raging against the world, screaming and thrashing her tiny
body against the wooden sides of her crib.
Johann groaned, turned to his left, and barely croaked to Angelika, “Mrs. Liebermann, your
child is screaming, and it’s your turn.”
Angelika responded in a semi-conscious mumble, “No, Mr. Liebermann, my child would not
scream so loudly. That must be yours. You take care of it.”
Johann’s foggy mind could not grasp the humour or logic of Angelika’s statement, and in a
trance he got up and checked baby Anna’s diaper. It was all clear. Lifting the crying bundle up he
calmed her down a bit, but it was obvious what the sniffling little babe needed. Johann gently placed
her near Angelika’s chest and said, “You’re the only one who can help her now.”
Within seconds baby Anna was enjoying her mother’s milk, while her father, also within
seconds, fell back into a deep slumber. Angelika grinned wearily and shook her head.

A year earlier, in Zurich, on a gorgeous spring day, Johann and Angelika had come together in
marriage, at the ornate but sturdy five-hundred-year-old Lutheran church where seven generations of
Zausses had attended. Dress for the occasion was formal: Johann in tuxedo and Angelika in a long
white wedding gown, the pastor in flowing robes, men in suits and ties, and women in long dresses
topped with flamboyant hats.
Emotions were kept under control, although Frau Zauss and the old landlady Frau Mayer could
not hold back a few tears. Afterwards, the huge wedding party enjoyed a formal opulent meal at the
best restaurant in Zurich. Smug waiters in tuxedos and white gloves served roasted duck on beds of
wild rice, and fish lathered in lemon sauce. Several speeches and toasts entertained the guests. Later a
light orchestra played the best Viennese waltzes. It was perfect.
In contrast, the celebration a week later in Israel, with Johann’s orchestra and the children and
workers from El Shedah, was raucous and informal. Casual clothing, lots of laughter, tears of joy,
eloquent moving speeches, a roasted lamb on a spit, fireworks, singing, music, and dancing the Hora
late into the night. It also was perfect.
Johann and Angelika had honeymooned on the beaches of Israel. Life became so easy, so full of
joy, filled with idealistic notions. Johann and Angelika were in love and on top of the world.
Shortly after their honeymoon, the new couple decided to apply for Israeli citizenship. It was
their home, which they loved, and where they truly felt alive. Their application was quickly accepted,
and the couple was soon conscripted into the Israeli army reserves.
Angelika became a doctor with a medical unit. Johann, much to everyone’s surprise, became an
instructor for snipers. When asked where he had learned to shoot so well, Johann dryly responded by
saying, “From some of Nazi Germany’s best snipers.”
The comment always caused some surprise and raised eyebrows, but Johann defused that easily
by saying, “Yes, before the Nazis decided I was Jew and sent me to Auschwitz, I was trained to be a
sniper for the Reich. Now I’m using the skills they taught me to defend a Jewish homeland.”
The irony of that was rarely lost on anyone. The demands for Johann’s expertise with a rifle
started taking time away from playing in the orchestra. Thomas Shilling understood though and tried to
work around his schedule.
Angelika found work on the children’s ward in a Tel Aviv hospital. The hospital provided
flexible hours for Angelika, and she enjoyed the children and the challenge. It was also close to the
Liebermanns’ apartment. Things were good for them, but the spectre of violence and war was always
close by.
Then came baby Anna, and it was a good thing that Johann and Angelika had banked a lot of
love over the past year and that the little one was so adorable.

Angelika let the memories and thoughts run their course, and as Anna fell asleep on her chest,
she too succumbed to exhaustion.
It wasn’t too long afterwards when the alarm clock angrily heralded the morning, bringing the
Liebermann family out of the deep sleep that they all had needed so desperately. It was Johann’s turn,
and if it was not he was too drowsy to care. He picked up Anna and headed for the balcony of their
modest three-room apartment to get his daily look at the vast Mediterranean and to clear his mind. The
sun was rushing up into the hazy blue sky, quickly heating the night-cooled city of Tel Aviv. It was
going to be another blistering hot summer day. Johann held the sleepy Anna in his arms, and as was the
case every morning he started to meditate and read Scripture. A half-hour later he had changed Anna,
eaten breakfast, dressed, and with gentle fanfare put his baby into the arms of her tired mother.
After lightly kissing both of his girls, Johann moved to the tall wooden cabinet by the bedroom
door. He found the key on top and with one turn had the door opened. Johann paused for a moment; his
eyes went dark as pictures from the past rushed through his mind. He pulled out the old Nazi sniper
rifle that had been smuggled in by the freedom fighters of the new nation of Israel several years earlier.
The stress of the Arab resistance against the Jews was constant. Johann had grown to accept it and had,
without too much reluctance, taken up arms for his new country.

1967

They met in the birch trees of Margarita’s Ridge on a breezy late summer morning. The grey clouds
overhead were thick and heavy, ready to release precipitation at any moment. As usual Wolfgang did
not look at the Soviet commander or acknowledge his presence as he approached. Both men had aged
considerably since the wall had come up in Berlin. Wolfgang’s black beard and hair were streaked with
silver. Permanent wrinkles etched the skin around his eyes. Bobarov was bald, and the skin on his face
flabbed downwards. He was grossly overweight, and his movements had become slow and awkward.
Yet the eyes of both men were still alert, sharp, and piercing.
As usual, Bobarov ignored Wolfgang’s cold rebuff and simply started to speak to his back. “I
am retiring, effective September first. I will be moving to Moscow; where I will spend the rest of my
days sipping Wolfland Weiss and reminiscing on the good old days.”
Wolfgang responded without a trace of emotion. “Who is taking your place?”
“An ambitious young lieutenant named Igor Popovitch,” answered Bobarov. “Strictly ‘by the
book’ type of fellow. No one has tried corrupting him yet. That may be a worry.”
“I see.”
Bobarov smiled and said, “Apparently the new commander-to-be does not drink alcohol of any
sort, but I’m sure you will figure something out and have Commander Popovitch eating out of your
hand within a week. You are brilliant, Hauptmann Jaeger, absolutely brilliant.”
Wolfgang stared into the forest. After a long silence he asked, “Anything else you want to tell
me?”
Bobarov sighed deeply and fretted for a moment before nervously saying, “Hauptmann Jaeger,
we go back a long time. You know that I have feelings for God. I’m not perfect, but don’t you think
God will look kindly upon me when it’s time for me to die? I have followed orders and done my job
while allowing you to worship Him in the way you want.”
Wolfgang spoke evenly. “I have provided free wine for you to sell and become rich on.”
“Compensation for the horrors you brought to our nation and people, Hauptmann Jaeger.”
“No. That’s exploitation, Commander.”
“No. It’s mercy, Hauptmann Jaeger.”
Wolfgang turned around and stared at Bobarov for a long time.
Then he said, with an edge of anger, “You don’t know anything about mercy, Commander. I
could have killed you and the rest of the occupying forces on this island several times over by now. I
have extended mercy to you, certainly not the other way around. I have bought you off, nothing more,
nothing less. I’m not God. You should know for yourself whether God is going to look upon you
kindly.”
With that Wolfgang walked off.
Bobarov, his face flushing red with emotion, yelled, “Stop, I didn’t say you could go. Come
back here right now!”
Wolfgang disappeared into the forest.
Bobarov, crazed with anger, tried to limp after him but stumbled and barely caught himself
from falling into some brush. This made him more agitated, and he screamed, “I own you! I am your
master on earth! You must treat me with respect! It says so in the Bible!”
Bobarov pulled out his revolver and shot wildly into the general direction of where Wolfgang
had gone. He shot again and again. The shots echoed loudly throughout the forest. Several birds took
flight, squawking in terror.
Bobarov shot until his revolver was empty. Hurling the useless gun away, his mind snapped as
he screamed at the top of his lungs, “I’m going to kill your family one by one in front of your eyes,
Hauptmann Jaeger! They’re going to suffer slow, agonizing deaths, and then I’m going to kill you
slowly, painfully, after they’re all dead! Hauptmann Jaeger! I swear to God I’m going to do it! Don’t
doubt me!”
Bobarov’s massive belly swayed up and down left and right as he limped in a frantic search for
Wolfgang. Twigs cut up his face and shirt. Falling down, he lost a boot, and his pants were torn, but
that didn’t deter him. Blood, sweat, and curses flowed wildly out of the Soviet commander. He thought
he saw a movement in the pine forest and waddled towards it, his mania increasing with each step.
Falling over a root, he landed face first on the hard ground, opening a wound on his forehead. He
staggered to his knees. Wolfgang came behind Bobarov without a sound.
The ugly grey cloud above them exploded with a thunderous crack, and the rain came down
with a vengeance. It would rain for five hours. All evidence of human struggle was quickly washed
away.

•••

The American border militia found the old overweight man wandering aimlessly on a road near
the GDR border. He was wet, cold, and delirious. The soldiers brought him to the hospital in Koenig’s
Tal, where a doctor named Konrad Meyer quickly diagnosed that the old man was suffering from
exhaustion and hypothermia. He ordered two nurses to provide the patient with a warm bath, clothing,
food, and a bed.

