A Bitter Rain

by James D. Shipman

  The horsemen’s numbers dwindled. At two hundred meters, more than half the mounted assailants were down. Now as they reached the most dangerous range of the Nazi small arms, they toppled over like so many matchsticks. Still they advanced, closing the remaining distance. One hundred meters, then fifty. A few dozen reached their lines. A Pole charged in on Erik, saber raised. He shot the man with his machine pistol, spraying wildly; he watched a pattern of blackened dots dance down the soldier and his horse. The soldier still rode on as if nothing had happened, but frothy blood bubbled out of his lips. Horse and man crashed to the ground in front of Erik, a bare meter away. Neither moved again.

  Erik stared hard for a few moments. He felt sorry for the beautiful animal—he realized the irony that he had become desensitized to the death of humans, that the loss of this majestic animal affected him more. He looked around. The charge had failed. The wounded lay all around, moaning or screaming. A dozen of the enemy were prisoners. They had stopped the Poles.

  “Well done, Sergeant!”

  He turned to see Lieutenant Sauer coming up. His shoulder was bandaged and his face was a ghostly white, but otherwise he seemed fine. His eyes shone a fiery blue. The wound seemed to fuel his passion, his speech coming in excited bursts.

  “Where is the captain?” asked Erik.

  “He stayed for the fight then went back to request reinforcements. Orders are to dig in here and wait for more men and armor. The Stukas are going to bomb the hell out of that village.”

  Even as Sauer spoke the words, Erik heard the rumbling of the dive bombers overhead. The rumble transformed into the now-familiar scream of the planes as they dived down in a near vertical plunge toward the cluster of houses a kilometer away. Percussion waves washed over them as detonation after detonation blew the village apart.

  Corporal Messer came forward, prodding a couple of Polish prisoners. “You tried to attack the men of the Fatherland!” screamed Sauer at the prisoners. “Look what happens! Look what happened to you!”

  Sauer struck one of the men, spinning him to the ground. Sauer drew his pistol and pulled the Pole back up to his knees.

  “Lieutenant!” protested Erik.

  Sauer fired. The Pole’s head jerked back, blood spurting from the wound as the body collapsed to the ground. The second Pole broke free of Messer and turned, fleeing. Sauer took aim and fired, hitting him in the back. The prisoner froze, arms in the air. He turned slowly around, staring into the sky, a bloody lake forming at his chest. He grimaced, clearly in pain, and then fell face forward, his body writhing spasmodically on the ground. Sauer stepped up and fired at the man’s head. The body bounced one more time and was still. Sauer spit on the man’s back and then carefully returned his pistol to the holster. He looked up and winked at Erik.

  Erik stood in shocked silence. His commander had just murdered two men before his eyes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Königsberg

  September 1939

  The night wore endlessly on, but Gunther failed to reappear. All the next day and the next they waited, but nothing. Each moment the Gestapo might arrive. Aside from that shattering fear, there was the more mundane concern that there was little food remaining in the house. They had some soup and other canned goods, but this could only last a few more days.

  Trude worried about Britta. Her daughter had never stayed indoors for this long. The girl grew impatient and agitated as she clamored to go for a walk or play in the park. Trude had to tell her no over and over.

  Johannes was even worse. He had never recovered from the other night. He sat in his chair quietly, listlessly, staring out the window. She didn’t know what to do. He was her strength, her guide, and now even though he was physically present, it was as if he wasn’t here at all. She tried to draw him out, but he would merely nod or quickly answer, then return to his silent vigil.

  She should have been frightened, but she felt only exhaustion and a crippling numbness. Her world was collapsing. She’d weathered so much already: the loss of her position with the conservatory, their home, their status. Their parents escaping while her small family remained behind. The stares and whispers when she would shop or walk down the street. Like she had a disease.

  None of these humiliations compared to the situation now. At least before they’d had food. They’d been able to go outside. Most of all, she’d had her husband—her rock. He’d left each day, worked his miracles, defied the Nazis, and returned to her each night. Now he was a mere shadow, a hungry apparition draining her.

  A knock at the door. She froze. Somebody was there. Familiar fears crowded the room. Would the Gestapo knock? She stood and made her way reluctantly to the door. She opened it and was relieved to see Gunther standing with a packet tucked under his arm.

  “Guten Tag,” she said.

  He grinned at her and strode into the house toward the sitting room.

  “Johannes, mein Freund, was machen Sie?”

  Johannes didn’t look up.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Gunther, registering alarm.

  “He . . . he hasn’t been the same since the other night.”

  “Since what?” His face was clouded for a moment and then broke into a sheepish grin. “Oh that. What is a little joking around among good friends?”

  “Did you bring our visas?” she asked.

  “It can’t be done,” he announced.

  “What?” demanded Trude. “You promised us. We paid you.”

  His eyes flared. “Careful now, Frau. Don’t forget who you are. Who I am.”

