Always Loyal
“Loyalty to the country always.
Loyalty to the government when it deserves it.”
-Mark Twain


Who knew a letter on you skin could mean the difference between life and death. That’s what Fritz thought as he watched his former commander, a member of the SS, being dragged away by the enemy. Fritz watched as a huge soldier came up and forcibly pulled him out of the line. Maybe enemy was not the right word anymore; they were more like conquerors. Bombing cities filled with the innocent, letting their Soviet allies march with free will through country. Fritz spat bitterly on the ground, “Filthy Americans.” A hard weight hit the side of his head and he fell backwards against his friend, Heinrich. Fritz jumped forward, preparing to strike back, but Heinrich grasped his arms and forced him back into the line. “It’s not worth it,” he muttered. With disgust, Fritz continued his march forward into the barbed wire prison. Above the gate, an American flag whipped back and forth in the early morning breeze producing whip-like noises.


As Fritz passed through the gate, he surveyed his surroundings for people he knew. A multitude of men swarmed around most of them confused as to what to do. Most of the men were dressed in tattered uniforms. Others attempted to disguise themselves as civilians and wore old shirts and stained trousers. While Fritz watched the commotion around his, he felt a heavy weight on his shoulder and turned around to see Rudolf Bauer standing behind him.

“Who would have thought that the great colonel Fritz would be caught?” Bauer said, “You were always so sneaky.”

“Well I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Jung,” Fritz replied bitterly, “He didn’t have enough sense to destroy his tattoo.”

“How did you manage to hide yours, Fritz?”

“You’d be surprised what one can do with a knife and a lighter.”

“Well let’s hope that no one finds out then,” Bauer clapped Fritz on the back and walked away.



A loud voice called for everyone to form a line. Fritz heard the order repeated in German. A large amount of scuffling ensued as all the prisoners hurried to make a line. A large, pot-bellied man in a uniform, who had a thick cigar clenched between his teeth, strolled amongst the prisoners. In his hand he held a clipboard and he questioned the men. “How is it that they won the war with men like that? Fritz asked, openly sneering at the overweight man. The sound of heavy boots drew nearer; the uniformed man overheard and glared at Fritz.
“That’s General Stern to you, prisoner,” the General said loudly.
“What’s you name?” he questioned.
“Fritz Schiffer,” Fritz replied. The General scribbled the information on his clipboard.
“What rank are you?”
“I’m a colonel.”
“City of birth and age?”
“Dresden, and I’m thirty.”
“An officer, eh? Well, I suppose you’ll have been commanding men yourself then?” the General Stern inquired.
“Yes, I commanded a regiment in Poland,” Fritz said, a hint of pride in his voice.
“Poland, eh? Where?”
“Mainly around Lublin.”
With one last glare, Stern scribbled the words on his clipboard and turned to Heinrich, who Stern put through the same interrogation. The man continued slowly down the line of new prisoners, tirelessly repeating the same questions. Once in a while someone would be taken out of the line and would be led away by another soldier. Fritz watched as the sun began to set and the moon began to rise, counting of the hours that had passed. Finally, they were ordered to go off and find somewhere to sleep. Fritz followed Heinrich and the other men to an open clearing. There, they stretched out on the hard ground.
“What about food?” someone called out hesitantly.
“I don’t recall that Nazis fed their prisoners on such a regular basis,” the General said mockingly.
“That’s because they weren’t worth feeding,” a voice called out from the back of the line.
Everything went quite.
“Let’s make sure everyone understands something,” Stern said, “The day Hitler committed suicide was the day Nazi Germany became history.” With those words, the General turned around and walked away.


Fritz followed Heinrich to an open spot on the ground where they sat down. “Why did you tell him all that?” Heinrich asked angrily.
“What?”
“That you commanded a regiment in Poland of all places. He may not look like a great soldier, but he can put two and two together of what we did in Poland.”
Fritz shifted uncomfortably on the ground as he listened to what Heinrich said.
“Look, no one is going to know anything unless someone tells the Americans what I’ve done,” Fritz said.
“And if someone does?” Heinrich asked cautiously.
“Well, after I kill the traitor I’ll probably be put on trial or something of the sort,” Fritz replied.
“What? You won’t even deny it,” his friend asked.
“When I joined the army, I made an oath to remain loyal to Hitler and Germany. I don’t intend to break it,” Fritz said calmly.
“Fritz, listen, Hitler is gone and so is the Nazi party,” Heinrich said shaking Fritz by the shoulders, “What do you think people like Goring and Hess will do? Plead guilty? No, they’ll deny it.”
“Well then they are cowards,” Fritz spat angrily.


