A Bitter Rain

by James D. Shipman

  He was stunned by what he saw. A massive tank rolled down the road toward him rapidly. He’d never seen one like it before. Two angular protruding fenders jutted up above the treads. A giant cannon, probably a seventy-five-millimeter gun, sprouted out of the raised turret. The tank stopped for a moment and belched fire, rocking backward. Another round rocked the ground behind him. Erik realized most of the German panzers were already burning. He crawled backward away from the fighting, clutching his machine pistol. He sprayed wild bursts toward the enemy. Probably fruitless, he realized, but he had to do something.

  After an eternity, he reached the last row of panzers. He found a few members of the company huddled with a couple of the black-uniformed tank crew members. They hid behind a burned-out panzer, firing sporadically at the oncoming Russians. Captain Sauer was among them, his pistol drawn, his pale Aryan features smeared with mud and smoke.

  “What are those tanks?” he shouted.

  “Don’t know, sir, I’ve never seen them before.”

  “I’ve heard rumors,” said Sauer. “There are stories about them at headquarters. Some kind of new supertank. They said they might have a few in production but that they would make no difference in the fighting.”

  “Looks like headquarters was wrong,” said Erik.

  Sauer pointed to some woods behind them no more than a half kilometer away. “Let’s try to get out of here,” he said. “That’s our only chance of escape.”

  Erik shook his head. “Too far.”

  “You have a better plan, Lieutenant?”

  Erik didn’t. The shells still exploded around them. He knew in a matter of minutes they would all be dead. The woods were impossibly far away. He was going to die today. The thought didn’t scare him for some reason, although he mourned for his family at home—his parents, Corina, darling Greta. He nodded to Captain Sauer and cocked the bolt of his machine pistol, slamming in his last clip.

  Sauer waited a moment, wincing a little from the blast of a nearby shell. He smiled and nodded. They turned and ran, waving for their men to follow them and bolting from behind the tank toward the woods. They tried to use the line of sight from the burning tanks as cover. After thirty meters they turned into the field and sprinted through the ankle-deep snow. So far they had not been spotted, but their field-green uniforms stood out mightily against the white backdrop. Erik heard the whistle of an incoming shell. An explosion landed a few meters away. Another shell quickly followed suit. Soon they would have the range. They were five hundred meters away from the woods. Too far, he knew; they’d never make it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Königsberg

  December 1941

  The automobile slid through the streets of Königsberg. Friedrich whipped the steering wheel around violently with both hands as if he would tear it off the console.

  “Let me out!” screamed Trude. She leaned forward from the back seat, pounding on his back, screaming, begging, pleading. The world was a blurry, misty haze through the torrents of tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “You bastard!” she shouted. “Take me to my little girl!”

  Friedrich slowed the vehicle down and moved to the shoulder. He turned the car off and turned to her, rage in his eyes. He raised his hand as if to strike her. She flinched, pulling back.

  “Now listen here!” he shouted. “I can’t take you back there. They’ll kill you.”

  “I don’t care! They have my little girl!”

  “I know that. But you won’t do her any good if the Gestapo have you. I can’t drive with you beating on me. We must get to the captain. He’ll know what to do.”

  Her mind was a ravaging storm. She heard the logic in his voice. If they went back to Frau Werner’s house, they’d arrest her along with Friedrich. That would lead them to Captain Dutt as well. They would all be in jail, tortured, or killed. If there was any hope for Britta, they had to get away. If there was any chance of helping her daughter, she must go see Captain Dutt. She nodded and closed her eyes, leaning her head against the seat.

  “That’s right, Frau Bensheim,” said Friedrich, his voice grating steel. “Sit back and let me take care of this.”

  Friedrich started the automobile again. He pressed the accelerator and the vehicle lurched into motion, sliding slightly back and forth before gaining enough traction to proceed down the icy road.

  They’d been lucky, she realized. If it was daytime when they returned, they would surely have been spotted and arrested immediately. But in the darkness, they were just one more pair of headlights, a steel-enclosed vehicle shrouded in darkness.

  Her mind all these months had been alive with blazing pain, but now those feelings seemed a laughable frolic compared to this. She didn’t think she could take this for one more instant. She knew it would be hours, days, or even worse before anything could be done. All that time they would have her little girl. What about poor Frau Werner? She realized guiltily she hadn’t even thought of the elderly German woman. They would have arrested her, too. She’d sacrificed herself to try to save them, and now she was paying the price.

  The car rolled on through the icy streets. She closed her eyes again, praying, opening her heart to God, begging for a miracle, for anything to protect Britta.

  The car slowed down and turned, winding up a slight incline, and she knew they were at the captain’s home. Friedrich ordered her to stay put. He left the car running and opened the door, and she heard his quick footsteps clattering on the driveway. An eternity later her door was opened, and she heard the captain’s voice. Hands reached for her, pulling her slowly from the car. She couldn’t see, tears swallowing the world around her. There were people on both sides of her, helping her to stand, to lurch reluctantly into the captain’s home.

