The Cry of the Falcon: Hitler's Boy Soldiers

By Robert Strasser

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At the age of six, Robbie Seidler, experiences the horrors of war when the Nazis invade Holland. At the age of nine, after his family is ordered into Germany, he is sent to a Hitler Youth camp in Austria to be trained as a boy soldier. After the end of the war, he and two companions, finally, escape the Nazi hell only to be swallowed up in the flood of refugees struggling to find their loved ones and return home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 23, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469762852

Robert Strasser

Born in Mulhouse, France, with Dutch and Austrian parents, Robert Strasser immigrated to the USA after completing his education in Europe. After a successful stint as a business owner, retired at 48 and took up writing. He and his wife live California.

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Copyright © 2000 by Robert Strasser

This book may not be reproduced or distributed, in whole or in part, in print or by any other means without the written permission of the author.

ISBN: 0-595-09242-X

ISBN: 978-1-4697-6285-2 (ebook)

Published by Writers Club Press, an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

EPIGRAPH

PROLOGUE

BLACK SMOKE

DOOR BELLS

BLOOD IS RED

THE SOUVENIR

YELLOW STARS

THE HELMET

THE VACATION

‘TOT ZIENS’

THE KISS

A ROTTEN APPLE

THE THREE MUSKETEERS

HEINRICH THE HUN

THE BOY SOLDIERS

PEACE

A RICKETY RAFT

A MOMENT OF DARKNESS

LIVING LIKE ROYALTY

A SLAP IN THE FACE

THE TUNNEL

OF MICE AND WOMEN

BOILED MUTTON

A WOMAN IN MEN’S CLOTHING

SMALL PANCAKES

MODERN TIMES

A SPOON FULL OF SOAP

THE BRIDGE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks go to my wife, Eunice, for her loving support and patience in enduring this emotional roller coaster, and to Janice Stevens, a charming and talented lady, who graciously gave her time editing my words.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Though a work of fiction, the book is largely based on my personal experiences.

Most of my research was done in southern Germany and Austria. In translating the German text into English, I have endeavored to interpret its meaning rather than the words.

Any inaccuracies that might have occurred in doing so, are my sole responsibility.

EPIGRAPH

"My program for educating youth is hard. I want a brutal, domineering, cruel, fearless youth. It must bear pain. The free, splendid beast of prey must once again flash from its eyes.

That is how I will create the New Order…"

Adolf Hitler S/b 1933 speech.

PROLOGUE

Like driftwood lost on an ocean vast our demons roam wild and far until, wholly unexpected, they come to burden us and without remorse demand their due.

As of late my demons had been of awesome burden. Carelessly toying with my memories they sought to diminish the faces and images of the past, the stepping stones that make up the pavement of the road travelled, a road which by now spanned four continents and whose laying had been an arduous, though satisfyingly challenging task.

With great consternation I discovered my demons had succeeded.

So, like Siegfried and his demon, the dragon, I too felt compelled to take up the sword and do battle.

I glanced out of the window at the steel towers of oil rigs rising above the wind swept waters of the North Sea. A child-like excitement made my heart beat faster at the prospect of seeing again people and places so precious to me. Trying to relive those twelve impressionable years was a feat I, surely, had no intention to attempt. My fervent hope was to restore to luster those faded memories and lift the tarnish that fifty long years had applied.

I cautioned myself about the many changes I would encounter but managed to rationalize my concerns by arguing that, compared to California where anything older than twenty five years was torn down and replaced without much sentimental consideration, in Europe the transition to keep up with Progress would hopefully not be visible in such a distressing manner.

The stewardess’ hand on my shoulder lifted me out of my reverie. Please fasten your seat belt, Sir. We’ll be landing in a few minutes.

Heading inland the plane followed the dark outline of the Noord See Kanaal, bordered on both sides by a lush green countryside, dotted with farms their red tile roofs reflecting the midmorning sun. After a few mandatory approach maneuvers, the huge jet set down smoothly.

Once cleared through Schiphol customs, I went to purchase a train ticket to my destination, Leeuwarden.

Ik zou graag een billetje naar Leeuwarden kopen, I told the smiling face behind the glass, immensely satisfied my knowledge of the Dutch language was still intact.

She worked her keyboard, took my money and slid the ticket in my direction and, with yet another big smile, said in perfect English, Welcome to Holland, have a pleasant trip.

Two and a half hours later, I arrived in Leeuwarden. When I stepped onto the platform, a thousand memories assailed me and I had to take a minute to sort things and clear my mind. The station was much smaller than pictured in my memory. I chuckled, no wonder, I’d seen everything through the eyes of a young boy.

