A Bitter Rain

by James D. Shipman

  He sighed, and she could hear the frustration in his voice. “Why won’t you talk to me?” he said. “Do I have to bring it up again every time?”

  She still didn’t respond, and he threw his arms up in the air.

  “Fine. Have it your way. Remember who I am and what I’ve done for you. Remember also what I can do to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice flat and emotionless.

  “You are welcome,” he said, his voice dripping reproach. “That reminds me,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I should call Colonel Schmidt. You never met him, did you? He knows Mueller and his wife, Corina.” He cracked into a smile. “I know you remember her.

  “Anyway, we had a long talk about logistics and the war. We’re starting to get in rather a tight spot here. We may have to make new arrangements soon, my dear. Our stay here in Soldau, no matter how pleasant, may be coming to an end.”

  Trude looked up sharply. She felt the joy rising inside her. So, it was true. The Russians were almost here. She quickly attempted to hide her expression, feigning disinterest, but he’d clearly seen her emotions on her face.

  “So that brings some life to you, doesn’t it?” he asked, his grin widening. “I’m sure you’ve heard the little boom boom from our eastern friends. Oh yes, those are Russian guns, my dear. No more than fifty kilometers away, I would think. They’ll be here in a few weeks, if that long. It certainly won’t do for us to be here when they arrive.”

  She felt the horror and the disappointment. She’d been hoping for months that exactly that would happen. She stiffened, feeling a little of the old defiance. “I don’t have anything to be afraid of,” she said.

  “Oh yes you do,” he said, leaning closer. “You don’t know the Russians. Do you think they will come as saviors? They’re monsters, every one of them.”

  “And the Germans aren’t?” She saw a hint of color flicker on his cheek. She enjoyed it, reveled in a tiny flare of power. She knew she had to be careful, however; he could snap at any moment.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, to her surprise. “Some could call us that. But that won’t help you when the Russians get here. There have been such terrible reports as they’ve stormed into East Prussia. They’ve already crossed the border in some places. They’ve done such things: raping and killing. In one town, they crucified naked women to barn doors.”

  “That’s awful,” she said, not sure she meant it. “But surely they’re killing Germans?”

  Gunther shook his head. “Not only Germans. They’ve been killing and raping everyone: Germans sure, but French and Dutch laborers, Poles, even Jews they’ve come across. Anyone they can get their hands on.” He smiled knowingly. “Don’t take me for a fool. I know that’s what you’ve been dreaming all about the last few months. Waiting for your Russian knights to arrive and save you.” He chuckled to himself. “At first I wondered about your happy little mood. I’d hoped you’d finally accepted our circumstances. Then I realized what was going on. I’m sorry to have to dispel that myth for you, my dear. You let the Russians get their clutches into you and you’ll be dead by the end of the day—and it will be a bad day for both you and Britta.”

  What was he talking about? Then she realized it, and she felt her face flush. She felt a fool, too. He’d known all along. She thought she’d kept her hopes secret, but he’d read her so easily. Of course he did. He always knew.

  “What does he mean, Mother?” asked Britta, tears of fear brimming in her eyes.

  She shot Gunther a look of venom and turned to her daughter. “He’s just teasing. Don’t worry about it.”

  Gunther’s face registered understanding, and he turned to Britta. “I’m sorry. Don’t listen to me. I’m just joking with your mother a little bit.” He turned back to Trude. “But like I said, I’m making arrangements for all of us.”

  “What sort of arrangements?” she asked.

  “We are going to be leaving very soon, the whole camp. It’s not going to be pleasant. I’ve received orders to march everyone out on foot.”

  “Where?”

  “West. Away from the damned communists.”

  “You can’t mean the prisoners,” she said. “It’s winter. The snow is knee-deep. They’re all starved or half-starved.”

  He shrugged. “Orders are orders. I agree with you, though; it’s going to get messy. I argued against it. I said we should just let the poor souls stay here and wait for the Russians. Nobody listens to me.”

  “So we’re going to march out of here?” Trude imagined them on the road, tromping through the snow, Russian planes hovering overhead.

  Gunther shook his head. “That’s the plan for the camp, not for us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve had my own plans laid for a very long time. The war’s over. We’ve lost. Anyone who says otherwise is a fool. It’s time for people to start looking after their own.” He looked back and forth between Trude and Britta.

  “Listen,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I want you and Britta to come with me.” He stepped forward, taking her hand; she tried to pull it away, but he held her. “Look at me. I know you probably hate me. You think I’ve taken advantage of you. Don’t you know everything I’ve done for you? I saved Britta. I saved you. I’ve protected you for two years now. You know why, don’t you?”

  “You’ve shown me why plenty of times,” she said, whispering through clenched teeth. She hoped Britta didn’t understand.

  “Britta, I’d like you to go for a walk for a few minutes, please. Your mother and I have something to discuss.” He stood up, knocked at the door, and a guard appeared. “Take Britta out for some fresh air,” he ordered. He waited until the guard escorted her daughter out before he turned back to Trude.