  They took her to the study, setting her gently down in a high-backed upholstered seat. Someone handed her a cloth, and she dabbed her eyes, trying to focus them. Finally, she could see. She was alone in the room with the captain and Friedrich.

  “What happened?” asked Dutt. He sat on the edge of his desk, near her, his heavily lined temples creased with anguish.

  Friedrich explained in slow and shaky words what had happened on their drive back to Mrs. Werner’s home, the appearance of the Gestapo and the race back to his house. His hands clenched and his knuckles rippled white.

  “Gut Gott!” said the captain. He rang his bell, and a servant swiftly appeared. “Tea and food,” he ordered, before returning his attention to Trude. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect this. Of course, we always knew it was a risk, but it has been so long now. I believed the danger had largely passed.”

  “Mrs. Werner knows about me,” said Friedrich. “She knows about you, too, Captain. I assume the girl does also.”

  “No,” said Trude, shaking her head. “We’ve been careful not to discuss your name or anything else in Britta’s presence. She doesn’t know anything. At least not enough to lead them here.”

  “It may not help us. Frau Werner could betray all of us.”

  “She would never do so willingly,” said Trude. “I’ve put you all in danger.” All the way to the captain’s house she had thought of only Britta. But there was so much more to this. Not only was Mrs. Werner in immediate danger, but she had placed Captain Dutt’s life and the lives of his household at risk as well. Why had she ever gone to any of them in the first place? How selfish of her to put others in harm’s way.

  Captain Dutt squared his shoulders, pale but resolute. “I knew the risks when I got into this. If she talks and they come, that is God’s will.” He turned to Friedrich. “I should never have involved you or the rest of my household.”

  Friedrich stiffened and clicked his heels in salute. “I’m glad you did, sir. I would do anything for you . . . and for Frau Bensheim.”

  Trude looked up in amazement. Had she just heard him correctly? He’d never said a kind word to her. She thought he considered her vermin, an Untermensch. Now he was putting his life on the line willingly for her
and the captain. She smiled gratefully, feeling an unexpected flicker of warmth and hope amid the ocean of anguish.

  Dutt nodded to his driver approvingly and then turned back to Trude. “What’s done is done. We will wait and see. If Mrs. Werner is half the tough old bird I think she is, she may resist them for a long time, perhaps forever. In the meantime, I will find out everything I can about her and your daughter.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any connections with the SS?”

  “I don’t in Germany at large, but here in Königsberg it is another thing. I cannot promise you a miracle, child. I may be able to obtain knowledge, but I’m not sure what more I will be able to do. If there is anything, no matter how remote, I will try.”

  She rose and took his hands in hers. “Thank you, Captain, for everything. You put far too much at risk for me.”

  “I will set to work immediately,” he said.

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  “You can pray.”

  The days dribbled by at Captain Dutt’s home. Trude, who was put up in grandiose and spacious accommodations on the second floor, spent most of her time in the captain’s study, a book or magazine absentmindedly resting in her hands. She looked up hopefully with each passing sound, praying for news. She had hoped intense anguish would fade at least a little as time passed, but if anything, her anxiety only intensified.

  The captain had taken to dosing her with liberal glasses of sherry. She gulped them greedily, the fiery liquid burning her throat and numbing her emotions, at least a fraction.

  She would punctuate moments of extraordinarily desperate waiting by listening to the radio. The news reported heavy fighting around Moscow. Although there was no news of any losses by or defeats of the Germans, she noticed the announcers no longer predicted victory any day. After two long years, finally something was not going exactly as the Germans desired. Was it possible the Russians still had some fight left in them? How could they after so many millions had been killed and captured?

  She had never really known any Russians. She wondered what they were like. The Germans called them Bolsheviks and Jews. How many Jews were in Russia? She didn’t know. She felt a strange sense of pride, however, that perhaps some people with the same blood as her were standing up to the Germans. Were fighting and killing them.

  When she thought about Britta, she was bombarded by horrible premonitions: gray concrete, bare bulbs, and grim, uniformed Nazis. She shook her head. These nightmares raced through her sleep and crept in to every waking moment. She could not think about it long without going mad.

  Friedrich brought in lunch. He quietly took the captain’s chair, setting down the silver tray containing a basket of bread, fresh apples, and some sliced cheese. She stared at the food for a moment and shook her head.

  “You must eat,” said Friedrich sternly. When she made no move toward the food, he took a plate himself, stacking it with bread, cheese, and fruit and stepping around the desk to place it gently in her lap. “You must try to eat something,” he repeated, softly this time. “If you do not have any strength, you will be unready when we need to take action.”

  He was right, of course. She placed the white aged cheese onto the still-warm bread and forced it up toward her lips. She bit down, nearly gagging, but she pushed herself to chew the food. It tasted like ashes in her mouth, but she swallowed, took another bite, and swallowed again before she set the food aside.

  “That will do for now,” said Friedrich, “but you must have more. Do you promise me?”

  She nodded. “I want to thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For driving me. For saving me. For caring about me as a human.”

  He watched her with those intent, almost fanatic eyes. A face that had so frightened her at first. He wrung his hands, looking away.

  “I should’ve told you before.”