Heinrich lay down and turned over, not facing Fritz anymore. Instead of lying down, Fritz stared up at the dark sky wondering what would happen now. Would they be killed? Imprisoned? Put on trial? Fritz burned with hatred towards the Americans and their allies. He stood up and grasped the barbed wire with both his hands. What if he tried to run? Would they shoot him or bring him back forcibly? He felt the wire cut into his hands and warm blood trickled down his wrist. Fritz knew what he would have done if their positions were reversed. Honestly, he didn’t believe they would shoot him without a warning, but something about Stern unnerved him, he did not look like a man to show mercy to his enemies. Before he could contemplate the thought further, a bright light shone directly into his face. “What do you think you are doing, colonel?” a voice called out mockingly. A whiff of cigar smoke blew towards him. It was General Stern.
“Standing,” Fritz replied staring straight at him.
“Standing, eh? Well if you feel like standing come with me,” he said, a grin unfolding on his face.
Not having much choice, Fritz followed Stern to a clearing lit up by a bright spotlight.
“You can stand here until morning,” the General said. “And you two,” he turned to a pair of soldiers, “Make sure he doesn’t get away.”
Stern turned on his heel and walked away, the stub of his cigar glowing as he retreated.

As rage filled him, Fritz yelled to Stern’s retreating back, “If you think you’ve won, then you’re wrong!”
The General stopped in his tracks and turned around, walking back to Fritz.
“Anyone loyal to the Third Reich will not surrender to your country, the Reich will live on!” Fritz called.
“If you say one more word about your so called ‘Thousand Year Reich’ I will have you put in the cooler,” Stern said.
“That’s what I thought, you know what’s right for your own skin, don’t you?” Stern said.
“Heil Hitler!” Fritz shouted, clicking his heels and extending his arm before him.
The General’s fist connected with Fritz’s mouth and he fell back to where the soldiers stood. His guards dodged his falling form and Fritz stumbled back against the barbed wire instead.
“Put him in the cooler till Wednesday,” Stern said the guards. “And if any of the rest of you repeat your colonel’s display you can join him!” General Stern yelled to the rest of the prisoners, who had come to look at the commotion.


Still angry, but proud to have stood up for what he believed, Fritz followed his guards to the barracks. There, the guards hauled him down a flight of stairs to a hall of doors. One of the soldiers took a key from his belt and unlocked one of the doors. He shoved Fritz in roughly. The heavy door slammed shut behind him and Fritz found himself in a small room. He could cover the length of the room in two strides and the width in three. He had never been inside a prison cell himself, although he had placed many men inside one. A small, barred window, ten feet up produced the only light as the moon shone through it. Two metal pails stood in the corner, one contained water and the other, Fritz supposed, meant to be used as a lavatory. Fritz stood up and made the corner of his shirt damp in the pail. He held it to his still bleeding mouth as he stared absently at the moon. Suddenly, he stood up and walked to the opposite wall. Fritz jumped, grabbed the bars covering the window, and stabilized himself against the wall. He gave the iron a tug; it bent. Slowly, a smile unfurled across his face and laughter bubbled up inside him. “Fools,” he whispered, “You put me here for a week and you think I won’t escape?” Satisfied, he stretched out on the floor and fell asleep. The next morning, a guard entered and yelled at Fritz to wake up. Fritz slowly stood, stretched, and finally turned to the guard. He carried a plate of food. Fritz took it and examined it. His first breakfast in two days consisted of dark, stale, brown bread and a piece of unidentifiable vegetable. Two more days passed in such a manner and Fritz behaved submissively to his captors, hoping to trick them into thinking he had given up. Instead, Fritz had been loosening the bars for the past days.


