127. The Christmas Truce
Volkmann Estate
Berlin-Wannsee, German Empire
24 December 1947
The Wannsee estate was far larger than the Charlottenburg house, complete with sufficient guest quarters to accommodate the massive growth in the Volkmann family since 1940. Between Peter and Wilhelm, there were ten grandchildren running loose on the grounds, and both Rita and Ilse were pregnant. In Charlottenburg, this would have been a nightmare; in Wannsee, it was manageable. It was a year for lavish celebration as far as Ernst Volkmann was concerned: the Reich was at peace, the politicians had all gone home for the season, and the rail lines had been extended in European standard gauge as far as St. Petersburg and Kiev, and the Minsk-Smolensk-Moscow line was well in hand. The various investments he had made in the last thirteen years, like the Berlin-Baghdad Railway, had paid off handsomely. The Volkmanns were, in a word, rich. For a man who had survived the First Great War and the Depression, this was almost inconceivable, and it showed in his gifts to his children for the year.
Peter got his first, while he was still in the hospital. Hanna knew about it, and when Peter was finally discharged, the two of them picked him up and drove him to Johannisthal. Peter's confusion had grown until they pulled up in front of one of the small-craft hangars and stopped. They had received salutes the whole way, thanks to Ernst's general's flags and plates, and that stopped most questions outside the car, but from inside, Peter had feebly protested the whole time that this looked to be the wrong way. It wasn't until they had led him into the hangar that he had fallen silent. Inside was a brand-new Me 208 in brushed aluminum, sitting comfortably on tricycle gear in what should have been a military testing airstrip. "Happy Christmas. It's yours," Ernst announced with a wave of his hand. Peter, already pale from his hospital stay, had blanched. "How can you afford such a thing?" Ernst had smiled lazily and waved the question away. "Peter, we are rich now, hadn't you heard?"
Johann's gift had followed shortly thereafter. Ilse had a tiny Reichswagen that would fit them both, but she had gotten pregnant seemingly within weeks of marriage, and now, six months in, the Reichswagen was just too small. She had put her foot down on the idea of traveling anywhere on his motorcycle, sidecar or not, at least while pregnant, so he had bought them a sporty little Auto Union cabriolet in a shade of red normally reserved for emergency vehicles and race cars. The first thing that Johann had done was tear it apart with his own hands and rebuild it, tinkering and toying with it until Ilse had made quite clear that if he wanted more than one child, the car could wait. Even so, he had spent weekends tearing around every track he could register it, or the motorcycle, at. That time had become Ilse's lab time, ground out in a never-ending tenure battle that was complicated by her marriage and pregnancy.
The hardest of his children to buy a car for was actually Wilhelm. Wilhelm and Rita had a large and growing family: every time Wilhelm went overseas, which was frequently, a birth followed his return by almost exactly nine months. Ernst's solution to the dilemma was, even by his own admission, excessive, but every time he saw Wilhelm, he left feeling guilty. He had discreetly checked with the Chancellory before he made the largest single purchase he would make for any of his children, and the answer was a black and chrome behemoth that he had had to travel to Stuttgart to pick up at the same time that the Berlin-Moscow rail line had been reaching Smolensk. Even then, he had been hard-pressed to get it back to Berlin, and had been forced to rent a rail flatbed to transport it. When Wilhelm had arrived on Christmas Eve with his brood, exhausted and bedraggled, he had been surprised to see a massive, slablike black Mercedes in front of the house. Wilhelm had unconsciously gone over his appearance, wondering who the visiting dignitary was, before Ernst had appeared, bounding down the front steps with all the enthusiasm a mostly sedentary, middle-aged bureaucrat could manage. "Do you like it?" he asked, including both Rita and Wilhelm in the question and ignoring the half-dozen children scattering rapidly from the taxi. Wilhelm had nodded dumbly, then Ernst proudly dropped the keys in his hand. "It's yours. It's the same kind the Chancellor uses!"
As soon as they were alone, in the guesthouse, Rita turned to Wilhelm and laughingly dubbed it "The Beast." Wilhelm doubted he needed an armored monstrosity with a radio telephone, writing desk, and all of Papen's accoutrements, but he had to admit the entire family would fit. He was also quietly dubious that Rita would ever be able to drive it. It had far more in common with a Unimog than the Reichswagen she was used to.