The next day a phone rang at the American military installation near Koenig’s Tal. An officer
from Mississippi picked it up and listened with some amusement to Doctor Konrad Meyer’s refined
and formal English—learned before the war during his medical training in Britain—requesting an
urgent meeting with Commander Henry (Hank) Jones at the hospital. The aged gentleman that the
American soldiers had brought in the day previous was claiming to be a Soviet military officer.
Jones and his two middle-aged assistants, Gardiner and Jackson, arrived at the hospital within
the hour. Meyer met the Americans in the lobby and after brief introductions said, “This morning the
patient communicated with me in German. He says he is the Soviet military commander on Wolfland.
Now he could be delusional, but you never know. His German is adequate, but he has made it clear that
Russian is his best language. I took the liberty to hire an interpreter who is excellent in German,
Russian, and English. We’ll have the patient speak Russian and the interpreter will translate his words
into English.”
“Is the interpreter already here?” drawled Jones in a heavy Oklahoma accent.
“Yes, she arrived about a half-hour ago,” answered Meyer. “I’ve let her spend time alone with
the patient so that they could get to know one another.”
“I see. Take us to them, doctor.”
They found the old man sitting up in his bed looking rather tired and dazed. The interpreter, a
plain-looking red-headed young woman who made herself known as Fraulein Sonja Schulz, sat beside
him. Meyer in turn introduced the Americans, whom the interpreter and the old man acknowledged
with slight nods.
Commander Jones took a long look at the patient. There was something wrong with how the
Soviet appeared. His eyes were glazed, and his skin was extremely pale.
“Is he in any condition to speak?” asked Jones.
The interpreter said a few words, and the old man nodded.
“Well, let’s hear it. Who is he, and where does he come from?”
The interpreter spoke a few words to the patient.
His voice was barely a whisper as he spoke Russian to Fraulein Schulz. After each sentence he
allowed time for the interpretation in English.
“My name is Commander Dmitry Bobarov. I am the supreme leader of the Wolfland Island
Soviet Military Base. Two days ago I was conducting military exercises in a boat on the Ebene.
Midway through the manoeuvres it struck a submerged log or rock and sunk. I was the only survivor.
The current carried me to the western bank, where I was captured by an American patrol. I demand that
you release me at once to the nearest German Democratic Republic border patrol. To not do so would
constitute an act of war by the GDR and its ally, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”
Jones looked at his assistants skeptically and said through the interpreter, “Really? Can you
provide any proof that you are actually the Soviet commander on Wolfland?”
Bobarov spoke a moment with the interpreter, who then relayed, “This Thursday, at 0900 hours,
General Arnold Carson, along with an entourage of five other high ranking officials, will land at
Koenig’s Tal military airport for a brief meeting with you, Commander Jones. They will be specifically
asking you questions about your military readiness in case of an attack from the East Germans.”
Jones, stunned by the information that was supposed to be only known by himself and his
assistants, could only stammer, “That is incredible.”
Bobarov smiled in victory and said a few words, which the redhead interpreted. “The military
base on Wolfland has several antennas that pick up every noise and vibration within a 500-kilometre
radius.”
“Okay, okay, tell Commander Bobarov that he has my attention,” said Jones to the interpreter.
“Now, as for his immediate release, I will have to first confer with my superiors. Obviously they would
be very interested in knowing more about the operation on Wolfland.”
“I will not divulge any more information, Commander Jones,” relayed Fraulein Schulz. “To do
so would be an act of treason. You are to release me now.”
“No, I think we have to detain you for a while,” said the American commander.
Jones looked at the doctor and said, “You have been very helpful to us, Doctor Meyer, but now
we will need to be alone with the prisoner.”
“But—”
“He may provide more military information that you are not privy to, sir. You will not, under
any circumstances, tell anyone what has been said here already.”
Doctor Meyer glanced at the hard faces of the Americans and consented. “Very well. If you
need me, I’ll be close by.”
“Thank you.”
The doctor left the room. Jones turned to the interpreter and said, “Jackson will be gone a
moment to conduct a records check on you. I would prefer to have one of our own interpreters, but
unfortunately there are none available at such a short notice. We are thus conscripting you, Fraulein
Schulz, to work for the American military. There is no option to refuse here, Miss, but rest assured we
will compensate you financially once we’re done.”
The Fraulein nodded.
Jackson returned after fifteen minutes and said, “She checks out, Commander. Comes highly
recommended from her boss at the language institution here in Koenig’s Tal.”
“Excellent. Let’s proceed immediately. Gardiner?”
Gardiner pulled out a long needle from his attaché case and said, “Sir, if you and Jackson could
please hold the prisoner down, I’ll make the injection.”
Bobarov tried to resist, but Jones and Jackson were too strong and quickly pinned the Soviet’s
arms and legs down. Gardiner injected the serum in Bobarov’s right arm, and in a few moments the
Soviet was in a hypnotic state.
For the next hour Jones interrogated Bobarov and asked him everything he knew about the
secret transmissions the base had intercepted since its inception. The Americans listened without
expression as Fraulein Schulz translated the words of Commander Bobarov. Gardiner and Jackson
wrote everything down. Near the end of the interrogation it became apparent to the Americans that the
information Bobarov had gathered from the West was faulty or insignificant. Jones felt some relief as
he realized that vital top-secret transmissions from his base had somehow eluded the antennas on
Rupert’s Berg. As for General Carson, he could easily be rescheduled.
The serum started to wear off, and Bobarov, worn out from the interrogation and the injection,
fell asleep.
“Well, I think that is enough for now,” Jones said. “We’ll post a guard here in the interim and
visit him again tomorrow.” Turning to Fraulein Schulz he added, “Jackson will escort you home, Miss,
and pick you up promptly at 0800 hours for further questioning of our prisoner. You have served the
American military very well today. Thank you.”
Schulz nodded curtly and stood up.
The others rose as well, and there was a brief time of mingling and comparison of notes before
Jones led everyone out of the room. He ordered a guard to remain at the door with strict instructions to
allow no one in or Bobarov out.

Early the next day, Commander Hank Jones received another phone call from Doctor Meyer.
Jones was at the hospital with Gardiner and Jackson in five minutes. They were met by a bewildered
looking Doctor Meyer in the lobby.
“What do you mean, Bobarov is dead?” Jones frantically asked.
Meyer responded with dismay, “The guard went in with the nurse this morning, and they found
him dead. He was old and not in very good shape.”
Perplexed, Jones said, “Still, it doesn’t make sense, especially since you yourself declared that
Bobarov had no apparent medical ailments other than suffering from exhaustion and hypothermia.”
“Things happen.”
Jones paused for a moment deep in thought. “Jackson, go get the interpreter.”
“The who?”
“You heard me, Jackson. Go get Fraulein Schulz.”
“Sir, it is only 0600 hours.”
“Doesn’t matter. Go now! That is an order!”
“Yes sir.” Jackson left on the double.
Turning to Gardiner, Jones ordered, “Find out who had anything to do with Bobarov since he
came here. Check every nurse, doctor, janitor, clerk—anyone and everyone. Also get a background
check on the soldiers who brought him in.”
“Yes, sir.” Gardiner left on the double.
Jones turned to Meyer and asked him, “Where’s Bobarov’s body?”
“In the hospital’s morgue.”
“Is an autopsy being done?”
“Yes. It should be completed within the hour.”
“Take me there.”
The men went into the basement where the morgue was located. Adjacent to it was the autopsy
room. After a brief wait the results of Bobarov’s autopsy was handed over to Doctor Meyer. He looked
over it briefly and declared, “Traces of cyanide were found in Bobarov’s blood. No question he died
from poisoning. But who would do such—”
Suddenly a young doctor burst into the room, handed Jones a note, and excused himself
profusely as he left. The American looked at it briefly, grimaced, and with a loud sigh said, “It’s a note
from Jackson. Fraulein Schulz, if that’s her real name, cannot be found.”
Meyer’s eyes grew wide with surprise.
Jones noticed and remarked, “You ever heard of the Cold War, Doctor Meyer?”
“Well, yes. From the newspapers.”
“I am one hundred percent sure that Fraulein Schulz is a Soviet agent and that she gave us an
inaccurate interpretation of Bobarov’s information yesterday and also killed him. We have just lost a
battle.”

Gardiner and Jackson met Jones later at the American base. The Koenig’s Tal police, along
with the American military police, were searching for the red-haired interpreter, but so far all they had
found was an empty apartment that had been rented to a Fraulein Sonja Schulz.

•••

Half the money was safely stored in a bank. The other half sat tantalizingly close on a table
beside a scowling nameless bald man, in the basement of a nondescript row house in Dresden. Three
other men, loaded to the hilt with weapons, hovered nearby. Another well-armed henchman stood on
the other side of the basement door.
Alexandra Bolichev, alias Sonja Schulz, sat across from the anonymous bald man. Alexandra, a
product of a Russian father and German mother, had found a language job in Koenig’s Tal two years
earlier. Unfortunately, some ill-advised investments left her desperate for more income than her work
could cover. As a result she had gladly taken the bald man’s offer to do occasional undercover work for
him. The money was good, and everything was done discretely. It was almost too good to be true.
Bobarov was her ninth assignment. The bald one had told her that there was a substantial bonus if she
killed the Soviet commander. The glare in the nameless man’s eyes had clearly communicated that
there was actually no option in that regard.
After being driven home by Jackson, the red-headed interpreter had snuck out of her apartment
and fled to a back alley, from where she was whisked, by an East German agent in a black Mercedes,
through Koenig’s Tal, a GDR border crossing, and brought to Dresden.
Alexandra was holding back her fear of the Soviet agents all around her and attempting to
exude an icy cool attitude. The men easily saw through the facade.
The hairless one quietly declared, “From our sources at the hospital in Koenig’s Tal, Bobarov is
dead. Before we consummate our agreement I need to know how he got off Wolfland. Surely the drug
you gave the commander in a drink of water while you were alone with him had its desired effect?”
Alexandra nervously cleared her throat and in a monotone said, “Of course.”
The bald man looked menacingly at the woman and after an excruciatingly long pause asked,
“Well?”
Alexandra, still visibly nervous, uttered, “I was alone with Bobarov for only thirty minutes, and
it also took a while before the drug took effect. He just had time to tell me about his relationship with
Wolfgang Jaeger and how he got off the island.”
“Fine. What did he say?” asked the bald man impatiently.
Sonja gave a brief background report on what Bobarov had told her about Wolfgang Jaeger. She
then recounted, word for word, what the late Soviet commander had said about his last hours on
Wolfland.
“I met Jaeger alone in the forest, as we had done many, many times over the years. All of our
meetings had centred around Jaeger’s wine business, life on the island, and God. This meeting was
going to be a little different. I was due to retire in September, and before I left I wanted him to give me
his blessing. Strange, I know. For despite conquering his homeland, despite controlling almost every
aspect of his daily life, despite profiting from his wine business, despite all that, I never conquered
Jaeger’s heart and mind. That belonged to God, and in all honesty I respected and admired him for it. I
would say his respect for me was grudging at best, even though I felt I deserved much more. For
unbeknownst to my superiors in the Soviet Union I had bent the rules over the years to appease
Wolfgang Jaeger’s faith in God. So, what I wanted from Jaeger was confirmation that I had done the
right thing, that I had served both my earthly and heavenly masters well.
“His response to my questions was rude, for he said the answer was between God and myself.
Then he just turned his back and walked away. What gall! After all the mercy and respect I had shown
him for over two decades!
“I flew into a rage, threatening Jaeger and his family with death. I drew my gun and started
shooting and running after him. In my anger and desperation to eliminate him I became extremely
careless. I tripped over a root, which tore my clothes and opened a bloody gash in my head. As I lay
there, partially stunned, Jaeger approached me from behind and put the blade of a butcher’s knife
against my throat. I desperately grovelled for my life and offered him money.
“Jaeger forced me up, and I led him to the hollow tree where I had hidden some of the profits of
Wolfland Weiss in a metal box. The rest of the funds are in banks throughout Russia and Europe. He
took the money out of the box and then made me walk to the concealed entrance of a cave, which was
located near the island’s lake. What a surprise! I had been on Wolfland for over twenty years and had
never known that there were caves.
“We went in, and Jaeger pulled out a flashlight. In the other hand he held his knife. There were
three caverns in all, connected by narrow passageways. Hauptmann Jaeger led me to the entrance of a
narrow tunnel in the third cavern. We slowly walked in and wandered in a dark passageway for at least
fifteen minutes.
“Finally we came to another smaller cavern, which had an underground river flowing through it.
We had to rappel down a long rope to get into it. Jaeger led me to the water and ordered me to jump in.
Like a fool I ridiculed him, saying that a real soldier would kill me with a bullet to the head. He
listened to me for a moment, but before I could say anything more he pushed me into the water.
“I sunk like a rock and was swept away by a strong current through a dark underwater tunnel. I
don’t know how long I was in that cold dark passageway, but just when my lungs were starting to burst
for lack of air I came into open water and could see the surface above me. Using the last bit of strength
in me, I made my way to the top. Luckily, I had learned how to swim and hold my breath for long
periods during my military training; for if not, I would have surely drowned.
“I came up to the surface in the midst of a tremendous rainstorm that made visibility difficult.
The current of the river took me to shallower water, and I stumbled out on the bank. I could not think
straight, due to being cold and traumatized by what had happened. I did not know where I was and had
no idea that I was in the West until later, when I regained warmth and sanity in the hospital.”
Alexandra paused for a moment and said, “The Americans came, and at first they were
skeptical that Bobarov was legitimate. I relayed one piece of correct information, that General Carson
was about to arrive in Koenig’s Tal, and that piqued their interest. Fortunately they conscripted me as
their interpreter, as I figured they would. I knew there were no other interpreters in Koenig’s Tal. They
injected Bobarov with a serum that made him hypnotic, and he provided me with several important
details about the military bases on Wolfland Island and Koenig’s Tal.”
The bald man interrupted by asking dryly, “So what did Bobarov actually tell the Americans, or
more accurately, what did you translate?”
“I, of course, wrongly interpreted how he got off Wolfland, and I only divulged inconsequential
information Bobarov relayed about the Soviet and American bases. I believe the Americans think that
their communications system in Koenig’s Tal is safe. My report of what Bobarov actually said is in this
file.”
Alexandra pulled a dossier out of her attaché case and passed it across the table.
The bald man took it without expression and read it quietly for several minutes. Finally he bade
the nervous red-haired double agent to carry on.
“The American commander finally ended the interrogation when Bobarov started to fall asleep.
While the doctor and the Americans were gathering their things and comparing notes, I slipped some
cyanide pills into a cup of water near the Soviet commander’s bed. Obviously, sometime during the
night he had a drink.”
The bald, nameless one pushed the remaining money over to the communist agent. In a cold,
drab voice he declared, “You have fulfilled your duties. You are dismissed.”
Alexandra nodded and hurried out.
The door was barely closed behind the red-headed agent when the bald leader motioned to one
of his accomplices. “Keep an eye on her. We still might need her in the future. However, she is to be
liquidated if she says or does anything that is not in our best interests.”
The thug headed out of the room.
The hairless interrogator grimaced, reached for the telephone on his desk, and started dialling.