That night, Fritz waited until he could not hear the noise of heavy boots in the hall behind his cell door. The moon looked like a silver claw in the sky, a perfect night to run. He jumped and grabbed the bars, pulling them out. Being thin, Fritz slipped easily through the window and soon stood in the cool night air. He crept silently to the barbed wire encompassing the camp. Fritz lay down and slipped underneath the wire. He felt the iron snag in his hair and he pressed his body closer to the ground. Silently, he dragged himself under the fence. Once out, he walked carefully, not wanting to step on a twig. Fritz had not been walking for a minute when he crunched on a piece of glass. He cursed as the spotlight turned on him and he began to run, ignoring the calls to stop. But running in the dark was impossible. Soon, several dozen mean surrounded him, all pointing their guns as him. Fritz put his hands in the air and two men came forward and pinned his arms behind his back. “Scheißen,” Fritz cursed as he let the soldiers lead him back. As he walked back through the gate, Fritz saw a generous silhouette approach and he groaned inwardly. General Stern walked towards him, the light of his cigar illuminating his enraged face.


Stern marched towards Fritz’s guards and said dangerously, “Bring him inside.” Fritz was dragged inside the camp to where an illuminated tent stood. “Thought you’d escape, eh?” the General asked, turning his back to the escapee. Fritz remained silent. “I asked you a question, colonel,” Stern yelled. He whirled around and struck Fritz across the face.

“Consider this mercy, you filthy Nazi.”
His hand struck his face again and again.
“Trying to escape like that, people will think you have something to hide,” The General said.
Fritz fell on the ground, but Stern pulled him up again. “Or maybe you’re just afraid,” he whispered to Fritz. Fritz spat a mixture of blood and spit in Stern’s face. His face turned red as he threw him back down and kicked his face.


“That’s enough General!” a loud voice called from in the dark. Stern turned around and immediately came to attention and saluted the newcomer.
“What is the meaning of this?” the unknown voice inquired.
“General Parker sir, this man has been causing disturbances and displaying disorderly behavior since he came here,” Stern said quickly, “Tonight, he escaped from his cell and tried to run away from the camp.”
“Well General that’s not acceptable behavior from the prisoner, but this isn’t either. I wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t heard him when you beat him,” Parker said sternly, “You’re dismissed General.” He turned around to where Fritz still lay unmoving on the ground. “Take him back to the others,” he turned and walked away.


Fritz groaned as one of the soldiers pulled him up and began walking. As they neared the others, he was only aware of a multitude of voices and of someone helping him back on the ground before the world went black. “…itz! Fritz!” Someone called his name and Fritz pried open his eyes. The early morning sun streamed into his eyes and he saw Heinrich and several other leaning over him. “What happened?” Fritz asked.
“Well it seem like you did God-knows-what and Stern got pissed,” Heinrich said grimly, “Your friend Rudolf here brought you back yesterday,” he said indicating the man next to him.
“We reckon you’re lucky Stern didn’t finish you off last night,” Bauer said.
“Well he would have, but someone around here seems to have more authority,” Fritz said as he sat up and winced. The line for breakfast formed across the clearing and Fritz stood up to join them. Before he could go, Heinrich grabbed his wrist. “You’re such a fool, trying to run away like that. Everyone will remember you now,” he said. With that ominous warning, he turned away and joined the line.


After the men had finished eating, they were ordered to clear the way to the gate. Several army trucks drove up to the gate and they were let in. One man got out and began speaking to Stern. The man had on a uniform and it a French flag stood out on the sleeve.
“Alright, prisoners, this here is General Bazinet. He’s looking for someone in particular and you will all comply with him,” Stern said.
“Anyone with the rank of colonel or higher, line up on the right side of the gate.”
Fritz swallowed nervously, but followed the order anyway.
Bazinet walked over and stopped in front of several men and addressed them in broken English. Finally, he paused in front of Fritz.
“Who are you, Nazi?” he asked angrily.
“You should treat your superiors with respect,” Fritz said, “In case you forgot what happened in the first year of the war.”
“Schiffer, if you don’t keep a civil tone and answer the General’s question I’ll make sure you won’t be able to talk later,” Stern said.
“Where did you serve,” Bazinet asked.
“Poland.”
“Where?”
“Near Lublin.”
General Bazinet said nothing, but turned away and walked back over to his men. They climbed into their trucks and left the camp.


