Daisies Are Forever

by Liz Tolsma

  Annelies blinked away her tears. “I can be a big girl.”

  “Me too. I be a big girl.” Renate refused to let her sister get the last word.

  “Very good. I’m proud of you.”

  “Tante Gisela, would you sing the wagon song for us again?”

  “Ja, wagon song.”

  “You walk and follow Herr Holtzmann, and we can sing the song.”

  Herr Holtzmann mounted his bicycle and the group rolled down the streets of the sleepy village, the girls in all their clothing waddling along like two penguins.

  High on the yellow coach

  I sit in front with the coachman.

  The white horses start trotting,

  Merrily peals the horn.

  Meadows, pastures, and marshes,

  Ripening grain shimmering gold.

  How I would like to stay,

  But the coach rolls on.

  The group sang the refrain several times—the Holtzmann sisters the loudest—before they arrived at a squat stone farmhouse, brightly lit windows staring at them. A huge barn overshadowed the cheery, inviting home, the once-vivid green exterior in need of a new coat of paint.

  An older woman met them at the entrance when they knocked. Her mouth dropped into an O. “Oy, Dietrich, is it good to see you and your sisters. And this.” She scanned the bedraggled band and a smile curved her lips. “Who is this you have brought us?”

  “Let me introduce Gisela Cramer and her cousin’s children, Renate and Annelies Reinhardt. Ladies, this is Frau Becker.”

  Annelies went to shake the woman’s hand, polite as her mother had taught her. Instead, the woman, a heavy crown of braids ringing her head, pulled the child into a grandmotherly hug. “Little girls. So long it has been since we had little girls.”

  Renate flung herself into the old woman’s embrace. “Me too.”

  Frau Becker laughed. “Of course. We should not forget you.”

  For the millionth time that day, Gisela’s heart tugged with thoughts of her grandfather. He loved the girls so much. They should have had more years together.

  God, please take care of him.

  Frau Becker ushered the group into the house, already overflowing with refugees. Bedding covered the parlor floor and the couches and chairs. Farther into the home, women jostled for position at the stove. Frau Becker patted her hand. “You see, we don’t have much room. What we have, though, you are welcome to.”

  The noise and heat and confusion started a pounding behind Gisela’s left eye. “That is very kind of you.” If they stayed here, they would have to sleep standing up.

  Herr Holtzmann cleared his throat. “Your husband, is he around?”

  All at once, the joy left the older woman’s eyes. “Heinz had a stroke this fall. He cannot move his left side, and his speech isn’t so good anymore. That is why we stay. We cannot leave with him like this.”

  Herr Holtzmann nodded and rubbed the spot between his nose and lips. “I would like to see him.”

  Their hostess pushed her way through the crowd and down the hall to the last of two doors on the left. “You visit with him for a while. We have some room in the attic. There is no heat, but you are welcome to stay there. Or the barn, but I fear those conditions are worse. That is all I have. Come, girls, let me help you settle.” Herr Holtzmann slipped inside and shut the door.

  Frau Becker never stayed still, her hands moving even when the rest of her body didn’t, and she reached the top attic step before Gisela had willed herself to reach the third. When Gisela was a child, Mutti had always wished for a tenth of Gisela’s energy. She now understood the feeling. She had to drag her feet up the flight of stairs.

  The sloped roof, its rafters exposed, covered the large space. Even here, though, there would be no privacy. Groups had spread blankets and duvets over almost every square inch of the room. Gisela stared at one woman, her round face unlined though gray streaked her dark hair. The strands hung loose and dirty around her face. She held a screaming infant and patted the child’s bottom.

  The stench of unwashed bodies pressed in on Gisela. She squeezed the girls’ hands. She had imagined conditions to be poor, but not like this.

  Frau Becker shook her head. “These people keep coming and coming, and they don’t stop. More and more every day. You don’t want to sleep in the barn. I wonder, where will this crowd go? Is there food for so many in the west?”

  After they had hidden in the underbrush for a while, Mitch and Xavier continued to run across snow-covered fields, tripping and stumbling along until the world spun in front of Mitch’s eyes. When his legs cramped so he couldn’t take another step, they sought shelter on the dark side of a barn. This farm stood off the main road.

  Over their panting, Mitch listened for any sound of approaching German soldiers. He strained his ears for the slightest giveaway—a footstep, a cough, a whisper. The night remained still. He put his hands on his knees and took several deep breaths.

  Xavier slapped him on the back. “Away by the skin of our teeth, mate. That was grand fun.”

  Mitch raised his eyebrows. “Grand fun? You’ve gone crackers. Let’s not do that ever again. We have to be more careful from here on out. Follow the crowds but at more of a distance.”

  “Trouble is, we’ve left our dixies and pans and Spam at that farmhouse. Not to mention our last couple of matches.”

  It was an awful blow, but what could they do? There was no way Mitch was stepping foot back on that property. “We’ll have to improvise.”

  “I improvise that we go back and retrieve our supplies.”

  “Now I know you’re crackers, Xavier. That woman would turn us in without blinking an eye.”

  “Listen, I have a brilliant idea. We’ll slink in and grab our supplies and out we go. In an hour or two, everyone will be sleeping and no one will know we’ve been there.”

  “And that’s your brilliant idea?” Over the years, Mitch had to talk Xavier out of more brilliant ideas than he could dare count. And there were plenty he hadn’t talked him out of. His dad disapproved of Mitch palling around with Xavier, afraid he would get a criminal record and ruin his chances at becoming a solicitor.