•••

Sergeant Vladamir Svetlov, second-in-command of the Soviet military installation on Wolfland,


was totally unprepared to take over the base when it was established that Commander Bobarov was
missing. The troops had hated Bobarov’s bizarre leadership, and the insecure, bumbling Svetlov was
not an improvement. The sergeant’s order to search for the missing commander was received with quiet
scorn by the Soviet soldiers. Their efforts were haphazard at best, and Svetlov’s interrogation of the
villagers was also shoddy and disorganized. Some bribed the sergeant with money and food to not be
questioned. Others wasted time talking about the weather.
Twenty-four hours later, after the absurd search and interrogations had been done, Svetlov
notified his superiors in East Berlin that Bobarov was missing. The KGB, as the Soviet intelligence
agency was known, was well ahead of the incompetent sergeant. They already knew that Bobarov was
in Koenig’s Tal but did not mention this to Svetlov, for their own mysterious security reasons. Instead,
the KGB ordered him to search the island again for clues to the commander’s disappearance and to re-
interrogate the villagers.
This Svetlov did with great reluctance. The soldiers listened to the orders but then completely
ignored them by going directly to Frieden See, where they drank, smoked, and lazed in the hot springs
for several hours. The villagers simply sat in silence or offered wine and food to the interrogators.
Wolfgang refused to give the same answers to the same questions again and stared menacingly at
Sergeant Svetlov in silence for several seconds before walking away. The Soviet soldiers, who had
always quelled their fear of Wolfgang by hiding behind Bobarov’s leadership, became extremely
nervous. Wild rumours raged throughout the Soviet compound. “Wolfgang Jaeger was once an elite
Nazi sniper and has found a rifle. His first victim was Bobarov.”
“The ravens found Bobarov’s corpse and have picked his bones clean.”
“Jaeger will kill all of us, one by one.”
Svetlov, who was also completely terrified by the rumours about Wolfgang, notified his
superiors in East Berlin of the situation and begged for reinforcements.
The frightened Soviets remained in their compound, leaving the villagers to carry on with their
daily routines throughout the island—alone. It was odd not to be supervised by the conquerors, but
despite that there was still tension, and it hung over the island like a cloud. Evening came, and the
villagers hurried home from their work. Once inside their abodes they locked every door and window.
The threat of the Soviets invading them during the night was a nagging worry that made everyone
extremely nervous.

•••

It was past midnight, and the embers of the fire were pulsating heat and red light in the
cottage’s fireplace. It reflected off the faces of Hannelore and Wolfgang, who sat together on the sofa.
Hannelore looked over at her husband and quietly asked, “Where is Bobarov?”
Wolfgang sighed slightly and answered wearily, “I murdered Bobarov thousands of times in my
imagination ever since he came on Wolfland. I know that is sin; God have mercy on me.”
Hannelore’s voice raised an octave as she angrily spewed, “Don’t treat me or God as a fool,
Wolfgang. I know you did something to Bobarov. I know your eyes. They can never betray me.”
Wolfgang stared impassively at the embers and replied calmly, “He threatened to kill you and
the children. He tried to shoot and kill me with his revolver. So, I sent him away.”
Hannelore glared at her husband. “You sent him away?”
“Actually, it was more like I pushed him out of Wolfland.”
Over the next hour Wolfgang told Hannelore everything.

•••

In the grey light of early dawn, forty-eight hours after Svetlov had sent out his desperate plea to
East Berlin, three Soviet military trucks laden with soldiers, four jeeps, and two tanks were transported,
via four large military barges, over the Ebene to Wolfland. The timid Svetlov heard them coming and,
accompanied by a few of his comrades, hastily ran to the eastern gates to swing them open. They
watched with great relief as the barges systematically deposited their cargo at the dock. Wolfgang
Jaeger could not harm them now.
A pompous and very stern Soviet commander came up to Svetlov and said, “We have been
ordered to take over this island and to search for caves. Apparently they are located near a lake. You
are to guide us there immediately.”
After a few more words were exchanged, the well-decorated soldier climbed on top of a jeep to
give loud, precise instructions to his troops. Led by the massive tanks, the small army barrelled through
the open gates and immediately went on military manoeuvres. The noise woke Wolfgang up, and
within a minute he left his still-slumbering wife.
The sun slowly rose over Wolfland, replacing the drab grey dawn with brilliant red and gold
light. Yet the noises of the Soviet soldiers and their equipment interrupted any sense of wonder that
nature was providing.
Suddenly, the roar of a gas-powered generator, followed by the hiss of welding and clanging of
metal, shattered the air like glass impacting on cement. The noise came from the forest, and whatever
state of sleep the villagers were in ended immediately. Knowing best to ignore the sounds of their
Soviet oppressors, the villagers got on with their morning duties and pretended nothing was happening.
Eventually they made it to the vineyard, where they found a pensive Wolfgang already pruning. They
gathered around him, and without barely looking up he said, “I was by Frieden See this morning. The
Soviets have found the caves. They are putting steel bars across the entrance.”

Later that morning another barge, from the eastern side of the Ebene, started drifting towards
Wolfland. The vessel was guided by an old, rough-looking captain and contained a cargo of three
passengers. The most important was Commander Igor Popovitch, a clean-shaven thirty-one-year-old
single man, whose thin, unattractive skeletal facial features made most people feel queasy around him.
Popovitch’s sparse looks matched his personality.
A stickler for detail, easily irritated, harsh, profoundly vain, and humourless were just a few of
the character traits that others had used to describe him. He could not have cared less. Igor Popovitch
was a cold professional soldier. His posting to one of the East Bloc’s most important military bases at
such an early age was a feather in his cap, and the opportunity to quell a problem on Wolfland was an
added bonus.
Flanking Popovitch on the barge were his two large, broad-faced personal assistants, Kasatonov
and Blykin. In reality they were highly trained professional bodyguards. Both protected and enforced
their master’s orders to the letter.
The barge docked, and the passengers were welcomed to Wolfland by a Soviet lieutenant and
Svetlov. The lieutenant crisply reported that the military manoeuvres had been successful. The entrance
to the caverns had been sealed, and the entire island was totally secure.
Popovitch took in the news without a flicker of emotion. He turned to Svetlov and gave him an
order. Then he turned to the lieutenant. Tersely he commanded, “Bring me to the compound,
Lieutenant.”
The young Soviet gestured to his jeep and said. “Yes, sir. Please enter the vehicle.”
Popovitch obliged by placing himself on the front passenger seat while the bodyguards arranged
themselves in the back. Once they were settled the lieutenant positioned himself behind the jeep’s
steering wheel and drove them off to the compound.
Svetlov, meanwhile, was trudging in the general direction of Rupert’s Berg with a couple of
Soviet soldiers.
Wolfgang and the others abruptly stopped working in the vineyard when they saw the figure of
Svetlov, followed by two Soviets armed with submachine guns, marching towards them. They marched
in a very precise, synchronized military manner straight up to Wolfgang, who, amused by the whole
production, was smiling when he asked, “Yes?”
Svetlov stretched his lanky figure upwards, stuck out his jaw, and firmly declared, “Herr Jaeger,
we have sealed the opening to the caves. They are off-limits to everyone on this island. Guards will be
patrolling at all times. Their orders are to shoot anyone who comes within a ten-metre radius of the
entrance.”
“Is that all?”
“No. You are to report immediately to Commander Igor Popovitch at the Soviet compound. He
has just arrived and is now in charge of Wolfland.”
Wolfgang nodded and said politely, “I will first need to go to the cottage to tell Marie where I
am going and to pick up some information.”
“But—”
Wolfgang glanced into Svetlov’s eyes.
The Soviet, obviously intimidated, shrugged his assent to the request.
Once the order was given it took over twenty minutes for the soldiers under Svetlov’s command
to assemble in the Soviet compound. This was totally unacceptable for the new leader of Wolfland.
When the group had finally gathered, Popovitch, accompanied by his husky bodyguards, inspected
each soldier. All of them were either out of uniform, drunk, hung over, dishevelled, or a combination.
With unconcealed disgust in his voice Popovitch asked a soldier where Svetlov and the two comrades
were. “Still on the mission you gave them, sir,” was the reply.
Popovitch shook his head in anger and looked at the undisciplined rabble in front of him with
contempt. The Soviet troops who had come earlier that day stood behind them and were all well-
dressed, well-armed, and standing smartly at attention. The contrast between the two groups was
jarring, like night and day.
Popovitch finally nodded to Blykin, and the huge bodyguard punched one of Svetlov’s soldiers
in the stomach, sending him gasping to the ground in pain. The new commander looked at the soldiers
from the former regime with dark, haughty eyes and crisply barked, “In one hour you will all return
here in clean uniforms, faces shaven, hair trimmed, and this facility will be spotless. Go!”
They moved frantically just as Svetlov and his comrades led Jaeger into the compound.
Popovitch levelled Svetlov with a harsh tongue-lashing for taking too long in completing his
assignment and then ordered his grim-looking bodyguards to bring Wolfgang into Bobarov’s former
office. Svetlov, meanwhile, headed for latrine duty.