“I wonder what that was all about,” Bauer said as they walked back.
“I don’t know, all I know is that the French are a bunch of good for nothing Jew lovers,” Fritz replied.
“Now Fritz, you have to admit they had some good looking girls in Paris,” Bauer said cockily.
Fritz looked disgusted. “And this is why the German population became so defiled with those of inferior qualities.”


During the days that passed, Fritz began to think about what would happen when the post war mess was cleaned up. They couldn’t stay in this fenced up camp forever, the Americans would have to return home at some point. Would they be released? Or would they be tried in an Allied court? Or maybe in a German court? Fritz didn’t know and he pondered these questions endlessly. He also thought about what Heinrich had said about his work in Poland. Since the scene caused by his failed escape attempt, Fritz had tried to keep his mouth shut and his head down. Fritz found this task to be very difficult. Unlike many of his fellow soldiers, he found it hard to bite back the stinging comments he wished he could throw to his captors. Sometimes he thought about his family, who were still living in Berlin. He figured that they would be safe, his wife had her family to go to and his only son would have just turned twelve. Footsteps sounded behind him and Fritz turned around to see a group of men, including Bauer and Heinrich behind him.

“There’s a rumor floating around that the General’s a Jew,” one of the men told Fritz.

“You mean Stern?” Fritz demanded angrily.

“Yes.”

“Fritz, please don’t do anything stupid,” Heinrich begged, “It won’t help anyone.”

“You want me to take orders from a person like him, the people we’ve been trying to eradicate for six years?” Fritz asked. “If you think I’ll do that you’re wrong.” Fritz stood up and walked away.


Over the next few days, Fritz became increasingly nervous. Stern spent his time holed up inside his office and officials and Allied generals visited him often. Fritz wondered what they were doing. Many of the men thought that they were investigating the war crimes of the captured Nazis. “Heinrich, what do you think will happen if they find out about Poland?” Fritz asked Heinrich one morning, finally giving into his worries.

“I don’t know, but as fair as the American court is, I don’t believe they’ll be thrilled to hear what happened,” Heinrich responded grimly.

“Do you think they’ll go after our families?” Fritz asked.

“No,” Heinrich said, “Your family did not harm anyone.”
Fritz stared up at the starry sky, thinking endlessly about these questions. He knew that his wartime actions would not sit well with the Allies.

“Fritz?” Heinrich asked uncertainly, “Are you afraid?”

“I fear for my family.”

“Being a member of the Nazi party will not be considered a crime. Your wife will be fine,” Heinrich said gently.



“Boys!” an uncouth voice ran out across the camp breaking the early morning silence, “We’re screwed!”
The voice belonged to Oskar Koch. Standing at a height of six feet, Koch looked like a formidable man. Koch was known for having a foul mouth and appearance. He walked around barefooted and wore only an undershirt below his coat. At this moment, he waved around a newspaper that he had undoubtedly stolen from Stern’s office.

“What’s wrong?” Fritz asked worriedly.

“The God damned Americans are holding trials,” Koch said, “And they’re working with the French and those Communist pigs.”

“And on top of that, they’re being held in Nuremberg,” Koch said loudly.

“In Nuremberg? How dare they?” Fritz asked.
“Well I suppose that’s why Stern’s been holed up for the past week,” Heinrich said joining their conversation.

“Who do you think will be put on trial?” Fritz asked hesitatingly, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“Well,” Koch said, “People like Goring, Speer, and Hess will definitely be tried.”
Fritz cursed and hoped he would not be put up there as well. As if though Koch could read his mind, he said, “Relax, Goring and Speer worked closely with Hitler and Hess commanded a concentration camp. You did none of those things.”

“No, but my family were friendly with Goring and others,” Fritz replied.
“Don’t worry, they don’t even know that you were part of the SS,” Koch said confidently. Koch should have felt lucky he did not belong to the SS, his first wife’s father was Jewish, thus denying him entrance into the SS. Instead, Koch had spent a year in P?aszow, supervising the workers and then served with Fritz’s regiment.



After his conversation with Koch, Fritz headed back to where Heinrich and Bauer were standing. Somehow, Bauer had managed to get cigarettes and both men were smoking inconspicuously near the barbed wire.

