White Rose Black Forest

by Dempsey, Eoin

  It was night when the crowd emerged from the shelter. Franka shuffled into an altered cityscape, the flames from the bombing still licking at the night. People said that it was the heaviest raid on Stuttgart so far. It would be days before the dead were all gathered and counted. Franka would be long gone by then. The citizens of Stuttgart walked like ghosts through the darkened streets, meandering around rubble and the bodies of those less fortunate than they. The howling of the sirens had ended for now, replaced by the wailing of tears and the silent guilt of those who had survived.

  Chapter 12

  John sat at the window for much of the time she was gone. He was thinking about Penelope. She pined for someone else now. Another man awaited her letters. He imagined the airman holding the envelopes up to his nose, smelling the sweetness of her perfume, just as he once did. He hadn’t thought about her much since she’d written that last letter to him, which certainly had not been sprayed with perfume. He thought back on how they’d laughed together, on how proud of her he’d been, and on how they’d made love. The bitterness within him had faded away. He wished he could see her, tell her that he was sorry, that she was doing the right thing. Her happiness had been the most important thing in the world to him once, and he hoped she’d rediscovered it with her new husband. It was impossible to be angry with her. Everything was his fault. He’d never cheated or even wanted anyone else, but he hadn’t been there for her. He knew there would be no perfect goodbye. They would see each other again, perhaps at some black-tie function where they’d glance across a crowded room at one another. Perhaps they could talk and wish each other well. It was something to hope for.

  Thoughts of Franka seemed to intrude on everything else that crossed his mind. His attempts to wipe her from his consciousness were futile—she always came back. Her face seemed tattooed inside him. He fought the worry he felt for her. It was more convenient to treat her like any other asset—she would have her uses, but when he awoke that morning he felt the lack of her in the coldness of that cabin. It felt empty. He made his way out of bed, shunting himself out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. The coffee was on the stove where he’d left it. Everything was untouched except by his own hand. It felt unnatural. The feelings inside him were ridiculous—surely a direct result of being cooped up here for so long. It was true that he hadn’t seen a woman like Franka in a long time. It was natural he’d feel some affinity toward her. She’d saved his life. She was brave and honest and beautiful. He couldn’t blame himself for inconvenient thoughts he couldn’t master. He couldn’t help that he’d memorized every curve of her face. There were some things beyond his control.

  He finished his breakfast of dried fruit, stale bread, and jam and made his way out to the living room. His book was lying on the table by the firewood he’d need to light. He estimated that the logs would get them through another three days before Franka would need to go out for more. It didn’t feel right sending her out into the snow, yet she never complained. She never complained about anything. It took him a few minutes to get the fire going to the stage where he was able to sit back and relax. He wished he could do more around the cabin, but he was hobbled. He was more hindrance than help.

  He wasn’t using her—she volunteered. She was grateful for the chance to affect the outcome of the war against the regime that had destroyed her family and the country she loved. What were these feelings of guilt within him, then? Why did he feel like he’d sent her alone into the lion’s den? He had told her how difficult Hahn was known to be. John was sure she could work it out for herself. She only needed to make contact, after all.

  Lunchtime came, and John was still by the fire, his book untouched on the table beside him. The sun was shining outside, and he could hear the dripping of the snow as the long melt began. He shifted the blanket he’d spread over his chest, reached for the radio, and flicked it on. The royal-tinted accent of the BBC newsreader fluttered over the airwaves. John had met many Englishmen. Few of them sounded like that. The newsreader read through a list of bombing raids from the night before. John’s blood froze when he mentioned the raid on Stuttgart.

  “RAF bomber command conducted a stunning raid on the industrial stronghold of Stuttgart yesterday. Sources claim it’s the biggest on that city of the war so far.”

  The raid had been small in comparison with the massive sorties that destroyed much of Hamburg and Cologne, but had been hailed as a major success. How many had died? He had sent her into the jaws of the Allied beast. Grisly thoughts consumed him. The newsreader moved on, giving little importance to the words that still echoed through John’s mind.

  “There’s a war on, goddamn it,” he said to no one. “She knew the risks.”

  He trained his eyes on the cuckoo clock in the hallway. It struck one. The minutes drew out like months until it was almost five. Darkness was descending when the door finally opened. John couldn’t see her as she dropped her skis in the hallway. He didn’t call out. Franka appeared at the end of the hallway. A large white bandage adorned her forehead. She dropped her bag and shuffled inside.

  John stifled the instinct to express his relief upon seeing her. “Did you see him?” he asked.

  “I saw him,” she said. She made her way into the kitchen, emerging seconds later with a cup of water. “The bombers came when I was with him. The entire city seemed to erupt into flames.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  She reached up and touched the bandage on her head. “It’s just a scratch. I was one of the lucky ones. Hundreds were killed. Thousands maybe. Hahn died on the street.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “I saw him. He died in front of me.”

  Barely able to hold her head up, she flopped down in a chair opposite him.