  “You showed me. Your actions are greater than the words of dozens of people who said they would help. You don’t owe me any explanation.”

  The door opened and she looked up. Captain Dutt hobbled into the room. His face was red and splotchy. He walked with slow deliberate paces. He knows something, she realized.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He did not answer. Instead he went to the desk and poured a tall glass of sherry, handing it to her.

  Trude shook her head, her soul engulfed by darkness. “I don’t want that.”

  He stepped forward again. “Drink it down and then we will talk.”

  Bad news, she realized. Perhaps the worst. Unconsciously she took the sherry, moving it slowly to her lips. Her hand shook, and some of the liquid splashed out onto her wrist. She tipped the glass back, gulping down the fiery liquid. Even as she drank she prayed. She feared the worst. My little girl is gone.

  “I have news of Britta,” he began, his normally strong voice shaking and tenuous. “She was arrested as you feared. She was interrogated by an SS officer named Gunther Wolf.”

  “No!”

  “Hold on,” he said, reaching for her. “I understand there were no physical methods used in the questioning. Since then she’s been kept in a cell, but she’s receiving adequate food and water. There are strict orders from Gunther that no one is to touch her.”

  Trude felt the relief welling up inside her. Britta was safe. But Gunther had questioned her? She was revolted by the picture of the old letch standing over her daughter, alone in some cell. But he hadn’t used any physical force. He was protecting her, she realized. She would’ve never believed it. She questioned his motivations, but for now, her little girl was safe.

  She rose and rushed into Captain Dutt’s, arms, thanking him. It was a few moments before she realized there must still be something wrong. He had made her drink a whole glass of sherry to steel herself for the news. She remembered the look on his face when he came into the room. She stepped back, watching him closely.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Captain Dutt looked down. “We don’t have to worry about betrayal anymore.”

  “Then you mean . . . ,” she started, her veins full of ice.

  “She’s gone.”

  “Frau Werner?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “They tortured her. She wouldn’t talk. She was too frail, but perhaps also too strong . . . They went too hard on her, and her heart gave out.”

  Trude fell to her knees, clinging to Captain Dutt’s legs. She held him so tightly he nearly tripped. “Frau Bensheim, please, you’re hurting me.”

  She let go, dropping to the carpet. Tears pooling onto the thick silk weave.

  “It’s all me. All my fault!”

  “No, Trude. She made her own choice. She was a true woman, a true German. She chose to help you for her own reasons, her own beliefs. Just as I have. You mustn’t blame yourself for her misfortune.”

  “What are we doing to do?”

  “We are going to survive. We are going to find a way to get your daughter out—if such a thing is possible. We are going to live.”

  She tried to hear him, tried to believe the words, but it was all too much. She had directly caused the death of a poor, kind elderly woman. Her daughter and husband were in prison. There was no hope, no future. Only the darkness of her heart and mind.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Kharkov, Russia

  February 1943

  Captain Erik Mueller rode near the turret of the Tiger tank through the open fields of the Russian steppe. He was bundled warmly in new winter clothing, camouflaged white to blend into the snow. The massive 88-millimeter cannon loomed overhead as he jolted along through the field.

  How different from the last time I was here, he thought. He thought back to a time not much more than a year ago when his unit and the entire division were mauled by Russian forces on the outskirts of Moscow. He would never forget the agony of that frozen retreat. He remembered their shock and surprise when massive numbers of Siberian Russians appeared o
ut of nowhere with new equipment, new tanks, endless divisions—fierce, angry, and vengeful.

  Through sheer courage and determination, they had somehow stopped the furious Russian counterattack, but to do so they had had to give ground. The spires of the Kremlin disappeared, and they had never seen them again. Slowly, kilometer by kilometer, they’d abandoned their gains.

  He smiled, through gritted teeth, thinking of the day he’d learned they would leave the eastern front and refit in France. He’d had a glorious month at home, a promotion, visits with his wife and family. He was a hero now, somebody important.

  Despite the disappointment at Moscow, everything had pointed to victory in the spring of 1942. But he did not have to be part of that push as his unit refitted and restructured in France. He remembered the luxurious time among the French people, so different from the Russians. The people he encountered were timid, passive, for the most part, if aloof. He’d drunk wine, eaten his fill of food, and lived largely free of danger. During this respite, he’d trained his company of men and incorporated replacements until the company, his company, was back to full strength, with new equipment, fully supplied with ammunition, and outfitted with the new panzers, including the massive Tiger like the one he was riding on now.

  He’d hoped the war in the East would be done before they ever needed to come back, but this was not to be. In the summer, the Germans again were streaming almost uninterrupted into Southern Germany toward the oilfields of the Bolsheviks. They had gone so far again, so fast, their progress almost greater than the gains in 1941. Then came Stalingrad. At first the city seemed like it would fall in a day or two. But the Russians put up a stubborn resistance. Days became weeks became months. Then the Russians counterattacked, cutting the German 6th Army off. The end of the war, which had again seemed so close, fell away, and a new specter appeared, the first shade of defeat. Just a hint, a glimmer, but it was there.