  She repressed her anger, lowering her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

  He grinned again and threw his arms into the air. “Your frustration is understandable. I did everything I could, but with the start of the war they’ve cut off all travel for Jews, particularly international. We will simply have to wait until all of this is over. Which won’t be long if things keep progressing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked at her surprised for a moment. “Oh that’s right, your radio was . . . taken. The Poles, my dear. They are falling back everywhere. Fifty divisions of them. You’d think they’d put up a better fight, but what can you expect from these Slavs?”

  “Surely the French—”

  “Haven’t budged. They sit in their Maginot Line and wait for us.” He moved closer, raising his hand to his cheek as if whispering a secret in a crowded room. “If you want my opinion, they never intended to fight.”

  She was shocked by the news, but she couldn’t worry about it. Wars meant nothing to her. She was only concerned about the here and now. “We can’t wait for a war to come and go. We have to get out.”

  He laughed. “I don’t blame you. You should have left years ago. You had all the resources to do so.” He looked over at Johannes. “Instead your young knight insisted on playing the hero. He thumbed his nose at us, thinking he was proving something.” Gunther turned back to her. “Do you think we didn’t know? We didn’t mind letting the Jews go. Oh yes, we’ve been watching his little organization for a very long time. But they paid well, and we obtained a steady income of businesses, land, and savings from all these emigrants, all the while ridding ourselves of part of our Jewish problem.”

  “You knew?”

  He laughed again, taking a step closer. “Of course we did, my dear. Did you think your little Jew husband pulled the wool over our eyes? Now look at him. A little trouble and he crumbles into himself. You people have no endurance—but I do.”

  “What do you have in the package?” she asked, trying to divert his attention. Her mind was reeling with what he’d just told her. They’d played a game with her husband all along. All this time he thought he was beating them.

  Gunther looked down. “Oh yes. I almost forgot. I brought your passports back.” He hesitated. “They’ve been revoked, unfortunately.” He held the package out to her. She tried to take it quickly, but he grabbed her hand and wouldn’t let go. She glanced at Johannes for support, b
ut he continued to stare out the window as if nobody was there.

  Gunther took a step nearer her. “Don’t you worry, my dear,” he whispered. “There may be another way.”

  “What do you mean?” Her skin crawled and she wanted to pull free, but she willed herself to remain still. This man could still save them—or damn them.

  “There is more than one way out. So far we’ve only explored legal means, but there are alternatives, especially for someone like your husband, who has certain connections.”

  “What kind of alternatives?”

  He moved his lips to her ear, his fetid breath sickening her.

  “We are a port city. Ships of all sizes and descriptions leave here every day. There is no way to check all the cargo. Rats make their way on board all the time. Even Jewish rats.”

  “We want to go to England.”

  He laughed. “You’d never get to England. Not straightaway. You probably don’t know this, but we’re at war with the buggers, and with the French, too. But we trade freely with Russia, and Sweden and Norway are neutral. You’re only a few hours from Stockholm.”

  “Could you help us get on board?”

  He brushed his lips against her ear. “You might be able to convince me.”

  She shivered. She turned her head slightly.

  “What are you saying?”

  He grinned at her, his eyes slowly moving down her neckline and to her chest. She stepped back in disgust.

  He laughed. “Don’t worry, my dear. As charming as you are, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m not talking about what I want. I’m talking about what I need.”

  “What is that?”

  “Money, and lots of it.”

  “We don’t have anything else.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “You already used up your resources. That’s where your husband’s connections come in.”

  “He already met with everyone we know.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. Clever boy like that. He’ll figure out something.”

  “How much more?”

  “Who’s to say? I’ll have to make certain inquiries.”

  “When will you know?”

  He drew his hand to his chin and tapped it, considering the issue.

  “Some days, I would think.”

  “But we are almost out of food!”

  He glanced down again, sweeping his stare over her figure. “I thought you’d lost some weight. It suits you.”

  “Gunther, please. What are we to do?”

  “You’ll manage. Rats always survive—even on crumbs.”

  There was that word again. “We’re not rats.”

  He grinned. “I know that, my dear. I just refer to the party line—you’re officially vermin, don’t you know?”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  He leered at her again. “Obviously, I don’t.”

  She regretted her question. Then a thought occurred to her. “How am I supposed to reach out to Johannes’s connections? Look at him.”

  Gunther followed her gaze. “Good question. I can’t solve all your problems. You’ll have some time.” He turned to her husband. “Did you hear me? Be a good little Jew now and perk up a bit. Your life depends on it.” Still, Johannes didn’t stir.

  Gunther turned back. “I guess you have your hands full. Now give me a kiss good-bye. I have to leave.”

  She was horrified. “I can’t kiss you.”

  “Oh, but you must, my dear. That’s the down payment for my services.”

  “But you said that wasn’t part of it.”

  “I said nothing of the sort. I merely said you couldn’t pay for my services fully that way.”

  She was terrified. What should she do? Should she refuse him? Spit in his face? But then what would he do? He would leave and come back with the Gestapo. He might do it anyway. Everything he told her might be a lie. What choice did she have?

  “Well? What will it be?”