  John tried to pull his thoughts together. Hahn was dead. That meant his work for the Nazis was too. But what if somehow the Nazi path toward nuclear fission continued unabated? Without Hahn’s knowledge, the scientists in America might not catch up until it was too late. John’s superiors would never be satisfied without Hahn’s knowledge at their disposal. It took him a few seconds to regain enough composure to speak again.

  “You aren’t hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “What happened? How long did you see him for?”

  “Just a few minutes. It turns out he was more of a mercenary than a dissident. He seemed more eager to get the work finished than to use it against the Nazis. He didn’t appear to care so much who finished it. He was convinced that the Americans would give him the funding and facilities he needed.”

  “And so we would have,” John said. “I heard about the attack. I’m relieved you’re alive. What happened?”

  Franka went through everything from when she’d met Hahn to the moment he died.

  “What happened to the microfilm?” John said.

  “Give me just a minute,” Franka said. She went into the bathroom and returned seconds later with the plastic container. Her face was stern, rigid.

  He tried to get up, fumbling for his crutches. She went to him, and he slid back into his seat.

  “You got it.”

  “I went to his apartment after he died.”

  He reached for the tiny container in her hand. She curled her fingers around it.

  “He told me what his project was about,” she said.

  John sat back in the chair. The flickering light of the fire danced across the gentle lines in her face.

  “I told you everything I know. It’s not my job to ask questions.”

  “He was developing a bomb that could level an entire city. Hahn was developing the most deadly weapon in the history of the world.” Her fist closed around the microfilm.

  “I didn’t know it was a bomb. I just knew it was a technology that could change the war. It’s up to us now to get this film back to the Allies before the Nazis realize what they have on their hands. If they develop that bomb before we do . . . Can you imagine what they would do with it? They wouldn’
t hesitate to use it. Millions of innocent people would die.”

  “Millions of innocents are dying. I saw it with my own eyes. I witnessed what the Allied bombing raids are doing to the German people.”

  “This war is the Nazis’ doing.” He saw her move toward the fire. “Don’t do that, Franka.”

  “You sound like a child arguing over who started it. This isn’t some schoolyard brawl. Thousands of people are being slaughtered every day.”

  “What you have in your hand could go a long way toward ending that slaughter. The technology will be developed. Hundreds of the best minds in America are working on it every day. What you have in your hand could help them develop that bomb faster. It could end this senseless war.”

  “Or it could murder millions more.”

  “That’s not for us to decide.”

  “Yet we are the ones who have that decision to make. I have it in my hand, so I am the one.”

  “Think before you do anything rash. Destroying that microfilm won’t stop the research. Nothing will.”

  “At least I won’t be contributing to the possible deaths of millions of innocent people.”

  “This is a race, between the Allies and the Nazis. What if the Nazis develop that bomb first? Do you think they’d hesitate to use it? On London, or Moscow, or Paris?”

  “Who’s to say the Allies won’t use it? I’ve seen the destruction they’ve brought to Germany.”

  “We don’t have a choice about whether the bomb is made—just who we help win the race to make it. Who do you want to win that race—the Allies or the Nazis?”

  She uncoiled her fingers from around the microfilm and handed it to John.

  “I know what you must be feeling.”

  “How? How exactly are you able to reach inside me?”

  “I know this isn’t straightforward, but it’s not our place to make these decisions. We have to trust in our allegiances. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “By helping with the creation of the most destructive bomb in human history? You’ll excuse me if I don’t see the sense in that.”

  “It is ironic, I’ll certainly say that, but having a threat like this could force the Nazis to see that the war is unwinnable.”

  “You think that the threat of killing German civilians is going to bring the Nazis to heel? The Nazis care as much for the citizenry of this country as you might for something you dug out of your ear. They’ve used the people of this country for their own means since their inception. No threat against the people is going to end this, only the destruction of the Nazis themselves.”

  John placed the case of microfilm on the table beside him. He picked up his coffee, long since cold, and took a swig anyway.

  “Thank you for what you did,” he finally said. “Not just for the war effort, but for me too.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll need to get this film across the border into Switzerland.”

  He looked down at his legs, encased in plaster of paris, jutting out in front of him.

  “Your breaks are progressing well. We can probably take the casts off in another two weeks or so.”

  “There’s no way we can expedite the process?”

  “Not if you want your legs to work, no. I’m a nurse, not a miracle worker.”

  “I disagree, Franka. I think you are a miracle worker.”

  “Flattery? Is that all you have to offer me right now?” she said, and walked away.

  Franka didn’t quite get the warm bath she’d wanted, but the three inches of tepid water she managed to gather still felt like a luxury. The picture of the dead bodies burning on the streets of Stuttgart hung in her consciousness as she sat in the water. John would take another two or three weeks to heal, and then he’d be gone. What was there for her after he left? The thoughts of ending her life were blunted. He’d shown her that she was still useful and could still make a difference in people’s lives. But what hospital would hire her now? She was a traitor to the Reich, had spent time in jail for sedition. There seemed little place for her in Germany. She had enough money for another year or so at least, but what then? What if she couldn’t work? She had aunts and uncles in Munich and cousins spread in cities and towns throughout the country, but would they accept her? Would they treat her as the traitor that the Nazis had painted her as? She hadn’t seen most of them in years. Her cousins on her mother’s side were strangers to her now. It didn’t seem enough.