All of this explained both why Ernst was in such expansive spirits that evening, with the whole family assembled, and why everyone was in a good mood with him. No one mentioned Annelise and her absence in his presence. It would have been undiplomatic at best to do so when Peter's estimate put the lavish gifts at well over a hundred thousand Reichsmarks. That did not include the great Christmas tree in the front entry, a tree which would itself have never fit in the Charlottenburg house. The first meter and a half of the tree were festooned with candies easily stolen by younger hands; the remaining five and a half meters were decorated with mementoes of the various family members' travels. An entire section was decorated with miniature prayer-rugs from Turkey and Iraq, and the onion-dome of St. Basil's Cathedral poked out between two branches elsewhere. The family spent much of the day in the unfortunate ceremony that attended being close, but not too close, to the Kaiser's sun: services at both the Catholic and Evangelical cathedrals, consuming three hours of their days. To their credit, the children behaved spectacularly, since they knew what was coming upon their return. When they finally sat down to what promised to be the first of several enormous meals, for the family was gathered for the full two weeks of Epiphany, a knock sounded at the front door. Ernst looked around at the grandchildren. "Well, who can that be?" he asked conspiratorially, smiling in anticipation. He stood, going to the door with a long train of children in tow, and opened it, arms wide. "Welcome!" he began, then stopped short.
On the doorstep was a bedraggled young woman surrounded by four children of her own, peering up at them. Her coat was threadbare, and she clutched it tight around her. Wisps of blond hair poked out around the edge of a battered red beret. She smiled timidly, blinking in the light, the taxi driver visible over her shoulder. "Hello, Papa."
---
If Ernst had been ebullient before, now he was silent, withdrawn. The next day, he spent most of Christmas withdrawn into himself, barely participating in the festivities that he had largely laid out. Annelise was timid, barely speaking to the others, except for Wilhelm, whom she clung to like a life raft. Rita had taken charge of her as best she could, drawing her aside and trying to involve her in the chatter that surrounded Ilse's first pregnancy, but she had been so long in France that she had lost track of how her own family had grown, and she quietly admitted that she was not sure her father welcomed her return. Her mind was made up at dinner to talk to Ernst come what may, when he stood up, tapping his knife against his glass. "We have an unexpected gift this year," he began, gesturing at his daughter. "What we thought was lost has returned to us." She smiled a tiny bit, his throat closed on his next words. "I have been unkind these many years, and have forgotten my daughter in my gifts and my prayers. She has returned, and I have nothing to give her such as I have given her brothers, so... I have decided, if it's all right with you, Anni, to endow a riding school for you, either here, or in the Ostland." She nodded, stunned, and finally replied, almost too quietly to hear, "Yes, Papa. Thank you."
The meal was subdued, but not as tense as lunch had been at least. There were now fifteen children in the house, and the divide between German and French was stark. The Lassan children stayed to themselves, intimidated by this crowd of boisterous, bouncing Germans who looked at them with such intense curiosity. Their German was terrible, and they reverted to French in self-defense, but that was scant protection against Wilhelm's brood, who had a combination of their father's linguistic talent, and exposure to his wide repertoire of languages, and their mother's curiosity. Something like a truce was reached when they decided to play Charlemagne and Roland, acceptable choices for both French and German. Afterward, when they were all bundled off, Annelise approached Ernst in the hallway as he carried a brandy snifter to the library where his sons waited.
"Papa, can we talk for a moment?" This was the moment she had dreaded; when he turned, she saw that there was nothing to fear. His face was open, concerned. If anything he was more accessible than he had ever been, which was saying something, for he had never made a great secret of doting on his only daughter. "Of course."
"Papa, the Vicomte told me that it would be wise if we moved to Berlin without Henri for... until at least Easter. I think something is going to happen in France." Now that she had begun speaking, the words came out in a tumble. "There have been meetings at the Chateau. Men talking. I hear little, they are suspicious of 'the German woman.' But I know some of them. The Vicomte. Admiral Darlan. General de Gaulle. An American that they call 'the general,' who speaks good French, and a Legionnaire. I think something terrible is coming." She stopped, biting her bottom lip.
Ernst was stunned. This was the last he had expected. "Would you be willing to tell all of this to people from the General Staff?" She nodded, gulping. "Then I will make arrangements." He leaned forward, hugging her tightly, the brandy awkwardly pressing against her back. "You can stay as long as you want, Anni."
She nodded, swallowing, the tears finally coming. "It's been so long, Papa! I thought you hated me now. Do you know what it's like in France? We have money and look how I'm dressed! Even the Vicomte's house barely has bread, it's horrible, and you just sat there and never talked to me, I only ever saw Wilhelm!" It all came out in a flood, tears running onto his shoulder as she gabbled. "I was wrong," he muttered against her ear. "I am sorry."
