by Liz Tolsma
Her cousin was getting Renate ready but again she didn’t speak as she tugged a wool sweater over her daughter’s head. As Gisela helped Annelies sit on the bed beside her sister and pull on two pairs of heavy wool socks, the child looked at her with round gray eyes. “Where are we going?”
“On an adventure. Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Gisela willed her trembling fingers to tie the little shoe faster. “We will see different places and meet many different people. Perhaps we will get to ride on a train. Would you like that?”
Annelies nodded, her blond curls bouncing. “I want to ride on a train.”
Her three-year-old sister refused to be left out of the fun. “I go on the train too.”
“Ja, Renate, you may go on the train too.”
“Hooray.” The girls bounced on their feather mattress.
Ella gave Renate a stern glance. “You must sit still so I can get you dressed. It is going to be cold and you need to keep warm.” Cold didn’t quite capture the bone-chilling twenty-below Celsius temperature the thermometer recorded.
They carried the girls downstairs because they couldn’t move well with the clothes they had on—their two coats each, their toboggan hats, and shoes with boots over them.
Gisela stopped short when she saw Opa, dozing once more in his threadbare chair. He had not begun to prepare for the flight west. She shook him to wake him. “It’s time to leave. You must get dressed.”
Opa opened his eyes, as blue as the East Prussian sky in summer. He patted her hand. “Gisela, my dear child, I cannot leave. You know that in your heart. Please go. Don’t make this more difficult than it is.”
She knelt beside Opa and clasped his hands in hers. “How can I leave you?”
“You have a job to do. Get Ella’s kinder to safety. What happens to us is God’s will.” He kissed the top of her head, then took his Bible from his lap. The binding was worn, having been opened many times throughout the years. From within the pages, he drew out a paper and handed it to Gisela.
It wasn’t a paper, but a daisy pressed in between sheets of waxed paper. The flower looked like it might have been picked yesterday.
“I gave a bouquet of daisies to your oma when we were courting. It was her favorite flower. They reminded her of God’s pureness and holiness. She told me that if you put them in water, they last forever. This one she took from the bunch and pressed it in her Bible. When she died, I slipped it in mine, in the same passage where she had it. I want you to take this. Put it in Isaiah chapter 43.”
“This is for me?”
“Ja. When the road gets hard, I want you to remember the daisy. And the passage it is in.”
Gisela clung to her grandfather, their tears mingling and dripping down their cheeks. A little piece of her heart tore away. How could she do this?
Opa released his hold on her. “It is time to go. Remember. ‘When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee.’ ”
Gisela nodded and kissed him on the cheek. With trembling fingers, she retrieved her English Bible from her suitcase, the one she had earned for good Sunday school attendance at their church in California. Flipping the pages, she located Isaiah 43. Tears blurred her vision so she couldn’t read the words. She placed the daisy between the pages and closed the brown leather cover.
Once outside, the women bundled the girls in the cart, wool blankets and bright quilts covering all but their button noses. Gisela pulled her daisy-studded scarf around her neck.
In the bursts of light cast by the exploding bombs, Gisela became aware of the refugees filing past them, a stream of humanity headed toward safety. She set her attention behind her, to the house they were leaving. Her mother’s parents had lived here all their married lives, and she and her parents had come here each summer from the States.
For the last time, she crossed inside and stood in the hall. Closing her eyes, she allowed the memories to wash over her. She smelled Oma’s kitchen and the scent of her pink and yellow roses from the garden, felt the cool, smooth wood floors beneath her bare feet and the softness of the feather mattress.
She heard Margot’s laugh, her light snoring in the bed beside her, smelled the fragrance of her rose water.
She remembered how her opa’s mustache tickled her cheek when he kissed her good night, how he smelled like the pipe tobacco he loved to smoke, how his big hand engulfed her little one as they wandered the streets of the city.
The grandfather clock in the hall, well-oiled with beeswax, chimed the hour.
How many times had she and Margot lain in bed well into the depths of the night, listening to the clock toll each quarter hour? A few tears eeked from the corners of her eyes as she heard Opa’s bass, singing German folk songs to her, lulling her to sleep.
Nothing would ever be the same. She would never return to this house. All she would have left would be a handful of memories.
And a daisy tucked in her Bible.
TWO
Mitch Edwards breathed in and out, the cold air stinging his nose, burning his lungs. The winter sun had almost disappeared beneath the western horizon, bathing the East Prussian countryside in red and orange and yellow. A little stone farmhouse stood in silhouette against the sky, a barn a short distance from the residence.
Xavier McDonald, his fellow British soldier and stalag companion, stopped and rubbed his skinny calf, a horde of refugees streaming past them. Muscle cramps again. “Inside or outside tonight?”
Mitch’s own legs ached. He shrugged. “What does it matter? This ghastly long line of refugees means we’ll either have cold or filth tonight.”
“You’re a cheery chap.”
Mitch scratched at the lice that had established a colony in his matted hair. He had a difficult time with cheer when a hard lump settled in the pit of his stomach. Since slipping away from their German captors a few days ago, he had reason to believe they had been walking in circles.
Just as they had in France in 1940.