  This war would end soon. Everything was going to change. The act of living longer than Hitler and his regime would be her victory. It was more than millions of others would achieve. She longed for the day when the ideals that Hans and Sophie held up were the norm once more, when they would be revered as the heroes they were and she could at least be forgiven. Living long enough to see that time, whenever it came, would be enough.

  John came into her mind again. It was ridiculous, but he was the closest thing she had to a true companion left in this life. She had no one closer. There was no one that she’d revealed as much of herself to in this entire world. And soon he would be gone. She thought of America. It was heartening that someone could believe in their country as he did and still retain themselves. His loyalty was to the people of his country, not to some regime that claimed to be working on their behalf. The “patriots” she knew were twisted and ruined by perverted ideals. Patriotism to the Nazi state was an abomination, and directly contrary to everything it should have stood for. The true patriots were the ones with a healthy suspicion of the government and every motive it acted upon. The true patriots were those who didn’t let themselves be overtaken by the Nazi rhetoric, those who remembered who they were, like Hans and Sophie. Like her father. And perhaps the true patriots were the ones who would welcome the armed missionaries who were undoubtedly coming to her country.

  The calendar on the wall read January 20, 1944. Daniel Berkel was hunched over his desk, where he seemed to spend the majority of his time these days. Most of his job was shuffling paper, checking sources, and investigating disputes between neighbors and former friends. Because the act of denouncing neighbors could place them under arrest and potentially land them in jail, disgruntled citizens found themselves in a position of newfound power over the people they bore grudges against. All too often people condemned by their neighbors as enemies of the state were guilty of little more than encroaching on their land, or stealing their newspaper once too often. Just a week before, he’d dealt with a case of a jealous husband who had reported the handsome man next door. The agents tortured him just enough to get to the bottom of the matter, and the neighbor confessed to beginning an affair with the man’s wife. The agents released him. There was an art to torture. If the agent went too far, the suspect would end up confessing to trying to assassinate the führer. The art was finding the right balance. Every man and woman had a breaking point. The experienced interrogator knew when to proceed and when to desist, which methods to employ and to hold back. They had beaten the handsome neighbor with rods but stopped short of hanging him up, and most certainly stopped short of attaching an electrical charge to his genitals. That was for more extreme instances, but such cases seemed to be the norm these days.

  The orders from above were becoming more and more Draconian. Berkel harkened back in his mind to the days before the war started. Times were simpler then. The liberal, cosmopolitan attitudes of certain citizens, while never encouraged or accepted, could be tolerated before the war. These days there was no place for such attitudes in the Reich. The search for liberals and so-called free thinkers had become an obsession of the higher-ups. It was hard to believe that despite how many enemies of the state they’d disposed of, there were still more among the population, but somehow there were. The Gestapo was busier than ever. Archaic notions such as evidence and due process had long been dismissed. The Gestapo had absolute power over the populace, and Berkel never grew tired of the fear he could inspire in men who might not otherwise have paid him any mind.
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  Berkel was proud of the work he did. His only regret was seeing family so fleetingly. There simply wasn’t time enough to do his job effectively and see his sons as much as he would have liked. Several framed photos of them adorned his desk. It was a difficult sacrifice but one he made for his country. His life was dedicated to a greater cause for which they would thank him one day. His was a generation that was willing to sacrifice itself for the good of the next, and what greater gift could he bestow upon his children than a peaceful and prosperous Reich? It was the ultimate duty of any father and something that motivated him on a daily basis.

  Berkel reached over for his cold cup of coffee, then set it back down as he realized he’d dropped a cigarette into it hours before. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one with matches he kept on his desk. The ashtray was full, so he used the coffee cup once more instead. The lamp on his desk pierced through the dark, shining down on stacks of papers to be pored over when time would afford. It was dark outside, but warmer than it had been. The snow was melting at last, and most of the roads were open once again. A knock sounded on his door, and he called out for the person to enter.

  Armin Vogel, a Gestapo agent originally from a farm near Eschbach, appeared around the door. “Daniel, how are you?”

  “Busy, Armin. I’m trying to prioritize whom to bring in next. Is a waiter who said that the war is lost more of a priority than a priest who is holding secret masses?”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  Vogel sat down opposite Berkel and lit up a cigarette of his own. Berkel put the papers down, glad there was an excuse for a break.

  “I did have something I wanted to tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A report came across my desk you might be interested in. I remember you mentioning an old acquaintance that you ran into late last year. Franka Gerber?”

  “Yes, an old girlfriend from my teenage years. What about her?”

  “I had a report from Sankt Peter a few days ago. Franka Gerber was acting suspiciously there just before Christmas. She wanted crutches for her boyfriend, who’d apparently injured himself skiing.”