Blykin and Kasatonov stood, with faces chiselled out of rock, behind their master’s desk.
Popovitch sat between the bodyguards, on his predecessor’s luxurious chair. An ugly scowl was etched
onto his lips as he looked at Wolfgang Jaeger resting serenely on a hard wooden stool across from him.
The winemaker had a small weathered briefcase on his lap, which had been thoroughly searched by
Blykin and Kasatonov. Only a few harmless looking newspaper articles were found. Wolfgang’s
demeanour conveyed boredom, which bothered Popovitch somewhat, and the tone of his voice as he
started to speak to Wolfgang clearly betrayed his feelings of irritation.
“My name is Igor Popovitch, and I am the new commander of the Wolfland Island Soviet
Military Base. I learned to speak your native language as a student in Berlin, and in fact I am fluent in
five different languages. My assistants here, Blykin and Kasatonov, do not speak or understand
German, so we will be able to converse freely, Herr Jaeger.”
Wolfgang just stared ahead.
Popovitch tersely said, “I read your dossier while I was in Berlin, Herr Jaeger. I know that you
were a sniper at Stalingrad during the war and that you are a winemaker and woodsman here on
Wolfland. From what I understand, every person here on this island is somehow involved with the
vineyard. Well, that will all end. Potatoes. That is what your vineyard will become, a much-needed
potato patch. And the wheat field is also unnecessary. That will become a military training area. After
your execution we will remove all indigenous people from Wolfland.”
Wolfgang just stared ahead.
“Do you understand what I am saying?” asked Popovitch in disbelief.
“I am to be executed by whose authority and on what charge?” asked Wolfgang calmly.
“By the authority granted to me by the governments of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
and the German Democratic Republic, I hereby charge you, Wolfgang Jaeger, with the abduction and
murder of the late Commander Dmitry Bobarov, of Wolfland Island Soviet Military Base. Penalty is
execution.”
Jaeger responded dryly, “Bobarov is dead?”
“Yes! You murdered him!”
“He tried to kill me, and he threatened to execute my family. As you probably know by now, I
gave him a chance for survival by pushing him into an underground river. My guess is that Bobarov
was later captured by the Americans and that a communist operative later assassinated him for
divulging military secrets to them.”
Popovitch betrayed his surprise at hearing classified Soviet information from a civilian by
becoming quiet, and it took him several moments to stutter, “That does not change the fact that you
abducted Bobarov and that he could have easily drowned. Indirectly you were responsible for his
death.”
Wolfgang spoke wearily as if to an ignorant child, “For over two decades Bobarov profited
greatly from my wine production.”
He pulled out from the weathered briefcase the newspaper articles that had been considered
harmless by Blykin and Kasatonov. Handing them to the new Soviet commander, Jaeger said, “Since
they are in German, your men did not consider these important, but please, read them.”
With some skepticism, Popovitch took the articles and quickly read through them. They were
all from different German newspapers praising the quality and taste of Wolfland Weiss. Other news
items mentioned the several medals and awards that the wine had won over the years.
Popovitch just shrugged.
Wolfgang reached into his briefcase once again. The guards flinched, but Popovitch waved
them still. Wolfgang pulled out an envelope from under the false bottom of the briefcase and put it on
the desk. The Soviet commander stared at his bodyguards with contempt for missing the envelope
during their initial search. He warily picked it up and peered into it. His eyes enlarged for a moment,
because the envelope was filled with at least twenty-five thousand West German marks. In East
Germany they were worth up to seven times as much.
Popovitch pulled out a letter from the envelope. It was a twenty-year summary of the profits
that had gone directly to Bobarov’s bank account.
The Soviet hesitated for a moment, looked at Wolfgang sternly, and demanded, “Where did you
get this?”
Wolfgang smiled sweetly. “Your predecessor. You see, sir, I had an arrangement with Bobarov.
I would produce wine for him, and he would sell it to some important clients in the Soviet sphere.
Please don’t ask me how some of them got a hold of West German marks. I do not know. In return for
my efforts Commander Bobarov provided us, the villagers, with some concessions. You see, sir, I am
the only one in the world who knows how to make Wolfland Weiss. I know which grapes to use, when
to use them, and how to use them. Jaegers have been producing wine for seven hundred years.
Commander Popovitch, don’t you think it would be a shame to end this tradition? I’m in the midst of
training my eldest son, but it will be years before he truly becomes a master.”
Popovitch leafed through the money in the envelope and slowly put it down. He looked at the
profit summary sheet and thought silently to himself for several minutes. His parents were living in a
tiny two-room apartment in Moscow. Mother was constantly sick. Medicine was expensive. Their
miniscule pension barely afforded them food. The money could help them greatly. No. The money
would help them greatly. It was the spoils of victory and compensation for their many sacrifices to the
USSR.
Popovitch leaned back in his chair, sighed, and without looking at Wolfgang quietly asked,
“Anything else you want besides your life and the vineyard?”
“Frau Muller bakes the best bread in Germany. It is because of the wheat. Wheat has been
grown over the past several centuries here on Wolfland. Wolfland wheat produces excellent high-
quality flour. Selling bread from Wolfland would bring wealth to the seller.”
“Keep growing the wheat.”
“I need to retain the experienced workers that I have to manage the vineyard. The villagers have
been doing it for years. Really, they are no threat to security.”
“The villagers will remain working in the vineyard.”
“Once a week on Sunday mornings the villagers gather at my cottage for a meeting. We also
want free daily access to the forest, lake, and hot springs.”
“That is acceptable.”
“On December 24…”

•••

The Arab world imposes sanctions against Israel in an attempt to cripple their mutual enemy. Israel
responds by simultaneously attacking Syria, Egypt, and Jordan. Only emergency intervention from the
United Nations prevents the Israelis from completely routing their Arab neighbours. The Six Day War,
as it becomes known, leaves Israel with several new territories, such as the Gaza Strip and the Sinai
Peninsula.

•••

Twilight came to the Sinai desert, and the wicked heat of the day was finally starting to cool
down. A jeep, carrying five tense Arab soldiers, hurtled along a rough road towards the Israeli border.
Earlier, during an attack against the Jewish enemy, a sudden sandstorm had come up, blinding them.
After the vicious winds had swept by, the Arabs were alone and completely disorientated. The sand had
ruined their navigation equipment, and although the storm had passed, it was still blocking the sun. A
road was found, and the officer in charge chose a direction for the driver to take. He fervently hoped it
was the right one.
The driver kept the jeep on the road, knowing that any shift to the right or left would ensnare
the vehicle into the soft sifting sand. A high rocky outcropping came into view, and the officer ordered
the jeep to halt in front of it. Three of the men clambered out, loaded down with binoculars and semi-
automatic rifles. The plan was to climb onto the rocks and try to get some bearings.
It was over in seven seconds.
Snipers eliminated the three scouts first, and just as the driver raised a weapon, a bullet passed
through his head, splattering him face first onto the steering wheel. The officer tried to find refuge
behind the jeep. His knee was blown out with one shot, and he fell to the ground screaming in agony.
Another bullet blasted the pistol out of his hand. Trembling in pain and fear, the Arab prayed fervently
to Allah and waited for his death. It never came. Instead two Israeli soldiers, Elijah David and his
compatriot Jakob Elan, emerged from behind the rocks carrying high-powered rifles.
They came up to the terrified officer, and one of them quickly frisked him, confiscating two
large knives. Next, the two men gagged, blindfolded, and tied the hands of the Arab and threw him
roughly into the back of the jeep. They pulled the dead driver out from behind the wheel and heaved his
corpse onto the sand. Then, while one of the snipers sat himself beside the Arab and placed a loaded
pistol against his head, the other started the jeep. It roared off, spinning its tires and kicking dust over
the dead.

Two hours later the snipers were standing in front of their commander and instructor, Johann
Liebermann. He listened grimly to their report, then dismissed them and looked through the one-way
window of the command post’s interrogation room. Two enraged Israeli soldiers, each holding a short
red rubber tube, were whipping the Arab officer because he wouldn’t provide the information that they
wanted. The sight of the young man, tied naked on a plain wooden table with his knee destroyed and
red welts all over his body, sickened Johann. He entered the room, and the brutality stopped
immediately as the two interrogators snapped to attention.
Commander Liebermann fought back the anger that he felt towards the sweaty, heavily
breathing men. He curtly ordered them to leave, but the two sadists paused for a moment, incredulous
that they had to go. A harsh glance from the former Nazi sniper quickly convinced them to do as they
were told.
Johann waited until he heard the soldiers go outside of the building. Without a word he untied
the Arab, gave him a cloth to clean up, and found his clothes. Johann dialled a number on the stark
black phone that was attached to the west wall of the room. His instructions were concise. Within
seconds, an older looking soldier entered the room. Johann spoke quietly to him and left the room.
A single army truck bearing Israeli markings turned off the main road it had been travelling on.
It rattled on for another hour and finally stopped. It was night, but the bright full moon and a billion
stars provided adequate light.

The driver of the truck went to the back of the vehicle and guided the bound and blindfolded
Arab officer out of it. He forced him to kneel and removed the ropes around his wrists and ankles. The
blindfold was lifted, and the first thing the officer saw was an Uzi machine gun pointed at his head. The
gunman spoke Hebrew and pointed the weapon towards the moon. The young Arab didn’t understand a
word, but the tone was clear enough. He picked up the canteen of water and small knapsack that had
been thrown beside him and started limping towards the moon as if his life depended on it. He never
looked back until he heard the truck start up and roar off in the opposite direction.

It was well past midnight in Tel Aviv. A light rain pattered on the rooftops of the city. The click
of the cabinet lock caused Angelika to wake up with a start.
“Who’s there?” she asked in a terrified whisper.
A dark figure quietly approached her. Angelika gasped loudly, and adrenalin snapped her body
up into a sitting position.
“Shh, its me, Johann.”
Angelika, now wide awake, whispered, “Johann?”
The figure sat beside her on the bed and reached to take her hand.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Is it over?”
“Yes.”
Angelika wrapped her arms around him, but her touch of affection was not reciprocated.
“What’s wrong?”
Johann sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m depressed.”
“What happened?”
“I killed several men over the last six days.”
“You mean, you ordered your snipers to kill them.”
“What is the difference?”
“I had to treat many wounded at the hospital. Some died; some survived. One of those men
could easily have been you. I saw so many tears, so much pain from those that came to visit the
wounded and pick up their dead. I used to love this place, but the reality of war is changing me. We
could be in Zurich or Vienna, where there is peace.”
Johann held Angelika and rocked her for several minutes. Then he said, “This is our home now.
In another place we would be just going through the motions of life. There is only one other place in
the world that comes close to feeling like home for me. And that is Wolfland. But that is a dream that I
had a long time ago. No, I’d rather die young fighting for a home that gives me life than die slowly in a
safe place.”
Angelika looked into Johann’s eyes and said, “Yes, yes, that is a very noble thing to say, but we
have children to consider. Don’t they deserve to live in peace?”
Johann looked puzzled. “We only have Anna. What is this talk about children?”
Angelika smiled. “Congratulations, Herr Liebermann. In a few months you will be a father
again.”
Johann’s jaw dropped. Angelika nodded, patted her stomach, and said, “Well done, young
man.” Then she whispered in his left ear, “Now brace yourself. You’re going to be the father of twins.”
Johann collapsed onto the bed, too stunned to move.