Xavier had followed Mitch then. Where would he lead them now? Would they be able to rejoin their mates? His throat constricted. One poor decision years ago with a horrible outcome. Though he tried to deny it, he feared another wretched result.
Xavier should never have put his confidence in him.
Today they had met up with this river of refugees. They had to know where they were headed. If Xavier and he could blend in, they could make it to the Allies.
The trampled snow turned into frozen mud beneath Mitch’s worn boots. He blew into his icy hands and rubbed them together. Mitch and Xavier and the line of German refugees—their enemies—trudged on until they approached the neat little farm. The barn rose higher than the squat stucco house, but the windows of the residence gleamed light and smoke spiraled from the chimney.
The farmyard, encircled by the house, the barn, and a couple of outbuildings, was mass chaos. Old people set up camp while children ran in circles, shouting to each other. Women gathered firewood from the row of oak and pine trees along the property line and gleaned root vegetables from the fields.
Xavier and Mitch gathered as much kindling as possible. “My light tonight?” Xavier’s hand shook as he grasped the precious match. One of the few they had left from the Red Cross relief packages sent to them in the stalag. Mitch nodded.
Xavier applied the flame to the sticks while Mitch blew a light breath over the brushwood. His Boy Scout skills did not fail him, and within minutes they were melting snow in their dixies, adding a little powdered milk from their almost-exhausted care packages to make a hot drink.
Mitch sipped the beverage, careful not to burn his tongue. “One thing I will miss when the war is over is the powdered milk, eggs, cheese, meat, everything.”
Xavier laughed. “It’s a sight better than the sauerkraut the German farm woman smothered everything in when the work detail sent me to her.”
“Now you’re making me hungry. Stay here and man the fire. I’ll see what I can find to go with the last of that Spam.”
The dark figures of hunched women dotted the open field. Though six inches of snow lay on top of the furrows, he hoped to find a potato or two that hadn’t rotted. He pushed away the snow with his boot’s toe. Nothing but bare dirt. A shout went up from the far corner of the field. Some lucky bloke would have a feast tonight.
Fifteen futile minutes passed before Mitch struck gold. In his gleaning, he uncovered two small potatoes. If they hadn’t been frozen, they would have been mushy, but the hunger gnawing at his insides refused to let him pass over these prizes. He bent and picked them up, then stuffed them into his coat pocket before making his way back to Xavier and their small fire.
He held up the prized potatoes.
“We’re blessed tonight.” Xavier took them and placed them among the glowing embers.
“Hey, you.” A woman’s voice came from behind them.
Mitch turned to spot her hurrying toward them. “Ja?”
The slender, beak-nosed woman crouched beside their fire. Her long, jagged fingernails reminded him of eagle’s talons. “You and you.” She pointed at each of them. “Why are you here and not fighting for the Fatherland?”
They had both learned German during their five years of captivity, but they had definite British accents. The guards would often laugh at their clumsy attempts to speak the language.
Xavier answered for them. “Separated from our unit.”
“Where are your rifles?”
“Lost.” Their captors had confiscated them.
She harrumphed before getting up and walking away. How many others questioned why he and Xavier were among this group?
His friend scooted forward, clutching his tin cup with the warm, thin milk. “A close shave, that. What a nosy bird, that woman.”
Mitch nodded. “You get us into trouble. I get us out.”
“Life wouldn’t be fun without a bit a trouble.”
Off in the distance, a train whistle blew. Mitch wondered where it might be going. “Like the time we nearly burned down your pop’s barn when we threw the chicken on the fire without plucking it?”
“My mum laid into me so hard for that one, I had a tough time sitting in the pew the next morning.”
“No surprise that you’d get me to join the army with you on a dare.” Mitch shook his head.
“That’s what friends do. And you’ve yet to thank me.”
“Father will tar and feather you if he ever sees you again.”
Xavier laughed, then sat back and finished his milk. After a while, he rolled the potatoes from the fire with his cup. “Supper’s ready, mate. Eat up.”
Though the skins burned, the potatoes inside were half raw and half rotten. Xavier nibbled at his. Much too impatient to savor his supper, Mitch scarfed down his meager meal, then took a bite of his Spam.
He had just set his cup on the ground and sat back with a satisfied sigh when they heard the rumbling of a motor. A jeep sped into the farmyard, scattering refugees like a flock of birds.
A pair of Wehrmacht officers jumped from the vehicle, guns cocked. They appeared nearly identical—tall, muscular, Aryan perfection. “We’re looking for two escaped prisoners. Brits.”
Mitch clenched his fists. He recognized these soldiers. SS guards watching the men they drove from the stalag ahead of the Russians. Xavier jabbed him in the ribs.
The group melted back. A voice sounded from near the barn. “If we found them, we would have shot them.”
A cheer rose from the assembly.
Mitch was surprised the guards had come this far. Surprised they were out searching for them at all, they were in such a hurry to stay ahead of the Soviets. He held his breath.
“They might be impersonating German soldiers.”
The woman with the long nose stepped forward. Mitch grabbed Xavier by the upper arm. Crouched low, they inched their way from the fire—and the mob. With everyone’s attention focused on the stalag guards, they took the chance to get away. Once they cleared the farmyard, they broke into a full-out run.