“So Fritz,” Bauer said nonchalantly, “Heinrich here is making a big deal out of what you did in Poland. What did you do?”
Fritz shot a glare at Heinrich, but answered anyway, “I was in charge of the Pu?awy ghetto,” he muttered.
Bauer cursed under his breath, “You’re screwed if they find out.”

“Don’t worry, Koch sounded pretty confident about it,” Heinrich said.
Suddenly, Fritz though of something.

“Goeth,” he groaned.

“What about him?” Bauer asked.

“Scheißen,” Heinrich whispered, “Go ask Koch what he thinks, he worked for the man after all.”
Fritz ran back over to where Koch sat talking with some of his friends.

“Koch, I need to talk to you,” Fritz said urgently, “Now.”
Giving him a strange look, Koch stood up and follower Fritz to a secluded corner.

“What is it?” he asked.

“What do you think will happen to Goeth?” Fritz asked.

“Damn, he’ll be put on trial, even the Nazis arrested him,” Koch replied.

“Look Fritz, Goeth is responsible for running a camp and killing hundreds of thousands of people; he behaved like a pig for the good part of three years. You didn’t do half of what he did,” Koch told Fritz.

“Maybe not, but I was in charge of a ghetto and worked in his,” Fritz said grimly.


Despite Oskar Koch’s reassurances, Fritz continued to worry. One morning, Fritz woke up to see Koch standing above him, a worried expression etched across his face. Fritz had never seen that before; Koch was rarely concerned about anything, which made him a useful man to collect information.

“Stern knows,” he said before sitting down next to Fritz. Fritz drew in his breath sharply.

“Do you think he’ll punish the whole regiment?” he asked Koch.

“I doubt people like Heinrich will be, he’s only a lieutenant,” Koch replied.

“What about you?” Fritz asked.

“I don’t know,” Koch admitted.

“How do you know all this?” Fritz demanded.

“Last night, that bastard started yelling about Poland, ghettos, and you,” Koch said.

“I think it went something like ‘Damn that Schiffer, I’ll kill him’,” he said, attempting to joke weakly.
Soon, the others began to awaken and both Koch and Fritz remained silent. However, before breakfast could start, Stern came out of his office. His face had conflicting emotions on it; both anger and happiness were on his face.

“Schiffer!” he called, “Come with me.”
Having no choice, Fritz followed Stern to his office. Inside stood a large desk covered with papers, many of which had his name and picture on them. Behind the desk stood an American flag. Standing in the corner stood another man who Fritz assumed to be the mysterious General Parker.

“Sit,” Stern ordered.
Fritz did and sat down in the chair in front of the desk. General Parker came and sat behind it.

“Colonel Schiffer,” he said, “Is it true that you served near Lublin, Poland?”

“Yes sir, it is,” Fritz replied honestly.

“Do you know a man by the name of Amon Goeth?”

“Yes, he was my commander at one point.”

“Let me say that differently,” Parker said leaning over the desk, “Did you personally know Goeth?”
Fritz hesitated. The truth was that he did know Goeth, he had even attended some of his parties, but Fritz thought that it would not be in his favor to mention that.

“No sir, I do not personally know Amon Goeth,” he replied.
Picking up one of the many pieces of paper, Parker stood up and said, “Then how do you explain this letter?” He began to read: “By recommendation of Adolf Jung and Amon Goeth, lieutenant colonel Fritz Wolf Schiffer of the SS is promoted to the rank of colonel.”
“So I will ask you again, did you know Goeth?” Parker repeated.
“Yes,” Fritz said.
“Do you admit to taking part in the liquidation of the Kraków ghetto?” Parker asked.
“Yes, I was assigned to the position,” Fritz said.
“That is, however, not the issue,” Parker said.
“Do you agree that you were in charge of and liquidated, by order of SS member Heinrich Himmler, the Pu?awy ghetto?” Parker questioned.
“Yes, I do not deny these charges,” Fritz said.

“Then you will be taken to an Allied prison where you will await your sentence,” Parker said calmly.
Fritz allowed himself to be led back outside by several guards and followed by General Stern.

