White Rose Black Forest(42)
Franka knew several of the nurses from her time in school and kept in touch with them about Fredi’s progress in between visits. The more time went on, the more at ease Franka and her father became. Their new life with Fredi was better than ever. Their father could relax for the first time in what seemed like many years. Franka’s peace of mind over Fredi’s welfare allowed her to launch into her new life with verve and passion. It seemed as if equilibrium might be possible.
The news came without warning. It was April 1941, and Franka was called to the phone at work. It was one of the nurses she knew from the institution, crying as she spoke.
The black SS vans came without warning on a Tuesday afternoon. It was a fine day, and all the patients, even those in catatonic states, were brought outside. The older patients who were able to stand were told to line up. The head nurse objected but was pulled away and arrested. Men in white coats who didn’t identify themselves as doctors examined the older patients’ mouths. The staff were assured that it was all routine and would soon end. The patients were put into groups, some with an ink stamp on their chests from the attendant. One group was allowed to return inside, while the other, much larger group was herded to where the vans were parked. The patients were loaded into the vans, some in their wheelchairs, others hobbling on crutches, and some carried on stretchers. One child asked the SS commandant where they were going, and he told them they were going to heaven. They went to the vans with reassured smiles on their faces.
Fredi was nervous. It was as if some instinct told him that they were lying. Fredi fought, flailing at the nurses, begging them to let him stay. Screaming nurses who tried to come to his aid were held back with the flat edge of rifles and thrown to the ground. A smiling SS man put a hand on Fredi’s shoulder and told him that they’d soon return with wonderful stories to tell, and that where they were going offered free ice cream. Soothed by lies, Fredi began to calm. The same SS soldier took the handles of Fredi’s wheelchair and pushed him to the black van to take his place with his friends. The SS men started the children in song as if they were sending them on a day trip to the fair. Fredi waved as the door slammed behind him, and the sound of the children singing lilted through the air as they drove away.
Franka’s father made frantic inquiries as to his son’s whereabouts and was met with a wall of feigned ignorance and denial. A few agonizing days passed before he was informed by letter that Fredi had died of a heart attack and his body had been cremated. The letter was accompanied by a death certificate, and at the bottom was the official salute of Heil Hitler.
The ruling came from Hitler himself. The führer was inefficient and lazy and prone to giving vague directives, which he expected to be followed in quick order. He had spoken in the past about the “useless eaters” at home who wasted resources while the flower of German youth was being sacrificed on the battlefield. People “unworthy of life” were to be cleared from their hospital beds in order to make room for the wounded coming home from the front, or for the mothers whose children could make up for the losses in battle. What use were the incurably ill, the physically and mentally disabled, and the senile, in this time of war? “Disenfranchising” them would make for a healthier, more vigorous nation, and go toward securing the future of the Aryan race. Hitler appointed a panel of doctors who were to decide who should live and who should die. Countless thousands were selected to be murdered.
Thomas Gerber was destroyed. Fredi’s death sucked any life or love or joy out of him. The vitality and mirth he’d once been known for disappeared. Franka never heard him laugh after that. It was as if he didn’t know how to anymore. He lost his job soon after and retreated into a drunken stupor. The depth of agony was beyond anything Franka had ever felt. She cried for days, unable to eat or sleep, the hatred for the Nazis burning like molten glass inside her. Fredi’s murderers were glorified as heroes, and the man ultimately responsible deified. There was no escape—Fredi’s murderers were everywhere. They were everyone who wore the Nazi armband or sported a Nazi pin. They were every SS man, and every loyal Aryan. They were every Hitler Youth and every wild-eyed hysteric screaming the Nazi salute at countless rallies. Who knew how many thousands had been slaughtered under the National Socialists’ euthanasia program or subjugated because they were Jews, Gypsies, communists, trade-union leaders, political dissidents, or just citizens caught saying the wrong thing? Franka realized that a line had been drawn in German society between the perpetrators and the victims. There were thousands to share in the collective guilt that Hans wrote about, but there were so many more victims of the regime—those whose families had been sent to concentration camps or murdered as “unworthy of life.” Their whole lives were lived in the open prison that was Nazi Germany under the rule of those who had committed heinous crimes against them.
They had no body to bury, and no one would ever face prosecution for Fredi’s death. Franka went back to visit the institution, hoping for some closure. The nurses broke down upon seeing her. Franka’s friend who’d called her fell into her arms, begging forgiveness for something she had no power to stop. Franka didn’t stay long. The place was haunted now, and the staff reckoned it was only a matter of time before the SS came back for the rest of the patients. Franka returned to Munich, tried to immerse herself in music, work, anything to distract her from the ever-present pain inside her, anything to stop remembering. She met Hans. He understood, and they joined together in outrage, willing to die in service of the German people.