•••

The two new Liebermann babies arrived on schedule, eight minutes apart. They were both girls.
The proud parents named them Angelina and Krista-Marie. Angelika’s parents came to Tel Aviv and
helped the young family settle into their new two-bedroom apartment. They doted over the family,
making life easy and comfortable. Johann did not want to go to Germany for Christmas due to the
babies, but Angelika would have none of that. Three days away from the family would not destroy
them. The Zausses were taking good care of them. Going to Wolfland was imperative. Reluctantly,
Johann agreed.
However, a few days before he was due to leave, Johann was summoned to the office of
Commander Barak El Heder. The old war veteran stared at one of Israel’s best soldiers with utmost
seriousness as he arrived. Johann, anticipating bad news, looked solemn as he took his seat on the other
side of the commander’s massive and immaculately neat desk.
El Heder got to the issue quickly. “I understand that every year during this time you go to
Europe to visit family.”
Johann nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”
“You are not permitted to go this year due to obligations with the Israeli military.”
“But sir—”
“You have been assigned to the Golan Heights.”
Johann stood up ramrod straight and implored, “Sir, I request three minutes to speak freely.”
El Heder looked up at the soldier, hesitated for a moment, and said, “Permission granted.”
Johann pulled out a small plastic bag from his breast pocket. Inside was a letter, which he
carefully pulled out and unfolded. “I received this letter from my best friend several years ago,” said
Johann. “It was smuggled out by his son, who had escaped against all odds from the Soviet military
base on Wolfland, East Germany. Due to the importance placed on the military base by the Soviets,
they do not allow any contact with the outside world. This letter is a treasure.”
El Heder interjected, “Why do the Soviets allow Germans to remain on their military
installation in the first place?”
“Wine.”
“Wine?”
“Wolfland Weiss. It’s the best white wine in the world. It makes the commander of the island
rich. But it requires the expertise of the native Germans on the island.”
“I see.”
“There are two parts to the letter. One is a brief explanation of who is on the island and what
they are up to. The second part is what I want to recite to you.”
“Recite?”
“I’ve read it at least a thousand times.”
El Heder shook his head slightly in disbelief and sighed, “Very well.”
Johann, handed the letter over to his commander, closed his eyes, and recited verbatim:

Dear Johann,
Anna died in her 100th year. Right to the end she spoke highly of you. She loved you and your family
deeply and always said they were a big part of what made Wolfland home. So many others have also
died or left this island due to the war. Their strengths, their faults, their being, their contributions to
our home are no longer.
Now, outside of several dour Soviet soldiers, there are only a handful of us. We are dominated
by these unhappy conquerors that have no desire to be on Wolfland. They have built fences to keep all
of us in and the influences of the West out. We are like animals trapped in a cage, despondent and
desperate for freedom.
Those of us who remember how Wolfland once was cling to the hope that someday the Soviets
will leave, the fences will fall down, and those who left home will return.
What a great day that will be.
Johann, I am sure that you have a new home and that you are happy in it. But please don’t
forget where you came from, that those who have remained behind still love you and always will.
Thank you for playing the violin and howling every December 24. I’m sure that with the demands of
your life, it is not easy for you to be there for us every year. But your arrival on the west bank of the
Ebene every Christmas Eve is the best birthday and Christmas gift that I could possibly receive. Thank
you for bringing hope and life to us. Thank you for being so faithful. God bless you, Johann.
Your friend,
Wolfgang

El Heder looked up at Johann as he pulled a drawer open and took out a sheet of paper.
“His birthday is on Christmas Eve?”
“Yes. As is mine.”
“Here are your orders for the Golan Heights.” With one quick motion El Heder tore the paper in
half. “Go to Wolfland, Commander Liebermann. Play the violin, howl, and God bless you.”

•••

The airplane skimmed over the rows and rows of neatly organized grape-laden vines ripening in
the California sun. Inside the aircraft Johann-Jens Jaeger stared down in amazement. It was hard to
believe that it all belonged to him and his uncle. The green vista eventually gave way to the brown
boredom of desert, and Johann-Jens diverted his attention to the people across the aisle.
Uncle Martin and his tall, dark-haired wife of ten years, Jackie, were attending to the fussy
demands of their only child, two-year-old Christian. Johann-Jens grimaced at the sight and leaned back
into his chair, grateful for the empty seat beside him.
Six years earlier he had flown to California to start a new life with Martin. After living through
the poverty of post-war Germany and drab Soviet-dominated Wolfland, he had been surprised by the
affluence of Koenig’s Tal, but the high standard of living in America was even more amazing. The
freedom to work for it was thrilling.
When Johann-Jens arrived in California, Martin had already firmly established himself as a
manager of a vineyard and had been saving for years to buy his own. He was happily married to Jackie
and, despite a heavy German accent, had become quite American due to her influence and the many
years working in the country.
Johann-Jens’ experience on Wolfland qualified him to become an assistant manager to his
uncle. Martin also allowed his nephew to move into the small rented bungalow that he shared with
Jackie. This eased Johann-Jens’ transition into American culture considerably. The countless hours
working in the California sunshine helped Johann-Jens to shed his spindly teenager physique and turn
into a strapping young man. He had inherited most of Hannelore’s good looks and emotions, but the
intense eyes and dark hair were from Wolfgang.
Johann-Jens and Martin saved a substantial part of their monthly earnings in a mutual account.
After two hard years there was finally enough money to put a down payment towards a vineyard. Uncle
and nephew worked tirelessly together on their new venture, and three years later, “Jaeger White” was
gaining popularity throughout the American west. It allowed the former German immigrants to each
buy a small house for themselves, to employ a few full- time workers, to buy more vineyards, and to
consider making a visit to Germany.
Since he had come to California the dream of seeing his parents again was always in the back of
Johann-Jens’ mind, springing forward at least once a day and giving his heart a stinging ache. But he
and his uncle had been financially unable and simply too busy managing and building their fledgling
wine business to go back to Germany. Yet Fritz Unterstutz, Johann Liebermann, Oskar Tannenbaum-
Finklestein, and others sent letters faithfully, providing a never-ending connection to their former home
and lives. Martin and Johann-Jens also constantly told Jackie stories about Wolfland and the people
they had left behind. This all kept uncle and nephew connected to the old country and dreaming of a
visit someday.
Now the dream was becoming a reality. Their aircraft would first stop in New York and then fly
on to Frankfurt, Germany. From there travel by train would bring them to Koenig’s Tal. Both men were
absolutely excited about the prospect to be with old friends and to see the sights of home.
Christian, finally exhausted from his fussing, fell asleep. Martin and Jackie exhaled and then
looked over at Johann-Jens for the first time since they got on the airplane. Their eyes were weary, but
Martin had enough energy to say, “I think your father would be proud of what we have done in our new
country. Although I’m sure he would insist that Wolfland Weiss is better than Jaeger White.”
Johann-Jens laughed and nodded in agreement.
Martin carried on. “I also wonder what your father would say about that lovely blonde Jessica
that you have taken a shine to.”
Johann-Jens responded sarcastically, “He probably would ask four things: 1. You’re getting
older. What took you so long to find a good woman? 2. Does she love God? 3. Does she love you? 4.
Can she cook? Well, I’m not sure how to answer the first question, but the next two are, ‘yes,’ and as
for the last question, she is working on it. Then he would say, ‘Let your mother teach her how to cook
and you’ll be happy for the rest of your life.’”
Martin smiled and said, “You know my brother all too well.”
Johann-Jens responded, “He’s an old-fashioned German. He never changes.”
“Yes. That’s what’s so charming about him.”
“Inflexible, stern, disciplined, and routine-oriented. Charming. However, it will be good to hear
him howl.”
There were smiles all around.
The airplane suddenly bounced, Christian woke up with a yelp, and the Jaeger parents became
absorbed with their child again. Johann-Jens shook his head in sympathy and turned to the window. It
was going to be a very long twenty-three-hour trip.

•••

They all met at Fritz Unterstutz’s: Johann-Jens, Martin, Jackie, young Christian, Johann
Liebermann, Rosenberg, Sonnenheim, Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein, their wives, children, and a
smattering of relatives and friends. For several hours, great conversation, laughter, tears, embraces, and
prayers filled the old farmhouse, driving away any weariness the travellers might have had. The time
fled by, and suddenly it was time to take the trip to the frigid west bank. Johann, ignoring the chill
breeze off the partially frozen Ebene, played his violin beautifully.
Johann-Jens could just make out the figures of his parents in the darkness. He waved his arms in
the distinctive pattern that his father had described under the Scripture he had sent with him so long
ago: Lift arms straight over the head and cross at the wrists. Slowly bring arms down till they are
parallel with the shoulders.
Hannelore wept as she saw Johann-Jens and then Martin do the arm pattern. She kept crying
while she and Wolfgang started moving their arms in the same distinct pattern as well.
The howling began, and it seemed more mournful and desperate than ever. The hour came to a
close, and one by one the people on the west bank blew out their candles, as did the villagers on
Wolfland. Wolfgang, Johann, Martin, and Johann-Jens blew their candles out last.
Those on the west bank quietly entered their cars and returned to Koenig’s Tal and the service
at the Lutheran church. For Martin and Johann-Jens, it had been a sweet, poignant evening. As their car
drove away, they stared at the cross high on Rupert’s Berg. Lit up fiery red by the antennas, it stood out
brightly against the starry black sky. With several different emotions cascading through them, both
Martin and Johann-Jens vowed to come again next year and the year after that, all their lives for that
matter. They had deeply underestimated the power of loved ones and going home.

The last cars drove off from the west bank, and a curtain of black remained where family and
friends had been. Hannelore stood forlorn, staring at the blackness through the two five-metre high
fences that had caged her and the others for much too long.
Wolfgang came up beside her.
She whispered, “It was him. It was Johann-Jens, wasn’t it?”
Wolfgang replied gently, “Yes.”
“Why couldn’t I see his eyes, his face? Why couldn’t I hold him? Why couldn’t I communicate
with him? He’s my son! And Martin was there too, wasn’t he?”
Wolfgang turned Hannelore into his chest and held her tight. She shuddered as she lost control
of her grief.
That night, for the first time ever, the villagers took Wolfgang, Hannelore, and their family
home first. There were no candles, no singing, and no joy. In front of the cottage, the lifelong friends
took turns holding each other.