“Let this man serve as a reminder to all of you that you will not ever be able to escape your crimes,” Stern said to the group of prisoners.

“Now move, Schiffer,” he said angrily.
However, Fritz did not move, but turned to the group containing several men of his regiment, including Koch and Heinrich.

“Heil Hitler!” he shouted.
No one replied, but they all stared uncertainly at him. Only one voice broke the silence.

“Sieg Heil!”
The voice belonged to Koch. The two men locked eyes with one another and Fritz wondered if Koch would be the only one who remained loyal to Hitler. Stern grabbed the collar of Fritz’s coat and dragged him to the gate.



As the gate opened, Fritz felt freedom for the first time in several weeks. His freedom did not last. Fritz walked to the armored truck that stood outside the gates. He wondered where he would be taken. Honestly, Fritz did not believe he would be tried at Nuremberg. Most likely, he would be sentenced for several years in another prison. He turned back to the camp and saw the same flag he had seen when he had been taken prisoner brought there. The flag that represented freedom to millions symbolized the enemy for others. The barbed wire fence grew smaller and smaller as the truck drove on. The road felt bumpy and the rain had turned it into a muddy mess and the vehicle crawled on. Fritz heaved a sigh and sat back against the iron wall of the truck. He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, the truck had lurched so violently that Fritz fell of his seat. The vehicle had skidded off of the road and ended up in a ditch. A rough voice called, “Everybody out!” Fritz stood up and jumped down from the truck. Immediately, men carrying flashlights and guns surrounded him. No doubt, they were here to prevent him from escaping. Several hours later, the truck resumed its journey.


The entire trip took a week and Fritz became fed up with the American soldiers in the car. Fritz pondered as to which city they were entering. He saw rubble scattered all over the road and it only became worse as they drew nearer. Broken buildings, no doubt bombed by the enemy, lay next to the road. Everywhere people were milling around, trying to find food and shelter. For a moment, Fritz wondered if they had left Germany and traveled to Hell.

“Where are we?” Fritz asked one of his captors cautiously.
The soldier he had asked turned and looked hesitatingly at Stern, as if though asking for permission. Stern nodded, “Tell him.”

“We’re in Nuremberg,” the soldier said.
Fritz’s heart skipped a beat. Surely he wouldn’t be put on trial here? He had not recognized the city. Less than ten years earlier, he had stood in this city listening to Hitler give a speech and celebrating along with other members of the Nazi party. They had been celebrating the Nuremberg Laws. Fritz swallowed; his wife had been with him during those days, rejoicing along side him. What if Berlin looked like this too? Fritz could only stare as they continued through the once beautiful city of Nuremberg.



The truck finally reached its destination. They stopped in front of a well-constructed building made of concrete. Fritz harbored no doubts that it would become his prison. He jumped out of the truck and followed his captors into the building. Once inside, the guards threw him into a small cell. Now he could only wait. However, his did not have long to wait. The following morning, his trial commenced. It took place inside a small courtroom and Fritz felt relieved. If his crime had been serious enough for the death penalty, he would not be here. The judge, a tall man, who looked sternly down at Fritz.

“You are Fritz Wolf Schiffer, born in Dresden, and aged thirty?” the judge asked Fritz.

“Yes, that is correct,” Fritz, replied.

“The charges against you are as follows: That by order of SS leader Heinrich Himmler, you willingly liquidated the Pu?awy ghetto of Poland. That by doing so, you knowingly sent more than three thousand people to certain death,” the judge declared.
Fritz listened silently hoping against all hope that he would not be condemned.

“How do you plead?” the judge questioned.

“Guilty,” Fritz replied calmly.
The judge looked almost surprised.

“Do you have anything to say on your behalf?” he questioned.

“Yes,” Fritz said determinedly, “I vow to you, Adolf Hitler, as Führer and chancellor of the German Reich loyalty and bravery. I vow to you and to the leaders that you set for me, absolute allegiance until death. So help me God!”
Fritz repeated the promise he had made years ago, pledging eternal loyalty to Hitler’s Third Reich. The judge looked on in shock as he heard those words pour from Fritz’s mouth.

“Since the defendant failed to procure any evidence in his favor, his sentence will be read,” the judge said.