I’d written Corrie and her husband, John, longtime friends of mine who’d invited me to stay with them, I’d be arriving in Leeuwarden a day later, a small fib to allow myself some time alone to wander the cobblestone streets, to adjust to whatever I needed adjusting to and to gain my bearings.

Go ahead and take my luggage, I’ll walk to the hotel, I told the driver who’d come to fetch me and set out making my way past De Beurs, along Het Zaailand to the Boterhoek trying to find the house where we’d lived with Grandpa and Grandma so many years ago.

For several minutes, I stood gazing at the old, three story stone house letting its conspicuous presence embrace me. Except for a few repairs and the small garden having been paved over, it hadn’t changed much. My gaze lifted to the facia half expecting to see the gold lettering advertising Grandpa’s printing business, Drukkery Johan Wielsma. Suppressing a twinge of disappointment, I set out to find our house.

There was no need to read the street signs. Guided by pure memory I, unerringly, found my way. Fifteen minutes later, steadying myself on the low brick fence, my vision blurred by tears, I took in the blaze of floral color from the small front yard and the facade of the house that held so many memories.

I can’t remember how long I’d been standing there—my mind spinning in a whirlpool of flashing images—when I heard a small voice next to me, Is alles goed met U, mynheer?

A small boy, his blue eyes questioning, gazed up at me with concern. I nodded, pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and blew my nose. I patted the boy’s head and started out in the direction of the Prinsentuin. I needed a quiet, shady place to slow and sort my thoughts.

Before entering the park, I took a moment to feast my eyes on the imposing stone structure of De Oldehove, the city’s landmark. Except for leaning a bit more and looking a smidgen more weathered, I noticed with relief, the huge tower hadn’t changed a bit.

I located a vacant bench under an ancient oak tree across from a small pond on whose glassy surface two swans glided majestically.

With a heavy sigh I let myself down and surrendered to the silver screen of my mind.

Chapter One

BLACK SMOKE

It was still early when I pulled open the front door and stepped into the embrace of a bright, crisp late spring morning. Our small, fenced front yard was ablaze with the color of tulips, violets, marigolds, calendulas, geraniums and other flowers I couldn’t identify, all meticulously cared for by my mother. I took a deep breath savoring their heady fragrance. Morning was my favorite part of the day.

Blinking my eyes to let them adjust to the glare of the sun, an unusual sound caught my attention: a rapid, sharp, staccato tapping as if made with a coin against a pane of glass. I turned and gazed up at the small rectangular windows framing our entry door. Puzzled as to where the sound might come from, I turned back. My eyes searching the distant sky, I spotted three airplanes and heard the whine of their engines as they chased and dodged each other.

Not knowing what to make of it, I watched with mounting fascination until, without warning, one of the planes trailing a long plume of dense black smoke, fell from the sky and disappeared beyond the horizon.

Motionless I stood watching the spectacle until the remaining planes had vanished from sight. A sense of unease gripped me as I tried to comprehend what just happened. No matter how much I struggled, I was at a loss to come up with a plausible explanation. To me, what I’d just seen, was akin to a scary cartoon projected onto a huge, curved screen.

The fact that I’d just witnessed the horror of war for the first time and, that one or more human beings had lost their lives, did not enter my mind.

After all, I was only six years old.

I heard Mother’s voice calling to me from inside. Inhaling deeply and expelling the air in one big breath helped dispel the uncomfortable heaviness that weighted my chest.

How many times have I told you not to go outside barefoot? she scolded me when I entered our small, narrow kitchen. Ma was seated on a straight-backed chair holding my little brother on her knee as she fed him. Her stern look sent me upstairs to my room where I pulled on a pair of wool socks and stepped into my newly acquired Klompen.

After breakfast, I headed for the soccer field where on Saturday mornings my favorite team, the Leeuwarder Klompen, practiced for the Sunday game. When I got there, instead of players in white and red jerseys, hundreds of soldiers dressed in greenish-brown uniforms occupied the field milling around in groups or sitting on the ground leaning against their packs smoking cigarettes, their rifles forming neat pyramids of four. The men seemed in high spirits, talking and laughing, telling jokes.

Where is Abe Lenstra and the others? I asked the closest soldier, a young man no more than eighteen years of age.

You’d better get back home, boy, he answered letting out a boisterous laugh. Haven’t you heard? there’s a war on. We’re going against the Germans.

I managed a faint smile, turned and, feeling dejected at not getting to see my hero play, reluctantly made my way home. By the time I turned the door knob and let myself in, apprehension about what all this meant had overshadowed my disappointment.

I found Mother in the front room gazing into the mirror above the mantel trying to restrain her unruly, thick auburn hair. Like most Dutch she was very tall and slender. She wore a flowered cotton dress, belted at the waist.