Footsteps pounded behind them. “Halten sie! Halten sie!” Gunshots punctuated the soldiers’ orders for them to stop. In the gathering darkness, their aim was poor. The field was uneven, the furrows impeding the men’s progress. Xavier stumbled. Mitch grabbed his mate and dragged him along.
His lungs burned with each frigid breath, though sweat poured down the back of his stolen uniform. His cramped legs cried out for him to stop, but he couldn’t. They couldn’t. To do so would be to die.
The Germans continued calling for them. At first, their voices came from right behind. Now they sounded a little farther to the side. Could they have lost them?
Mitch didn’t stop to think, just kept sprinting. Lord, don’t let me run in circles this time. Help us.
They reached the edge of the field where pines and oaks grew along the property line and dove for cover in the underbrush.
THREE
The weight of exhaustion bore down on Gisela’s shoulders. Her legs burned from the effort of pedaling the bicycle while her toes burned with the cold. Her eyes refused her command to stay open, her eyelids fluttering like flags in the breeze. Annelies and Renate had cried themselves to sleep around dawn. At first Gisela had been glad for the quiet, but now their screaming would help keep her awake and alert.
Herr Holtzmann pedaled behind her, his handcart trailing him. Each time she glanced back, he had fallen a little farther behind. Bettina and Katya trudged alongside. The older of the two sisters, Bettina, drew her blue wool coat around her bony frame. Even with the distance between them, Gisela caught Bettina’s remarks.
“Brother, why are we out strolling at this time of night? This is not sensible. I have never heard the likes of such things, have you, Sister?” Her words whistled between the gap in her front teeth.
Herr Holtzmann sighed. He must grow weary of the bizarre questions his senile sisters barraged him with.
All throughout the night, Gisela’s thoughts returned to the little house in Heiligenbeil. What must be happening to Ella? She glanced at the children asleep in the cart. Both of them had inherited their mother’s button nose, and both had their mother’s freckles spattered across their faces.
With half-frozen fingers, Gisela gripped the bicycle’s handlebars tighter. How would she explain their mother’s choices to the children? They had lost so much already.
And what about Opa? Every time she thought about him, her throat ached. He was an old man. Would the Soviets take pity on him?
Nein. She knew the answer. She bit back her tears.
She slowed her pedaling and rode to the side of the congested street to allow Herr Holtzmann to catch up to her. Wagons, carts, and people so clogged the road that he almost drove past. She waved and he pushed his way toward them.
She dismounted. “Your cart is too heavy for you. Let me see what I can take and what we might be able to leave.” She rummaged through his belongings, pulling a few cast-iron pots and pans from in between the bedding and setting them alongside the road.
Katya unloaded a box spilling over with picture albums and books and transferred it to Gisela’s cart. Bettina joined in, grabbing a load of stuff in her scrawny arms and plopping it on Annelies.
Herr Holtzmann hurried to pull the pile from on top of the giggling girl. “Sisters, that is enough. We can’t let Gisela carry all of our belongings.”
Still digging in the Holtzmanns’ quilts, Gisela pulled out a mantel clock, painted blue with yellow flowers scrolled across the case. She held it high. “Do you need this?”
He swallowed hard and pulled his cap farther over his balding head. “Ursula loved that clock. It has been in her family for a long time.”
Gisela
tried to ignore the wistfulness in the man’s voice. It was impractical. Better they leave his late wife’s clock than the pots. You couldn’t warm food in a timepiece. His pleading blue eyes begged her not to dispose of this treasure. Then she thought of her Bible and her treasure tucked in its pages. Never would she want to leave it. She placed the clock among the blankets and pillows once more.
Herr Holtzmann kissed her cheek with his chapped lips. “Danke. You understand. It is all I have left of her. Sixty years and that is all that remains.” His eyes watered with unshed tears. Gisela turned away, not wanting to give way to her own grief.
A moment later, he touched her shoulder. “It is nearly noon. My friend and his wife own a farm along this road. Let’s find him and see if he has a place for us to rest and a room for us to spend the night. You look like you need a decent sleep.”
Dark circles rimmed his eyes. She imagined she looked much the same. “You too. But are we far enough ahead of the Soviets? What if they catch up to us?” What if they were overtaken while they slept? Gisela’s stomach flipped.
In the cart Renate stirred. She scanned her surroundings, her eyes large. Tears gathered and threatened to spill. “Where is Mutti? I want Mutti to come.”
Annelies squared her shoulders. Gisela sensed she fought the urge to break into tears herself. Gisela longed for her own mutti as much as Renate wanted hers. Family. Most of these people were going anywhere as long as it was west. She needed to get to Berlin, to take care of her mutti. From there they could travel to Munich.
Renate continued to cry for her mother. How could Ella have abandoned them? At least when Gisela’s parents sent her east, she was an adult.
She pulled the girls from the cart and gathered them close. “Your mutti will be along very, very soon. She had to finish some work and take care of Opa, and then she is going to join us. Remember, we are having a great adventure. We will make new friends and see new things. You have to be big girls.” They didn’t understand their loss.