1969
Under Igor Popovitch’s leadership, time on Wolfland became tedious. He was a harsh taskmaster and
had the soldiers constantly doing drills, patrolling, and guarding. His loyal bodyguards were his eyes
and ears and seemed to be everywhere. Their intimidating presence terrified the Soviet soldiers into
submitting to Popovitch’s every whim and desire. Some Soviet personnel, however, took their
smouldering anger towards the commander’s ways out on the native Wolflanders. Everyone, including
Wolfgang, endured ridicule and tongue-lashings and were made to do stupid errands. As a result, there
was a constant ugly tension between the Soviets and the indigenous population. Still, occasional light
broke the Soviet drabness. Walking through the forest and bathing in Frieden See and the hot springs
washed away a lot of stress. Prayer and Bible study at the cottage every Sunday always helped.
Without fail on December 24 Johann and a multitude of others arrived at the western bank of
the Ebene. The candlelight on the western bank had grown substantially over the years as more people
had heard about the event. To those trapped in the cage known as Wolfland, the light, the singing,
Johann’s violin, and the howling always provided them their best Christmas gift: Hope.

1979

During the 1970s, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republic’s power and influence over the world is at its
apex. The USSR’s mission to have every nation on Earth adopt the communist system, plus their huge
arsenal of nuclear weapons that only the Americans can match, creates world-wide political tension.
The spectre of a nuclear holocaust between the USSR and its greatest ideological rival, the
United States, is a constant threat, discussed almost daily in the world’s media. If the two superpowers
ever reach a point of aggression, there are enough bombs between them to obliterate civilization
within half an hour.
With this fact hanging over them, the Soviet Union and the United States spend billions of
dollars fighting a “Cold War” to exert their influence (communist versus capitalist) over the rest of the
world. This involves supporting governments or groups from other nations sympathetic to their
political system with money, equipment, troops, and “advisors.”
The German Democratic Republic is also at the height of its powers. It becomes world
renowned as an Olympic juggernaut, finishing near the top of the medal standings in both the summer
and winter games. For a country of 16 million inhabitants, this is a remarkable achievement
considering that the other two preeminent Olympic powers during the 1970s, the United States and
Soviet Union, have, combined, well over three hundred and fifty million more people than the GDR
has.
The smaller country’s leaders use the Olympic success as confirmation that their Soviet-style
communist system is better than the capitalistic governments of the West. In reality, however, despite
their great Olympic medal count, the GDR is economically well behind countries such as the Federal
Republic of Germany and other democratic free-market societies.
But in comparison to other Soviet-controlled territories, East Germany has the strongest
economy and is considered a success story by ardent communists. Ironically, a major reason for the
GDR’s economic strength is the relaxation of travel restrictions by its government during the 1970s.
These new regulations do not apply to the average East German citizen, but it does allow those from
West Germany and other capitalist countries easier access to visit relatives or to vacation in the GDR.
This, of course, comes at a cost.
Western visitors are required to report to Stasi-supported officials as soon as they enter the
country and pay a daily fee, in West German marks, for the privilege of visiting the GDR. This fee is an
excellent example of the corruption that riddles communism and will eventually lead to its downfall.
Every day that a Western citizen is in East Germany, they have to exchange, at a rate of one to one, up
to a hundred West German marks for a hundred East German marks. At West German banks the going
rate is around 7 East German marks for 1 West German mark.
This blatant discrepancy, however, does not deter West Germans from coming. The opportunity
to see family and friends is priceless. Many also take the opportunity to spend most or all of the East
German marks that they have acquired. To keep the East German marks and exchange them back to
Western currency at a loss does not make sense. The East German economy profits greatly from its
policy towards visitors from capitalistic Western nations.
Like the GDR, the Soviet military base on Wolfland also changes some of its travel regulations
for its indigenous population. Although no people from the West are allowed on Wolfland due to its
status as a military base, Popovitch allows the villagers to move away from the island or to visit
others, as long as it is in East Germany or other countries in the East bloc. Several adults and almost
every child that has grown up on Wolfland after the war takes advantage of this and leaves. As a
result, the decade becomes a time of farewells.

Edna Jaeger leaves Wolfland for Dresden to study economics. She eventually marries and
settles there. Two sons arrive later. For three days each summer Edna is given permission to visit her
parents on Wolfland.
Anna Jaeger departs Wolfland and studies art in Karl Marx Stadt. Eventually she drifts to East
Berlin and marries a coffee shop owner.
Jan marries one of the Lindt girls, Hilda, and has two children with her, a boy, Paul, and a girl,
Ruth. Jan takes over the vineyard from Wolfgang and continues the family tradition of producing an
excellent and profitable white wine. He also moves his family into the old manse. The children have to
receive all their education at home because the old schoolhouse is shut down due to a lack of students.
After the school’s closure, the teacher, Ulrich Kloster, simply disappears.
Gerhard Lindt dies of a heart attack in the early 1970s. After the funeral Meta moves near East
Berlin to be closer to three of her children. They take turns checking on her every day until her death in
1978.
Margarita Bauer dies after a hard, brief battle with cancer. She is buried near her parents.
Herzog’s old inn that Margarita had run for so long is closed and boarded up.
Sophie Shutz and her husband, Hanzi, are allowed to move into the home of their daughter in
Dresden. The state agrees that the elder Shutzes, now in retirement and ailing, would benefit from the
extra care provided by their daughter. The GDR also saves money by not having to take care of the
Shutzes in a retirement home. After they leave, their bakery shop is closed and bread is shipped in from
the east. It is dry, tasteless, and old. The wheat field becomes a natural meadow.
Igor Popovitch quietly celebrates his tenth year as Soviet commander on Wolfland. Several
promotions have been offered during the decade of his reign, but Popovitch turned them all down. His
secret bank account, gained from the profits of Wolfland Weiss, is substantial, and it allows him to
keep his aged parents back home in Moscow alive, healthy, and comfortable.
For Wolfgang and Hannelore, the loss and moves of their family and friends is difficult to take.
Also, with the lack of people visiting Wolfland due to the security checks and fees imposed by
Popovitch on visitors, the feelings of isolation and loneliness intensifies in the couple.
By the end of the 1970s the only native-born citizens left on Wolfland are Wolfgang,
Hannelore, Jan, Hilda, and their two children, Paul and Ruth. The rest of Wolfland’s population is
Soviet military personnel. Some of them are assigned to help in the vineyard, which ensures Jan’s
employment and Popovitch’s profit.
Occasionally East German tradesmen are allowed on the island to repair or renovate the barriers
around the island and do maintenance checks on the spyware.
Once a year, the GDR government, as they have done since coming into power, provides fifty
workers to help out with the harvest of wine grapes. They are housed in several large tents on the edge
of the village. Popovitch, like Bobarov previously, tries to keep the workers’ behaviour in line.
However, because the “guests” cannot be fired due to the communist system’s insistence that every
able adult must be employed, their labour is shoddy. Excessive alcohol consumption also continues to
be a big problem among the workers, year after year.
The diminishing population on Wolfland becomes noticeable every year on Christmas Eve to
those on the western bank. At one time there were over twenty candles lit behind the barrier; by 1979
there are only six. On the west side the number of lit candles has swelled to almost a hundred.
Yet Johann is adamant. As long as there is still one candle on the other side, he will play and
howl. The Americans agree. They know how important the Wolfland military base is to the Soviets. In
fact, they order some of their soldiers to participate by holding candles and singing as well.
The Americans’ view on the whole matter is eloquently summed by Hank Jones one Christmas
when he tells Johann, “Keep playing your fiddle, bringing your friends, and howling to the moon for all
your worth. We’re all behind ya. Annoying those Russkies, at least once a year, brings me great
pleasure.”

1986

During the early 1980s the Soviet Union’s power begins to wane. A costly war with Afghanistan,
inefficient state-run businesses, low oil prices, a worldwide recession, and a severely bloated military
budget cause severe problems to the USSR economy.
Mikhail Gorbachev becomes the leader of the Soviet Union in 1985. In an effort to rectify his
country’s troubles, he initiates major reforms: Perestroika (restructuring) of the Soviet economic
system, and Glasnost (openness), a general relaxation of constraints to freedom of opinion and
criticism of the Soviet government.
One of the first economic initiatives that the Gorbachev government undertakes is the
dismantling of costly Soviet military bases in the USSR and the East bloc. Soviet accountants are also
ordered to investigate government-run businesses. Unfettered by the threat of sanctions from the KGB
in revealing the truth, they expose widespread corruption in state supported enterprises. Major
changes are needed to clear up the problems.
In the spirit of Glasnost, Gorbachev, along with many other prominent Soviets, openly criticize
former USSR leaders such as Stalin and Brezhnev for the many mistakes they made during their reigns.
This encourages people from all walks of life in the Soviet Union to voice their complaints about how
their nation has been managed.

Early one morning on what was promising to be a fine mellow summer day, five barges slowly
drifted over the Ebene towards the eastern dock of Wolfland. Each vessel carried a dilapidated Soviet-
made military truck and several weary-looking soldiers. Due to severe reductions in military spending
they had suffered cutbacks in their salaries, and many of their comrades had been forced out of the
army. Morale among the remaining soldiers had plunged to surly discontent.
The barges docked and disgorged their cargo. Soon the pristine air over Wolfland was poisoned
with the fumes of cheap diesel fuel as the Soviet trucks coughed and sputtered through the eastern gate.
Upon hearing and smelling the vehicles, the Jaegers quickly finished their breakfast and headed to the
vineyard where they could observe what was going on.
A pair of the decrepit trucks slowly headed in the direction of the Soviet compound, while the
other three laboriously wheezed up the trail to Rupert’s Berg. Two of them managed to get to the
summit, but the third imploded in a stinking cloud of white and black smoke halfway up. Several
Soviets made an effort to revive the vehicle; yet when that proved futile, it was unceremoniously
shoved off the berg. It rolled four times in its descent and landed with a tremendous crushing sound on
the rocky northern tip of the island. An explosion caused by the remaining diesel fuel completely
obliterated the vehicle. The spectacle provoked a few cheers, laughter, and handclaps from the Soviets.
With their vehicle now a burnt-out shell, the soldiers slowly and very leisurely made their way back
down the berg.
Popovitch, who like everyone else on Wolfland had heard the commotion regarding the Soviet
truck, was soon seen striding up Rupert’s Berg, followed by his latest two bodyguards, Myskin and
Maltzev. Within minutes, his shrill voice could be heard over the island as he reprimanded the soldiers
for destroying valuable Soviet property and not marching up to help their comrades on the peak. It was
not a happy time for all concerned.
It took several hours for the surviving trucks to be loaded with the flag, equipment, and supplies
that the Soviets had brought onto the island during their occupation. Once the mission was finally
accomplished, the transports and every soldier, including the ones who had been stationed on Wolfland
for the past several months, transferred to the barges, which had been patiently bobbing near the eastern
dock for their arrival.
Popovitch was the last Soviet to pass through the eastern gate. He boarded a barge and drifted
across the Ebene to the east. The cross high on Wolfland stood alone and unfettered by the flag of the
USSR. Not once did the former Soviet commander gaze back at Wolfland.
The Jaegers watched with amazement as the Soviets faded from view, only to be replaced by an
East German patrol boat. Five soldiers dressed in the military uniforms of the GDR disembarked at the
dock and started walking towards the Soviet compound. Wolfgang met them halfway. Upon seeing, the
shaggy, silvery visage of the winemaker and forester, the soldiers stopped in their tracks.
A tall young red-headed soldier with the rank of captain stepped forward. “My name is Captain
Uwe Dienstler, of the GDR Border Guard, and you must be Wolfgang Jaeger. The former Soviet
commander of this base has given me a complete report about you and your family. Herr Jaeger, it may
interest you that the Soviet Union has ceased operations here on Wolfland and have turned complete
authority of this facility over to the German Democratic Republic. From now on Wolfland will be
considered part of the Anti Fascist Barrier. The Soviet telecommunications installation on top of
Rupert’s Berg will become an observation tower for our border guards. Our German Democratic
Republic flag will also wave proudly on the top of the berg. You may continue to reside on Wolfland as
long as you produce the wine, Wolfland Weiss, and provide royalties from its profits to the GDR. We
will work out details later.”
Wolfgang stared at Dienstler for the longest time in disbelief. At last he shrugged his shoulders
and uttered, “Fine.”