By order of the Court, Fritz Wolf Schiffer is to be sentence to ten years in prison for war crimes,” he brought down his gavel with a thud, “The Court is dismissed.”
Ten Years Later

For the first time in ten years, Fritz Schiffer was a free man. For ten years he had been locked up in a prison near Berlin. There he had heard about the outcomes of the Nuremberg trials. Fritz had received them with disgust. All of those tried, except for Speer, had pled not guilty. Some loyalty that they showed to their Führer. Throughout his sentence, Fritz had been unable to send any letters to his family and he had received none either. He did learn about the fate of his friends though. Heinrich received his freedom after five months in the prison camp and returned home to his family. The only person Fritz saw during those ten long years would be Heinrich. Heinrich broke the oath he made when he joined the army and tried to fit in with the new policies of Germany. Shortly after Fritz had been taken away, Oskar Koch and ten other loyal soldiers rebelled against the American soldiers and killed twenty of them. He received a sentence of seven years in prison. But the most painful part of those ten years was being unable to reach his family who, as Fritz thought, where so close.


Now, Fritz traveled back to his home in Berlin, hoping to be reunited with his family. He still remembered the house where they had last lived. As he climbed the stairs to the door, he wondered what would happen if they were not there. Fritz knocked on the wooden door and found himself face to face with woman who stood taller than him. She wore glasses and brown hair lay in a pile on her head. She did not look pleased to see Fritz.

“Hello, I came to ask if you know the family who lived here last?” Fritz asked, “I’m looking for my wife and son.”
The woman answered in angry French: “Un putain de nazi, c'est qui a vécu ici! Vous n'êtes pas plus le bienvenu ici!”
“Ma’am I’m sorry, but I don’t understand you,” Fritz said.
“A goddamned Nazi, I said!” the woman yelled at Fritz, “We don’t want you here!”
Hurriedly excusing himself, Fritz turned around and walked back down to the street. He decided to try his neighbor’s house. The man who answered spoke in a polite voice and told Fritz that the last people who had lived there were Ilsa Schiffer and her son Rolf.

“Do you know where they went?” Fritz asked eagerly.

“Sorry, I don’t, but you could check the city records,” the man said, and then asked, “Are you family?”

“I’m her husband,” Fritz replied.
A sour expression crossed the man’s face and he closed the door, muttering about Nazis. Fritz felt anger rush through him; this did not look like the Berlin he remembered. He walked through the crowded streets towards the city hall, trying to find any similarities with the city he knew fifteen years ago. The Reichstag building still stood there, but there were no longer any swastikas draped across the doorways. Instead, a black, red, and yellow flag waved from the top. Fritz reached the city center and asked the clerk to look up the names Ilsa and Rolf Schiffer.

“Sir, it seems that these two people died ten years ago,” the clerk said apologetically.
Fritz could only stare back at the man, how could his family be dead?
“Sir, I’m sorry, they died during the bombing of Berlin,” the man said.

“Could you tell me where they are buried?” Fritz choked out.
The man wrote down the cemetery name and Fritz took a cab there. It did not take long for him to find the two graves. They were next to each other, two small slabs of white marble. He traced his finger across the words.

Ilsa Schiffer
January 5th, 1913-April 2nd, 1945

Rolf Schiffer
June 8th, 1933-April 2nd, 1945

Fritz felt the tears run down his face as he stared at the name of his wife and only child. From his pocket he produced a flag that Koch gave him. It was the true flag of Germany and Fritz draped it between the two tombstones. The red cloth stood out against the bright white marble. Fritz slowly turned and walked away.



For the next few weeks, Fritz explored the new Berlin. The city, like the rest of Germany, did not resemble anything it had been before. Everything had changed during the ten years Fritz had spent in prison. Why had no one continued Hitler’s noble work? Fritz became appalled by what he saw in Berlin and he felt hopeless. Fritz felt betrayed by his friends and his whole family had been murdered. He had nothing left to live for.


A lonesome figure walked up to the former Reichstag building and fell to his knees. The figure muttered under his breath, “…I vow to you…absolute allegiance until death.” With shaking hands, Fritz held the gun to his head. “Heil Hitler,” he murmured before pulling the trigger that ended his life.