She glanced at me from the mirror. Back already? You haven’t been gone more than thirty minutes. Must have been a short practice session. When I didn’t answer her eyes examined my face closely. "What happened to you, Robbie? You look like you lost your favorite Klompen. She glanced down at my feet. When I, still, didn’t react she continued, I’ll bet that bully, that Cornelius from next door chased you again. I’m going to have your pa have a word with that boy’s father. That kid’s behavior is getting to be intolerable."

Patiently I waited till she was through talking. Mother had an annoying habit of sometimes answering her own questions.

Ma, what is war? I asked after she’d stopped talking.

She laid down the comb she’d been holding and stared at me from the mirror, her mouth partially open, her face a reflection of puzzlement. She turned to face me. What brought that on? Who’ve you been talking to. My guess is those people living behind us tried to frighten you. I can never remember their names. I think they have it in for us. They don’t like the fact that your father is Austrian. In their opinion Austrians and Germans are all the same.

No, Ma. I shook my head in mild desperation. That’s not it at all. When I got to the soccer field there were a lot of soldiers. One of them told me there was a war. He said we’re going to fight the Germans. Is that true?

Mother took a moment to collect her thoughts before she spoke. I heard on the radio that the Germans have been behaving aggressively. But Holland is neutral. I think they’re only bluffing, that’s the way the Germans are. Don’t worry, I don’t think anything will come of it. There won’t be a war.

But, why all the soldiers? And they all had their rifles with them, I insisted.

It’s just a way for us Dutch to flex a little muscle and to show the Germans that we know they’re bluffing.

But, this morning, I saw three planes. One of them started burning. There was a lot of black smoke. And then it fell from the sky.

Mother looked at me in shocked silence. Finally, she said, Maybe you were mistaken. That plane probably had engine trouble and landed somewhere. I wouldn’t give it much thought. Why don’t you go outside and play.

Her answer did not satisfy me, but I knew it was of no use to pursue the subject. So I retrieved my top and whip and went outside.

Three days later, the announcement came over the radio. Queen Juliana and the royal family had fled to England. Blatantly ignoring its declared neutrality, the Germans invaded and, five days later, had occupied all of Holland.

From day to day our town took on a more and more sinister appearance. Barbed wire barricades, patrols and military checkpoints restricted the movements of the population and red, white and black swastika flags flew from all the occupied buildings, a stern reminder, we were under the yoke of a foreign people. Columns of soldiers, their heavy boots pounding the cobble stone streets, marched through town singing fight songs in a language I did not understand. The children who usually played on the sidewalks were kept inside staring with wide, uncomprehending eyes from behind drawn curtains at the uniformed strangers passing by.

One evening our door bell rang. Pa went to open it. On our doorstep stood three men. One wore the brown uniform of the SA, on his belt a leather holster holding a large pistol. The other two were dressed in dark suits, their hats pulled down over their eyes.Heil Hitler, they proclaimed loudly, raising their outstretched right arms in unison.

Good evening, Father responded, his eyes anxiously shifting from face to face. What can I do for you?

The smaller of the two suited men answered. I’m Herr Freiburger with the German Geheimdienst. This is my colleague, Herr Wender, and, he pointed to the man in uniform, this is SA Lieutenant Berger. He raised his head, a faint, arrogant smile creasing his face. Your name is Richard Seidler, is it not?

Yes…, that’s correct, Father answered feeling apprehension envelope him. Why were these men here? How had they found out his name?

We would like a moment of your time. May we come in? Again that arrogant smile, as if taunting Father to dare deny his request. Pa backed into the hall way. Certainly, he said directing the men into the front sitting room.

From the kitchen, Mother and I had anxiously been listening.

Watch your brother, she instructed me as she resolutely made her way to the front room.

When she entered, the men rose bowing curtly, sharply clicking their heels. Freiburger made the introductions and everyone except Lieutenant Berger who remained standing near the door took seats.

As our records indicate Herr Seidler, Freiburger began, you are a citizen of Austria.

Pa nodded.

"As such, I’m sure you know, that since the Anschluss you are now considered a German citizen. He paused a moment for effect. Quite a step up wouldn’t you say?" He flashed his arrogant smile, his unblinking eyes boring into Father’s face trying to read his every thought.

Since you are married to a Dutch citizen, I assume you speak their language.

He waited for Pa’s nod. When it came he continued. Now I come to the reason for our visit this evening. We want you to come to work for us.

For a moment, Pa seemed puzzled. When he spoke, it was with for him uncharacteristic bravado. "I don’t think I’d be interested in working for the German Geheimdienst."

Pa was a kind and gentle man who seldom raised his voice. Wherever possible, he avoided confrontation in favor of rational mediation. He was, however, a man of strong principals which he, when deemed necessary, would steadfastly defend. This, evidently, was one of those times.