•••

The winds from the desert whipped the sand up into a furious cloud. It screamed into Tel Aviv,
viciously stinging anyone foolish enough to be outside. Inside the Christian sanctuary, Pastor Karston
Schiener stopped for a few moments as the sandy tumult raged against the closed doors and windows
of the building. Electrical power collapsed, and the lights of the church faded out. More candles were
lit, and Schiener calmly continued with the service. He spoke louder, and his voice, coupled with the
excellent acoustics of the church, easily overcame the screeching and terrifying sounds from outside.
“Lord we give up your humble servant, Angelika Liebermann, into your care. We will miss her
terribly, but we know our time on earth is a fleeting moment, and soon, very soon, we will all be
joining her in Your Glory.”
Rabbi Abram Levitz moved beside the pastor and said, “Angelika Liebermann took care of
children at the Tel Aviv hospital for almost twenty-five years. The young ones came from every corner
of the world. Some arrived with older family members, but most came alone, orphaned and unwanted.
It didn’t matter to Angelika. She treated them all with love, and they were home. The children were of
different colours: white, black, yellow, brown, red, and every shade in between. It didn’t matter to
Angelika. She treated them all with love, and they were valued. The children spoke different languages.
It didn’t matter to Angelika. She treated them all with love, and no words were needed.”
The rabbi gave way to the pastor, who had the final word. “Angelika’s greatest legacy that she
leaves behind is the fruit of her love. Peace, patience, kindness, and genuine care were clearly evident
to all who knew her and is why so many of you—relatives, friends, and former patients—have gathered
here today to pay your last respects.
“God, You blessed us through Angelika. For that we will always be grateful.”
The storm ended as quickly as it had begun. Rays of the afternoon sun filtered through the cloud
of dust that had been kicked up, bringing some warmth and light back to the city.
The service ended, and Johann walked slowly out of the sanctuary, arm in arm with his three
weeping children, Anna, Angelina, and Krista-Marie.
It had been a hard five years after Angelika was diagnosed with leukemia. The disease went
back and forth from full-fledged invasion to remission, back to invasion, and into remission. Then
came the last invasion. Angelika died slowly, painfully. Through it all she did not waver in her faith
and love for God and her family.
For Johann, losing Angelika was almost unbearable. He raged against God.
“Why do You not take me? You keep taking those whom I love! Why, Lord? Why do You
always keep me alive?”
Johann eventually found some solace with his children. Then, as usual just at the right moment,
Oskar Tannenbaum-Finklestein phoned and invited him to chop wood in Switzerland. With the
blessing of his girls, Johann went.
On Christmas Eve he was with his children and the others on the west bank. Johann played
brilliantly. It was impossible not to be moved. Once again it became very clear to Johann that God
wasn’t through with him just yet.

1989

Gorbachev tries to reform the USSR but in doing so unleashes a revolution. Perestroika and Glasnost
exposes the corruption and inefficiency of Soviet-style communism. The problems are severe, and the
consequences of them—such as outdated factories, dangerous working conditions, poverty, and severe
environmental pollution—will take years, if not decades, to correct.
Other countries in the East Bloc, emboldened by Gorbachev’s policies and the Soviet Union’s
preoccupation with its own problems, begin to stir against the political oppression that has shackled
their freedom for decades. Criticism against the East Bloc’s communist governments and their main
ally, the Soviet Union, in the media and public gatherings becomes rampant, especially when the
protestors realize that the police and army do not have the support of the USSR to quell the unrest.
The Hungarian government listens to the protests of its people and takes the unprecedented
step of cutting down the barriers along its borders, in effect setting their citizens free. The Soviet
Union, which in the past had quickly crushed any insubordination from their East Bloc satellites
through military intervention or by threatening them with nuclear annihilation, does nothing.
Without the backing of Big Brother, the communist governments in the East bloc, including the
one of the GDR, quickly lose their legitimacy. Thousands of East Germans start pouring out through
the Hungarian portal to capitalist West Germany.
Even East Germany’s dreaded secret police, the Stasis, are powerless to stop the torrent of
people leaving the country.
Those that remain conduct massive freedom rallies all over the GDR. Many start out in
churches, which had been closed due to the communist atheistic policies, and “We are the People”
becomes their slogan. The GDR government grows extremely nervous as the flood of young East
Germans leaving the country intensifies and the protestors become bolder with their public demands.
Erich Honaker, the aging and sickly leader of communist East Germany, orders the army to
squash, by violent force if necessary, a huge freedom demonstration planned for Leipzig. The orders
are not heeded, and this effectively ends Honaker’s reign. A new communist leader for the GDR is
quickly put into place by the embattled government. One of his first acts is to speak to the remaining
East German population via television. “We need you,” he pleads.
It is much too late. Thousands of East Germans continue leaving the GDR through Hungary
into West Germany and its capitalist society. It is incredibly ironic, considering that for forty years
East German citizens had learned all about the evils of capitalism—such as the greed for money, the
cut-throat competition, the monopolies, and the exploitation of workers—through the state-controlled
media and educational system. Instead, communism, with guaranteed employment and free social
benefits, such as education and medical care, had been extolled.
In the end the propaganda could not mask the deficiencies of an atheistic, over-controlling
governmental system. Communism did not allow private companies to exist. Every business was state
owned, and there was no competition to motivate a company to improve their product so that it could
be sold on the international market. As a result, the common East German had to make do with inferior
low-quality products. Other things, like building materials, were always in short supply. Stealing from
construction sites became widespread, almost acceptable.
Some East Germans were lucky enough to have relatives from the West who sent them Western
currency. Western money allowed them to enter the “Intershops” that had been set up all over the
country by the GDR government for tourists from capitalistic countries to spend their valuable
currency. These shops stocked superior goods made by capitalists.
Western currency also ensured East Germans prompt service from tradesmen such as plumbers
or electricians. Without it, one was fortunate to get any service at all. The Intershops and the power of
Western money, chiefly the West German mark, clearly debunked one of the major claims of the GDR
communist system—namely, that it was a classless society.
Later, the newly liberated press would expose to the world that East German leaders had lived
in luxury for decades. Swiss bank accounts, huge mansions filled with Western appliances, and
luxurious cars were only a few of things that the ruling elite had been “entitled” to. Such blatant
hypocrisy enraged the common people of the GDR and only added fuel to their growing discontent
with communism.
On November 4, half a million people demonstrate on the streets of East Berlin.
Czechoslovakia opens its borders. Thirty thousand East Germans emigrate to the West within forty-
eight hours. On November 7, the entire East German cabinet resigns. On November 8, the Communist
Party Politburo and the Central Committee follow suit.
Then incredibly, on November 9, at the end of a press briefing, a government official
announces that East German citizens will be allowed to travel freely across the country’s borders. At
the stroke of midnight, the symbol of the Cold War, the Berlin Wall, and the barriers surrounding East
Germany will no longer be relevant.
The news races around the world.