They stood like that for several minutes. Peter opened the library door and looked out to check on Ernst, then closed it again on what he saw. "Father will be delayed," he said as he turned back to Johann and Wilhelm. Wilhelm was perusing the bookshelves, Johann lounging in an uncomfortable-looking wood and leather chair that had come with the house. A massive, wing-backed chair, heavily stuffed and barely retaining any of its original burgundy color, remained unfilled. It was Ernst's favorite chair, brought from Charlottenburg. Johann nodded, head tipped back. "Best hope he doesn't stay too long, I might fall asleep here. I swear that General Rommel thinks he's a teenager!" He laughed. "Spend half my time on the road, half the time with him, none of it sleeping."
"Oh, what's he got you working on?"
"He's convinced that tanks are a one-trick pony, that we managed the Restoration because no one had done it before, but now that everyone has seen what can be done, everyone will be ready for it. Problem is that no one has a good alternative yet, so we are just refining the formula." Peter chuckled. "Mm. Has he looked at autogyros?"
"He has. Too fragile, too unreliable. Plenty of speed, but can't carry weapons worth a damn. He thinks they might be good troop carriers and ambulances, but not much for killing tanks."
"He ought to talk to Ehrhardt at the Marine Inspectorate or Ramcke at Combined Staff. They took the
Hindenburg and they're supposedly doing something with autogyros from there, word is there's a big exercise planned for spring." Johann's head popped up. "Do you think you could get me or the Boss in to see them, see the exercise?" Peter blinked and nodded. "Ehrhardt likes keeping secrets, but I can certainly try."
Ernst finally appeared, and they shared a quiet brandy, save for Wilhelm, who politely refused the drink, the conversation momentarily stilled by his appearance. After he had finally settled into his chair, Wilhelm spoke. "It is good to have Annchen back." The others nodded, and toasted her return, and Ernst related what she had said, throwing a pall over the conversation once more. Wilhelm especially paled at this. He made a point of lingering behind when the others departed for bed, stopping Ernst. "Sir," he began, "this Christmas is a kind of goodbye." He smiled sadly, sinking down into a chair opposite Ernst's. "At the new year, I am being reassigned. Africa. Von Lettow-Vorbeck's staff. I am supposed to train the Africans." His voice took on a note of desolation. "They are taking my regiment away from me!"
Ernst leaned forward, nodding in understanding, and set his hand on Wilhelm's shoulder. "I felt the same way about Bad Schlema. Africa is important work, Willi. And you've trained good men to take your spot I'm sure." Wilhelm nodded. "I know, but... I made Regiment Hutier and then to be told I'm too junior a man to hold a regiment!" Not for the first time, Ernst was struck by the changes in Wilhelm over the years. He had always been thin. Now he looked like he was made of weathered, hardened leather over piano wire. He had lost what little fat and innocence he had at Reims, and never regained it, and there were constant dark circles under his eyes. "Wilhelm," he finally asked, frowning, "do you ever sleep?"
Wilhelm shook his head. "I sleep every three days or so, for a few hours at a time. It is enough." The words were meant to be final, but Ernst continued. "I remember when I came back from the front. It was not until 1920 that I got a full night's sleep, and I wasn't, well, I wasn't a Hutier man." The memory of the Western Front flooded back for a moment, and he fought it back - the mix of smoke and rotting flesh, the cloying rubberized canvas mask against his face, canteen banging on his hip in a frantic trench-to-trench dash during the Michael offensive. His hand reflexively shaped itself around the stock of a submachine gun, and he blinked and pushed it all away. "I know what you are going through. My friends, my soldiers, died too," he said quietly. His hand rested on Wilhelm's shoulder heavily, awkwardly, and Wilhelm shuddered. He was sure the tears were coming, but Wilhelm's voice betrayed no such thing. It was eerily flat, dead, level. "When I close my eyes, I see the French machine guns in the hedges at Reims, or I hear an incoming round in Warsaw, and I just go stiff. There were nights where, God forgive me, the only way I slept was drink. I swear I do not remember it, but I know I have hit Rita. She never talks about it. That is worse than the memories, the parts that I can't remember."
They sat there together, no more words coming, Ernst having no advice that Wilhelm would believe. The only cure he knew was time and distance, and Wilhelm, unlike Ernst, stayed engaged. Finally Wilhelm straightened, and Ernst saw that his eyes were dry. "Thank you, sir. I needed that. Maybe Dar-es-Salaam will be a change for the better."