  “You think all of this was for your body? Because I wanted you? How could you believe that? I could have anyone I wanted in this camp. The pick of any crop.” He shook his head. “You’ve never understood me,” he said, a trace of sadness woven into his words. “I love you. Haven’t you ever understood that? I’ve always loved you. I adored you from the moment I set my eyes on you. You are a wife to me, and Britta is my daughter. I want you to go to Germany with me. We will get new identifications, new names, a new future. I want to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you. I have money. Gold, diamonds, plenty for us for the rest of our lives. I had to give most of it up to headquarters, but I’ve kept a little out each time.” He stepped closer to her, taking her hands again. It was all she could do not to recoil.

  “We can forget all of this, all our troubles. Let’s start fresh and let the past be the past. I know you may hate me, but remember: I protected you, Trude. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  She was shocked to hear the tone of his voice and see his pleading expression. He was serious, she realized. In his twisted, adulterated world, all of this made sense to him. He saw himself as her protector. He saw the last two years as a quasi-marriage and the three of them as a family. Didn’t he understand what he’d put her through? What she’d endured at his hands to protect her daughter? He doesn’t, she realized. He thinks he actually loves me.

  She was stunned. Could he really hope that I could love him, too? She realized just how dangerous this moment was. She had to stall him, to give herself a chance to recover. “Thank you for saying those things,” she managed to say. “But I . . . I need some time to think about all of this.”

  She saw the excitement in his expression and her dismay increased. He squeezed her hands. “I understand,” he said, his voice quivering. “Please take as long as you need. I have some places picked out. I could show you on a map. I don’t think we would have any trouble getting there. I have a car and all the necessary papers. We could buy a little farmhouse with some property. Maybe an animal or two. You could grow vegetables. I’ll find a new job somewhere. They will need bureaucrats in Germany after the war no matter what. I have plenty of connections.”

  She forced a
smile of encouragement. Grinning through clenched teeth.

  “I’ll leave you, my dear,” he whispered, squeezing her hands again. She saw the sparkle in his eye as he pulled himself up, sliding his feet back into his boots. He tucked his trousers into the muddy jackboots and then looked down at her, smiling. He bowed slightly. “I’ll be back later to check on you.” He turned again and strolled contentedly away, a light whistle on his lips.

  When the door was closed behind him she rolled over on her stomach, burying her face in the blankets. Her mind whirled and she fought to control the tears. She had to think quickly; there was no time to lose.

  Britta returned soon. Thankfully Gunther did not for many hours. Her daughter worked on her math assignment, and Trude then set her to work on writing an essay based on an oral history she’d given her on the Napoleonic Wars. She corrected the math homework, marking the mistakes she would have her daughter work through again later. As Britta labored through the assignments, Trude pondered her future and tried to process the stunning revelation Gunther had sprung on her.

  What future was there for her and Britta? She didn’t know now. She had prayed for months that the Russians would arrive any day, that they would roll into camp and liberate them. In her heart, she’d always doubted Gunther would allow that to happen. Now there was a new fear. This was the first she’d heard about Russians raping and killing everyone. How could that be? Certainly, she would expect them to retaliate against the Germans, but why harm allies? This camp was full of Russian prisoners. They would be able to tell the incoming Soviets everything that had happened here. Even if Gunther was telling the truth, which she didn’t want to believe, wouldn’t that make a difference? Gunther had lied to her so many times. Still, what if he wasn’t fabricating this?

  There was something else. Even if the Russians were inclined to help the prisoners, would that also apply to her? Her special status here, even if it was against her will, certainly put her life in danger. She’d seen the looks of the women in the barracks that short time she’d lived in the camp. They hated her. She was the Kommandant’s girl, whether it was voluntary or not. She realized that the inmates themselves might turn her in as a German sympathizer, or take retribution against her directly. She couldn’t stay here. She would have to leave, with Gunther if necessary. As far as the future, she would have to figure that out on the fly.

  She wished there was something she could do now, but what was there? It was impossible to escape with scores of guards, perhaps hundreds, crawling through the camp. The entire perimeter was surrounded by barbed wire. Tall towers with machine guns dotted the circumference, sweeping the area with spotlights during the night and watching over the camp closely during the day. She had one asset alone: she and Britta looked normal. Their hair had regrown, and they wore civilian clothing. But that was it. Most of the guards knew them at a glance. They couldn’t simply walk out.

  Her contacts might help her if she could get outside of the camp, but she knew that was impossible. Gunther had trapped her again, she realized. That must be why he’d told her about the Russians. To take any hope away. To force her to leave with him. She sat there for a long time, feeling the despair, watching the camp through her window as the evening faded into darkness.

  In bed that night as Britta lay next to her, sound asleep, she stared up at the ceiling, her mind racing. She kept trying to come up with some solution to the problem. There had to be something she could do, even a small chance to get away from here safely. Then it came to her. A whisper, a tiny pinprick of a plan. She realized how desperate it was. They would surely be caught. Still, did it matter? She spent the rest of the night preparing. She went over each detail, her excitement rising. Once she was satisfied she rested for a few hours.

  The next morning, she woke feeling at peace. Gunther returned, and she was even able to face him with a cheerful composure.