The cold had come weeks earlier, killing off leaves and other plant life, leaving the landscape
grey, devoid of any colour. Evening fell early on that day, the ninth of November, and even the sun’s
last rays couldn’t penetrate the gloom. Only the cross, high on Rupert’s Berg, surrounded by the
fluttering East German flag plus the rusting and blown over antennas of the old Soviet empire, cut
through the bleakness with its stark beauty.
In light of what was to occur at midnight all over the GDR, the Americans waived their
regulations about gatherings at the border by Wolfland. Christmas had come early.
Once the word was out, people started gathering on the west bank. Just a few at first, but within
an hour the crowd had swelled to over a hundred, and many more were on their way. The drabness of
the cold, dark evening evaporated into a glory of sound and light. An entire church choir joined the
growing euphoric mass of people, and soon their beautiful harmonies echoed sweetly off Rupert’s
Berg. Others lit up candles or sparklers or blasted spectacular fireworks overhead, causing the people to
yell out in awe. It was like Christmas Eve but louder and more vibrant.
The Jaegers quietly gathered behind the western gate, and as they lit their candles it evoked
wild cheers from those gathered on the other side, and more fireworks were rocketed into the black sky.
Uwe Dienstler and his five subordinates walked up behind the Jaegers. Upon recognition of the
East German military uniforms, the crowd erupted angrily with shrill whistles and boos. Only the
waving of Wolfgang’s arms calmed the furious mob somewhat.
“You should have worn civilian clothes, Commander Dienstler,” Wolfgang remarked, with a
slight tone of sarcasm.
“That would be against regulations,” replied Dienstler haughtily.
“Of course. Why not open the gate now? It is only a matter of one hour.”
“That would be—”
“Against regulations. Yes, yes, of course, Commander Dienstler.”
The East German commander did not respond, for his sad and forlorn eyes were concentrating
on the jeering crowd across the bridge. Wolfgang shook his head slightly at the poor Uwe Dienstler, for
he was an unimaginative communist drone. It had been impossible for Wolfgang to relate to him, and
in the past few years they had barely spoken a hundred words to each other.
Captain Dienstler had given his absolute all, both physically and mentally, to his position on
Wolfland. Years earlier, he had come to the attention of the communists during his required military
service to the GDR as a physically strong, relatively smart, very teachable, and very loyal servant to his
country. Dienstler was an ideal candidate for guarding the GDR from the insidious influences of the
West, and the communists quickly recruited him.
Uwe Dienstler couldn’t have been happier. During his service to the GDR, the young
commander’s head became crammed full of communist belief, jargon, and statistics. It was not an
exaggeration to claim that Uwe Dienstler had sold his soul to the GDR.
The orders to simply open the gates of the border he had vowed to defend with his life, if
necessary, still had not quite registered in his mind. Instead, Dienstler was in shock, confused and
overwhelmed by the first painful realization that his devotion to communism and the GDR government
had been all for naught.
By 11:00 p.m. there were at least a thousand people on the west bank. Most carried a lit candle
and were speaking loudly in excitement. It was an incredible sight. Suddenly the raucous noise of the
crowd abated as the haunting strains of a lone violin rode the airwaves.
As Johann Liebermann played, he slowly walked towards the bridge. The people parted out of
his way with reverence and joy. Behind him were his three daughters, each laden with bouquets of
flowers. Following the girls were Tannenbaum-Finklestein, Rosenberg, Sonnenheim, the Holzenbeins,
Fritz Unterstutz, and their loved ones. As he had done for the past thirty-eight years, Johann stopped at
the western edge of the bridge and let his fingers dance brilliantly over the strings of the violin,
producing the beautiful melody “Ode to Joy.”
On the other side of the barrier, Hannelore and Hilda cried, as they always did when they heard
Johann play. Wolfgang, ever the stoic, stared straight ahead, eyes fixated on Johann, letting the music
move deep inside him.
Forty-five minutes fled by, and it was time to howl. The two friends lifted their heads to the
heavens, and in perfect harmony the mournful sounds of the wolf cascaded against the cliffs of
Rupert’s Berg, echoing again and again.
The midnight hour came, and as the last howls echoed over the Ebene the crowd murmured in
nervous anticipation.
Wolfgang looked into Dienstler’s eyes and said, “It is time.”
Dienstler walked to the gate of the bridge and pulled out a set of keys from his attaché case. He
slowly unlocked the padlock and pushed against the gate with his shoulder. It reluctantly creaked open.
Dienstler beckoned Wolfgang and the others to follow him. For the first time in forty years, people
walked across the bridge. They came to the outside gate on the western edge of the bridge. Beyond it
was freedom. Wolfgang could see his friend smiling and weeping on the other side. Dienstler opened
the gate and faded back, with the other East German guards, across the bridge.
For several moments there was an awesome silence as Wolfgang and Johann stared at one
other, overwhelmed by the truth that one of their greatest dreams was being fulfilled. Finally Wolfgang
stepped off the bridge into freedom and the arms of Johann. Cheers and handclapping exploded as a
hundred fireworks were simultaneously fired into the heavens.
Wolfgang cried for the third time in his adult life as he held his dear friend. After releasing each
other from their embrace, the two men looked once again at each other for the longest time, not sure
what to say.
Johann broke first.
“Wolfgang Jaeger, thank you. You are a man of honour, my best friend, and a gift from God.”
Wolfgang hugged his friend again and then held him at arm’s length.
“Johann Liebermann, your faithfulness to come every Christmas gave us all hope and life.
Thank you. Thank you for all the family and friends you brought along. You are also a man of honour,
my best friend, and a gift from God.”
Applause from the huge crowd rang out, and the euphoria of the moment overrode German
formality. Tears of joy, billions of them, streamed out as those from the West introduced themselves to
the Jaegers with deeply heartfelt hugs.
Over a thousand people streamed onto Wolfland that night. All had grown up with the reality of
the Soviet presence and the grotesque barriers that they had erected with the help of East German
communists. Now the ugly reminders of the awful war fought so long ago and the subsequent conquest
by the Soviets were coming down.
Within two hours of the western gate’s opening, the exultant crowd had torn down several
sections of Wolfland’s barriers and carted them off as macabre souvenirs. They also reduced the old
billboards, which had proclaimed the virtues of communism, into kindling and used them to create a
massive bonfire in the middle of the meadow. The mob also pulled down the bust of Stalin from its
perch near Wilhelm’s Church. As the stone head flew against the cobblestones, it shattered into pieces.
Fireworks whistled high into the air all night, blowing up spectacularly in red, yellow, green,
and blue. Champagne flowed freely. More importantly, old friendships were rekindled and new ones
were formed.
For most of the night Johann sat with Wolfgang near the bonfire. They did not have to move to
meet anyone. Hundreds came forward, wishing them well and loading them down with gifts, money,
and praise. In gratitude, Wolfgang allowed bottles of Wolfland Weiss to be distributed freely to the
people.
There would be no sleep that night.

Later, as the sky slowly turned from black to grey, there was a lull in the celebration. Johann
looked at Wolfgang, to catch his attention, and made a slight hand gesture to Hannelore, who was
sitting nearby.
“So the beautiful Hannelore is really married to you?” he asked Wolfgang with some
incredulity.
Wolfgang shrugged and said, “You weren’t around, so she settled for me.”
Johann rocked his head in defeat and grudgingly admitted, “Yes, probably just as well. Say you
know, Wolfgang, your silver hair makes you look less threatening.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Pointing to Johann’s receding hairline, Wolfgang said, “You look older without hair.”
Johann stroked his baldness.
“Thank you. I look older, but more mature and distinguished, right?”
“Sure.”
“At least the top of my head is easy to maintain.”
“You seem to have gained a few pounds.”
Hannelore rolled her eyes. “Stop this ridiculous banter you two! You haven’t seen each other
for over forty years, and now all you’re doing is pointing out each other’s physical traits!”
Wolfgang protested, “This is how male friends show their care for one another. Isn’t that right,
Johann?”
“That’s right.”
Hannelore had enough. “I will never understand that!”
She stood up and marched off to join a group of women deep in conversation.
Johann turned to Wolfgang. “She hasn’t lost any of her charm over the years, that’s for sure.”
“It is why she could toy with our hearts.”

Meanwhile, in Berlin, thousands of revellers celebrated on top of the “Berlin Wall” as East
Germans poured into West Berlin and newsmen from around the world recorded the incredible event.
Two days later Wolfgang and Hannelore’s daughters, Anna and Edna, came home to the
cottage. They came from the east, crossing over on a barge. Seeing the barrier torn into tatters made
them weep with joy. The two sisters found their family overwhelmed by what had transpired but filled
with incredible relief and joy.
Sophie Shutz and her husband, aided by their children, came the next day. They spent time with
the Jaegers and visited all the old sites. It was hard to keep composed around the old family homes.
A week later, Martin and Johann-Jens made their tearful return to Wolfland. Even Wolfgang
showed flickers of emotion, but the old crusty wolf would not let his eyes get wet again.

1990

Shortly after the Berlin Wall came down, the German Democratic Republic ceased to exist, and by
October of 1990 it had officially became part of the Federal Republic of Germany. The reunification of
Germany increased the size of the country by approximately a third. The process was not without its
problems. Unscrupulous businessmen from the West preyed on the naivety of the East Germans, selling
them insurance, appliances, and vehicles that they did not need for outlandish prices. Land ownership
became a complicated and painful issue as some Westerners reclaimed their “land,” which they had
lost with the rise of communism in the East. These issues and many more provided the government of
the Federal Republic with plenty of work.

1991

Much to Johann Liebermann’s delight, the old pharmacy and clinic on Wolfland was returned back to
him. After extensive renovations, the former living quarters on the upper floor were deemed suitable
for a retired senior citizen. After much soul searching and discussion with his daughters, Johann
decided to move back to Wolfland. This brought much joy for him, Wolfgang, and Hannelore.
The lower floor was converted into a music studio and coffee shop that attracted artists from
around the region. The majority of Johann’s time was spent playing the violin in the studio, sipping
coffee with old and new friends, and walking through the forest with Wolfgang. At least four times a
week their howling would reverberate throughout the island. This never ceased to amuse the other
Wolflanders.
Several other homes and parcels of land were returned to their rightful owners or their heirs.
With a sizeable financial contribution from Martin and Johann-Jens, who had become prosperous due
to “Jaeger White,” these homes were rebuilt or renovated.
Jan continued producing Wolfland Weiss. The selling of the wine made him rich since he was
finally allowed to keep most of the profits. Also, new, lucrative markets were opening up, all eager to
sample the exquisite Wolfland Weiss. More full-time workers were needed in the vineyard, and they
came eagerly, attracted by the promise of good jobs and the beauty of Wolfland. The school was
renovated and was soon filled with students.
Frieden See, the hot springs, the caves, the ruins, and the old Soviet communications
installation on top of Rupert’s Berg were cleaned up and refurbished. This brought in tourists who
gladly paid entrance fees to experience the waters and see the historic sites. Herzog’s Inn was
reopened, bringing in even more finances. Tax money from the new businesses was used to rebuild
Wilhelm’s Kirche. The inside was restored with new pews, stained glass windows, and a pulpit. The
spire was completely redone, and new bells were installed.

1992
On the summer day of Wilhelm’s Kirche’s reopening, the bells in the new spire rang clear, beautiful,
and for well over a half an hour. It was the signal for the hundreds of worshippers who had gathered on
Wolfland that day to enter the sanctuary. When the ringing from the bells ended, the pews were packed
to overflowing with people who all had some connection with the formerly terrifying island of the
wolves.
Wolfgang and Johann sat with their families in the front pew to the right. Gerhardt Shuster, the
new young pastor of Wilhelm’s Kirche, preached eloquently, giving praise to God for new beginnings.
He concluded by saying, “I have spent the last few weeks here on Wolfland getting to know its people
and history. For the most part, it is typical of all German settlements. There are families here that can
trace their ancestors back to the Middle Ages. And like every German settlement, poverty, prosperity,
war, peace, corrupt and responsible governments, military victories, defeats, reformation of the church,
and rapid technological advances have all had their impact here.
“However, what makes Wolfland unique are the men and women who throughout its history
have embraced the teachings and life of Jesus Christ and lived their lives anointed by His Spirit. Like
the cross on Rupert’s Berg, their faith, their prayers, and the legacy of their godly lives still remain on
Wolfland.
“The love extended by the Jaegers and von Himmels to the Liebermann family and the less
fortunate during the Nazi era is an example of that legacy. During that time, Pastor Andreas von
Himmel, Jens Jaeger, and Dietrich Liebermann all paid the ultimate price for their loyalty to God and
His Way.
“First John 3:16 states, ‘This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for
us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers.’
“After the Nazis were defeated, the Soviets occupied Wolfland and closed it off to the rest of
the world. Yet, for thirty-eight years, Johann Liebermann came on Christmas Eve, which is also his
birthday, and played his violin on the western bank for those trapped on Wolfland. He also howled like
a wolf, or, as some observers have said, like a fool, to his friend and fellow birthday boy, Wolfgang
Jaeger, who always howled back. Absurd? Perhaps. Loyal? Definitely. Their loyalty to one another was
born out of their faith and friendship; it is a concrete example of God’s love, which often moves in
mysterious ways. How else can one explain the crowd of people that came every Christmas to join
Johann, a crowd that grew larger every year, which came regardless of distance, finances, or any other
circumstances?
“God’s love transcends politics, religion, philosophies, and walls, which come and go. God’s
love is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. It is eternal. Being conscious of God’s love for us and
acting upon it is true freedom. Man’s barriers and attempts to be Godlike cannot come close to the
freedom found in God’s love. It is steadfast, real, and the only true reason for living.
“Later, after this service, we are going to climb up to the top of Rupert’s Berg to pray at the
cross, which despite the efforts of many to bring it down, has stood over Wolfland for centuries, just
like the faith of the villagers. As you stand under the symbol of God’s greatest sacrifice for man, may
you reflect on His precious love for you, and may you find your peace and destiny in Him.
“Amen.”

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