  “Quickly then,” she managed to mumble. She closed her eyed and pressed her lips tightly.

  She felt his hands on the back of her head. She tensed, but he pulled her forward and pressed his lips against hers. She tried to pull away, but he gripped her tightly. He forced his tongue through her lips and into her mouth, moving it around for a few moments. She choked and coughed, finally managing to pull away. He laughed, his eyes brimming with mirth and something else.

  “Thank you, my dear. That will do.”

  She didn’t respond. He clapped his hands together. “Well, I guess that’s it for now. I shall return.” He bowed with a mock flourish and turned to leave.

  “What if the Gestapo gets here first?” she managed to say.

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t answer the door if I were you.” He chuckled to himself, turned, and left.

  Days passed and Gunther did not return. The days turned into a week, and then weeks. Each day Trude woke expecting the Gestapo to appear and arrest them all. Each night she went to bed, thankful for another miracle, but wondering when or if Johannes’s SS connection would ever return. Their canned food dwindled. Even with cutting their intake, first in half, then to a third, they were nearly out. They were now subsisting on the remaining few cans of stewed tomatoes. If they didn’t get something to eat soon, they would starve.

  Johannes continued in his stupor. He would respond to basic questions and commands, but the light of his spirit was gone, perhaps forever. The weight of everything fell on Trude. She felt her sanity slipping away with the stress and the worry.

  As September faded into October, they ate the last of the food. Trude realized they would have to do something now. They couldn’t wait any longer. Someone would have to go out and buy groceries, whatever the risks involved.

  She walked into the sitting room where Johannes was perched in his traditional spot, staring out the window. “Johannes, we’re out of food,” she said.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Johannes,” she repeated.

  He turned his head slowly. He was gaunt, having lost weight. His eyes were bloodshot, his curly hair greasy and unkempt. He stared at her for a moment, as if trying to comprehend who she was.

  “We’re out of food.”

  His eyes moved back and forth over her features. “Food,” he repeated back absently.

  “Yes, food!” she screamed. She slapped him hard across the face. He reeled from the blow. She struck again and his arm flashed up, catching the blow. He flushed red, and she could see a glint of flame in his gaze.

  “Stop it,” he said.

  “I won’t. We are out of food, Johannes! Do you know what that means? We are going to starve! Our little girl is going to die! We must do something! You have to do something!”

  He looked at her a moment. “There’s nothing that can be done.”

  She pulled her hand free and grabbed his shirt, jerking his head back up, pulling him toward her. “That’s not an answer! You are the father of this family. We are dying. You’ve had enough time to sit back and sulk while I’ve been left with all the work, all the worry! I’m done!” She burst into tears, all the stress and fear of the past weeks washing over her.

  “Mommy!” screamed Britta. She felt her daughter’s arms wrap around her leg. She regretted her outburst; she’d thought her girl was upstairs. She tried to stop herself, but she couldn’t. It had been too much, too long.

  She felt another hand on her neck. A strong hand. She looked up in surprise. Johannes was holding her, conscious, looking at her intently.

  “Johannes.”

  “I hear you. Food.”

  He had returned to her, at least a part of him. “I’ve been so scared,” she admitted.

  He looked around wearily. He rubbed his face and shook his head, as if waking from a nightmare. “We need something to eat.”

  “We do. And I need you. I can’t do this by myself anymore. I can’t take it.”

  He didn’t respond. She wanted to strike him again, to scream at him for wha
t he’d put her through, but she was afraid he would recede into his shell. She watched him, observing the first signs of life in her husband for weeks. She tried to suppress her anger at him and focus on what they needed.

  “Johannes, I need you to go to the grocery store. It’s a terrible risk, but we must take it. Do you think you can go?”

  He looked at her again, pausing a long moment before answering.

  “Food,” he said again, nodding, understanding.

  She rose and moved to her coat. She reached into the internal pocket and removed a stack of Reichsmarks, all the paper money they possessed. She walked back and pressed the bills into her husband’s hands. He balled the notes into a fist. His hands started to shake. The tremors moved up his arms and into his legs. He squeezed the notes harder. His face grew scarlet. “Gunther,” he said at last.

  She thrilled at this response. She felt the old admiration and love—so damaged in the past two months. “Yes, darling. We can talk about that later. I need you now. I need you to keep us from starving.”

  He didn’t respond. She thought she was losing him again, but finally he nodded. He stuffed the notes into his pants pockets and stood up. He nearly toppled over, and she realized how weak he was. He’d hardly touched his food this past month, and the lack of nutrition had taken its toll on what had once been a body hard with wiry muscle. He steadied himself and looked sheepishly at her, giving a slight shrug as if to acknowledge how foolish he’d been.

  “I’ve left you with everything. I know that. I haven’t been fair.”

  She drank another sip of relief. He’s coming back to me. I’m not alone. “I know you’re weak, but bring us back food and I’ll make us a feast tonight to celebrate.”

  He smiled wanly. She wanted to rush to him, to bury her head in his chest and sob. To transfer all responsibility to him. She was afraid that would be too much. Small steps.