  She asked him about his day, something she rarely did. His expression brightened immediately. He told her all about his problems: piles of paperwork, ever-increasing limitations on trains, and the overwhelming details of preparing to evacuate the camp. He let slip they would be leaving within a couple of weeks. She kept asking questions, not listening to the answers.

  Two weeks. She had less time than she thought. She would have to act immediately. Fortunately, she thought she knew what she needed to do.

  “I’m doing laundry today,” she casually interjected. “And ironing. Is there anything you need to have done?”

  He looked up in surprise. She’d never offered to help him with his clothing before. “Why, you are unusually magnanimous today,” he said, laughing to himself. “That’s a first. I’ve got a few shirts that could be laundered and ironed. Extra starch, please,” he said, his eyes brimming with joy. He left, swiftly returning with a white cloth bag full of crumpled shirts.

  “Have you thought any more about . . . ?”

  “I have.”

  “If you need more time . . .”

  “We are coming with you.”

  She saw the shock and then the happiness in his eyes. He pressed the shirts into her hands, giving them a squeeze. “My dear, you have no idea what this means. I know all this horror has been awful for you. For all of us. But you know I’ve protected you every step of the way. I’ve done everything I can for you and Britta. Now I want to do more.”

  “I know,” she said, forcing the words out. “I appreciate it so much.”

  Gunther positively beamed. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for taking care of the shirts. Thank you more for your words.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, something he’d never done in front of Britta before. Her daughter didn’t look up, didn’t even seem to notice. Gunther had been such a part of their lives the last two years, almost like a father, Trude realized with surprise and revulsion.

  She chatted with Gunther for a few more minutes before he departed. She gathered up her own laundry and Gunther’s, then knocked on the door. A few minutes passed and a guard opened it a crack.

  “Hello,” she said. “I need to be escorted to the laundry room.” The guard nodded. This was a weekly event. He led her down the corridor and the stairs, and finally out of the building itself. The laundry and ironing room was in a separate structure a few hundred meters away. They reached the entrance and the guard stayed at the door, facing the outside while she went about beginning the laundry process.

  She washed all the clothing and placed it in a large electric dryer. The entire project took two hours. When the clothing was dry, she removed the loads and organized everything into neat piles. Then she started the work of ironing, starting with dresses and moving on to the shirts. She worked from a large box of starch. The container was three-fourths full. She ironed one of Gunther’s shirts, applying extra powder the way he’d suggested. She replaced the shirt with another, then looked up to see if the guard was watching her. He had long ago stepped away from the door and was sitting on a chair tucked against the wall. She saw his head was facing downward. He’d nodded off. Keeping a close eye on him, she reached below her, pulling out a garbage can that rested beneath the ironing table. She looked up again, making sure the guard hadn’t awoken, and then she turned the starch box over, emptying its contents into the can until only a little dust remained in the bottom. She hurriedly pushed the container back under the table and stepped away, bringing the starch box with her until she was standing in front of the guard.

  She cleared her throat and he jerked in surprise, opening his eyes to stare up at her. “I’m all out of starch,” she said, turning the box over so he could see inside. “The Kommandant likes extra. Can you take me over to the supply room where I can get some more?”

  The guard looked at her in irritation for a few moments, then exhaled loudly and nodded. He rose and led her out of the building, and they walked together toward the supply warehouse. The laundry room was about midway between the administrative building and her destination. They moved quickly in the bit
ter cold.

  “I’ll be just a few minutes,” she said, walking ahead so that she reached the door first. This was an important moment. If he went in with her or retrieved the starch for her, there was nothing she could do. Her heart nearly beat out of her chest, but she was able to enter the building first, and she saw with relief that her escort merely stepped inside from the cold but made no effort to follow her farther into the building.

  She blinked to adjust to the dim light within the building. When she was finally able to do so, she found a skinny SS corporal working away at a table, scribbling figures into a large book. He looked up after a few moments and recognized her immediately.

  “May I help you?” he asked. His voice wasn’t unfriendly.

  “Hello,” she said. “I need to speak with Sergeant Mueller, please.”

  The corporal eyed her curiously. She’d never asked to see the sergeant before. She’d only been to the warehouse a handful of times to collect an item or two for Gunther.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “It’s not anything important,” she said. “I just have a couple things to talk to him about, that’s all. A private request from the Kommandant.”

  The corporal still hesitated, but she knew he couldn’t cross Gunther. He rose, motioned for her to follow, and led her a dozen steps over to the office. He knocked at the door, and she heard a muffled voice in response. It was Erik. She felt her nervousness rise again. She knew he’d been prohibited from speaking to her. Other than a couple of awkward glances, they hadn’t exchanged any communication the entire time he’d been in the camp. She felt a little sting of anger about that. He must know her predicament, yet he’d done nothing to help her.

  “You have a visitor,” said the corporal.

  She heard steps. Erik appeared in the doorway. She saw his expression register a startled surprise, and he hesitated for a moment before he spoke.

  “What can I do for you?” he said finally.

  “Nothing much,” she said. “There’s a couple of things Gunther asked me to get for him.”