Herr Freiburger stiffened perceptively at Pa’s reply but then allowed himself a short, guttural laugh. His voice was acerbic and condescending when he spoke again. Don’t worry Herr Seidler, I don’t think you would qualify. He laughed again and looked at his companions who joined in. He turned back to Pa, You’ll be working in administration as a liaison clerk with the local population.

What about my present job? Pa objected.

That’s not our concern Herr Seidler. You’ll receive your orders where and when to report for work by mail. That is all. Thank you for your time. He rose, raised his arm Heil Hitler and headed for the door closely followed by Herr Wender and SA Lieutenant Berger.

The front door had barely closed behind the men when Mother burst out, Those arrogant bastards coming in here and ordering us around. Who do they think they are? Her hands had balled into fists and tears spilled from her brown eyes.

Pa sat motionless for a while staring at his clenched hands. Finally, he spoke. "You know very well there’s nothing we can do.

If I resist, they’ll throw me in jail or make me do forced labor. And that wouldn’t help any of us. We might as well make the best of it. Who knows, he sarcastically expelled a puff of air, working for the Germans might even have its advantages."

What kind of an advantage could you possibly be talking about? mother asked angrily, I certainly can’t think of any.

No doubt, there’ll be certain advantages connected with working for the Nazis. But, for one, we wouldn’t have to endure another visit like the one this evening, Pa answered. Let’s try to stay calm and just wait and see.

And what about our friends? Ma drove on, her voice shrill, close to the point of breaking. Wait’ll they find out you’re working for the Nazis. They’ll hate us and shun us like the plague.

Pa’s only answer was a heavy sigh.

For a long time, after I’d gone to bed, I laid with my eyes open, listening to my parents’ muffled voices coming from the room next to mine. I sensed our way of life was changing, things would be different from now on. I didn’t like what was happening. I was frightened.

And then I remembered we’d planned to visit Grandpa and Grandma Wielsma on Sunday to go kite flying. Grandpa and I made our own kites, some over a meter tall. My grandparents lived in the Boterhoek in the center of Leeuwarden where Grandpa Johan operated a small printing business. When he was in the right mood he’d always let me lay-out and print something.

Those prospects helped calm me and, soon, I fell asleep.

Chapter Two

DOOR BELLS

The familiar sound of a street organ drew me outside. I hadn’t heard it for some time. A small crowd, mostly children, had gathered when I joined them. Some of the kids seemed more interested in the horse than the music feeding it small sugar cubes on outstretched palms, giggling at the velvet touch of the horse’s mouth.

I searched my pockets for a dubbeltje of what was left of my weekly allowance, dropped it in the collection cup and stood listening to the music and the roll of the mechanical drum that fascinated me the most. Stepping closer, I overheard one of the grown-ups talk to the operator turning the big wheel.

Haven’t seen you in the neighborhood for quiet some time, Jan. What have you been up to, where’ve you been?

Times are getting tougher, Jan sighed. I can’t stop by as often anymore. I have to cover a larger area to make it pay. People just don’t have the money. With the cost of feed and everything, if things don’t pick up, I’ll be forced to sell the horse, store the organ and find me some other work to put food on the table for the family.

I sure hope it doesn’t come to that, the man replied pensively, his face taking on a gravely sad expression.

Well, I can tell you this, Jan said his voice rising with mounting anger. "If it should happen and, the way things are shaping up, there’s a good chance it might, I’ll join the underground and fight the Moffen. And, I’m not just blowing smoke."

I, clearly, recall Jan’s words and how they’d worried me. The concept of the word underground was unclear to me then, but his mention of Fighting the Moffen suddenly imparted a sense of danger and adventure to it. However, that was not really what worried me. After all, standing up against the Germans was on everyone’s mind.

What caused my anxiety was the possibility of Jan having to give up what he was doing. For as long as I could remember, the horse drawn organ had been a fixture of Leeuwarden, an integral part of every kid’s life. To not have it around to enjoy was inconceivable, tantamount to losing Us Mem, the statue of the black and white cow, the symbol of Friesland. I remember whenever we’d pass through the square across from the railroad station, Ma would point to the iron bovine standing tall on her granite base and proudly proclaim, "There she is, Us Mem; she’s what Friesland is all about."

I tried to listen to the music, carefree, happy music, which always before had managed to lift my spirits.

Somehow, it didn’t today.

Close to six o’clock that evening Pa came home from work. In addition to his brief case, he carried under his arm a package wrapped in brown paper which he, with great ceremony, deposited on the kitchen table.

What’s this? Ma inquired, having watched him with contained interest.

Open it and see.

She wiped her hands on her apron and, with a puzzled look in his direction, tore away the paper revealing a whole Edamer cheese.

"How did you get this? I hope