Maria, Pull the Trigger and Kill (a World War II adventure)

The Good Samarian

When we approached the village, the mother told Mathilde: "Du darfst zu keinem sagan, dass die Frau ein Indianer ist. Hast Du verstanden?"

"Aber warum nich?"

"Weil wir sonst alle eingesperrt werden."

„Was soll ich dann sagen? Die Kinder werden fragen wer das ist", Mathilde inquired.

It took the mother a couple of minutes, then she came back with an answer: "Es ist eine entfernte Verwandte von Papa. Sie kommt aus Spanien, wo seine Grossmutter herkam. Maria kam mit dem Zug in Bad Homburg aus Spanien an und wir haben sie abgeholt."

"Und wie heißt sie?"

"Maria ist schon in Ordnung", was the mother's final answer.

During the short drive through the village towards the house, all the adults looked at us and the children followed the horse cart and asked a hundred questions. I feared for the worst. Did these children already figure out, who I was, or were they just nosy? Well, even if they were just nosy, one wrong word and they could put two and two together. Mathilde might likely say something wrong. Children were just terrible liars. Why did people stare at me like I was a rare specimen of humankind? Have they never seen a Mexican woman before? Well likely not. How should a Mexican ever make it into rural Germany after all? There was one man in particular, who did not avert his eyes from me. He looked at me from the point he'd spotted me, up until we drove around a corner. If gazes could pierce through matter, he would have cut me in half. He was a well-dressed man in his fifties, not like all the other people who were wearing ragged work cloths. Nothing I could do for now. The outcome was entirely dependent on my bad luck. Shooting hat man would for sure not improve my current situation.

Much to my relieve, we reached the house quickly. I deemed their house to be a typical German farmhouse, except, that it was built into the slopes of a hill. Mathilde, grabbed my hand in order to drag me in. When I wanted to grab the MP40 the mother made a dismissive gesture. What was that? OK she wrapped it up in the boys jacket she was wearing, so that nobody would see it. Smart. The children were still surrounding us and an MP40 would for sure have raised another hundred questions.

In the house, the mother led me into a room with a bed and a wardrobe and a table plus chair. Simple furniture and no decoration. This was a farm, but it was way simpler than our farm in Mexico. My room in our farm had much nicer furniture, decorations and the plaster was in proper condition. Not like the one in this room, which had come off in large pieces already. It was just an observation. I did not wanted to complain. This room was much better than a shed. On the wall was a picture of a young man, round about twenty years I guessed, clothed in German dress uniform. Seeing me looking at the picture, Mathilde said: "Das ist mein Onkel, der ist gefallen. In Russland." Remembering, that I understood nothing she said: "Peng", and laid down flat on the ground. Well, that certainly explained everything.

I was gestured to remove the cloths and lay in the bed, which I did. I had longed for a proper bed for too long now as to even hesitate. A bit later, the mother brought some reddish oily substance and smeared it on my leg. I slept there like a baby until she came in with food in the evening. Surprisingly, it was not Sauerkraut. My bomber colleagues had told me, that the Germans lived of Sauerkraut day in and day out, they knew no other food and that the reeked terribly from it. Well that proved it wrong. It was some type of noddle dish with sauce and it was quite tasty. Again I slept until next morning and when I woke up. I was well-rested for a change.

Over the next couple of days, my leg got better and better. Turned out, the woman's name was Johanna and by means of the dictionary and our hands, we had established rudimentary communication. She had shown me an article in a local German newspaper, which she crudely translated to me. The article was about an Indian fighter pilot who had eradicated several batteries of Flak all by himself. His aircraft had gotten bewitched by a sorceress with a golden lasso and thus had inhuman firing power and speed. By means of most heroic acts of a Feldwebel (sergeant) and his Kanoniere (artillerists) of the Flak he got shot down a bit further south towards Frankfurt. That fighter pilot apparently was extremely dangerous. On the run from pursuing Wehrmacht soldiers, he had killed 9 Nabulas' school boys, a Teacher and 2 soldiers. Said Indian was extremely dangerous and invulnerable. The plane was totaled in the crash but the Indian did not die, several bullets did not kill him and getting run over by a Kübelwagen did not injure him either. With his looks alone, he could make people freeze or run for their lives. Every bullet he shot, killed someone instantly, no matter how far away. The Indian pilot was on the run and any sightings should be reported to the authorities. The article contained a drawing of an Indian, which hardly looked like me. The only similarities were my long black hair and my darker skin color. So, there I understood, how legends are created.