  “And yours is what?”

  “Getting some sleep.” Mitch pushed open the big barn door just enough to slip inside. Xavier, thankfully, followed.

  “You can get all the sleep you want. I’m going back. Without those supplies, we’re sunk lower than a U-boat.” Xavier stomped out.

  After all these years, he knew how to get under Mitch’s skin. “Xavier, listen to reason. Is a nearly empty can of Spam and two old tin cups worth a shot through the heart? Not to me. Not by a long sight. We can eat snow and raw potatoes.”

  But Xavier didn’t listen. In the glow of the snow, Mitch watched him march off. Did he dare shout after him and risk waking the farmer’s family? Mitch stomped after his friend. You’d think so many years in a POW camp would have taught Xavier some common sense.

  Mitch caught up and marched alongside Xavier, not saying a word. At least this time they wouldn’t end up walking around in circles, their footprints from earlier their guidepost.

  The cold night air bit through his coat and his worn gloves. Mitch had no feeling left in his toes and doubted he ever would again. Each step brought excruciating pain to his legs. “Is this worth a can of that rubbish they call meat? You do realize that one refugee or another will have gobbled it up by now. If not handed it over to the Germans as proof we were there.”

  “We’re this far. Let’s keep going. There’s no harm in looking, is there?”

  They walked and walked, never getting to that farm. Where could it have gone? It was impossible for them to go wrong this time. They had run far and long and fast, but even so, they should have come upon it by now.

  Lost in the whiteness that was East Prussia.

  Survived five years to die like this.

  Xavier was right. He was a cheery chap tonight.

  He wanted to lie down in
the snow and go to sleep.

  Xavier marched alongside him. “Keep awake, mate. Don’t let hypothermia get the best of you. We’re almost there. I have the feeling we’ve been here before.”

  “Am I supposed to laugh at that?”

  “I mean it. Is that it?” Xavier pointed at a light on the horizon. “Fires in the farmyard, perhaps?”

  Mitch couldn’t be sure. “Let’s head in that direction. The worst it could be is our friends from the stalag.”

  Xavier clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit. I like your optimism.”

  Just when Mitch believed he couldn’t put one foot in front of the other yet again, they made out the small house and the large barn. A farmyard. The layout matched with the one in his memory. As the first rays of sunlight pinked the sky, they arrived full circle at the place they had fled.

  They slunk into the still-quiet yard. A few unlucky ones slept out of doors, wrapped in layers of blankets near their fires. Together they searched the area without success. Mitch shot Xavier an I-told-you-so glance. He had the gall to shrug.

  Motioning that it was time to get out of here, Mitch turned to leave. As he did so, he bumped into someone. Not just anyone.

  The scrawny, greasy-haired woman from the night before.

  She stared at him. He peered at the point where her gaze bore into him. His lapel. The Nazi SS uniform that he and Xavier had stolen before their escape. Why was she so intent on what he wore? He crossed his arms to keep them from shaking.

  The woman stood, jiggling her wailing infant on her hip. He turned away from her, pretending he was looking for something.

  He was.

  A way out.

  He nudged Xavier and tipped his head in the woman’s direction.

  The woman stepped in front of him. “Guten morgen.” Her breath stank of rotting teeth.

  His mouth went dry. “Guten morgen.” Why didn’t she leave him alone?

  “What unit did you serve with?”

  Mitch pointed to the stylized SS on the lapel of his dark coat, hoping his shaking fingers wouldn’t give him away. “Stalag guard.”

  She tucked one dirty strand of hair behind her ear and leaned over him. “Then why aren’t you with the prisoners?”

  “Separated from our unit. I told you so last night.” Xavier stood tall.

  She tilted her head and squinted her lifeless blue eyes. Then she spat at their feet. “You are no SS guards.”

  “We are.”

  “Nein. Listen to you talk. You are either American or British.”

  “German,” Mitch growled at her. If she found out the truth . . .

  “You killed him.”

  “I killed no one.” The unfortunate truth.

  She lunged at him. “My husband was in France, you dog, on the beach. The British killed him.”

  War slapped him in the face. His legs quivered. She would turn him in to the authorities who, busy driving westward, had little time to deal with escaped prisoners. They shot the escapees before they could defend themselves.

  “Go away.” He ground his teeth to keep them from chattering.

  “You killed him.”

  FOUR

  February 10

  Gisela woke, stiff and cold in the early morning hours, surprised she had slept at all, what with the crying babies and the old man who talked in his sleep. Most of her companions continued to slumber in this dark, freezing attic. Even Renate and Annelies still dreamed. Beside them, the Holtzmann sisters snored. Off in the distance, mortar fire broke the stillness.

  Gisela had left her hairbrush in the cart. The girls needed to have their hair rebraided, and she wanted to work out her own tangles. Compared to all that was happening around them, it was a minor thing, but it would make her feel better. More civilized.

  She rose and Herr Holtzmann stirred beside her. “Where are you going?”

  She bent over him and tucked the blanket around his shoulders. “I need something from my cart. Stay here and stay warm as long as possible. I’ll be back soon.”

  She picked her way over and around the prone, sleeping forms of her fellow refugees. Playing on her tire swing as a child in her yard in California, free and happy, her sister Margot at her side, Gisela never dreamed she would find herself in this kind of situation. Not even when Vater moved them to Germany nine years ago.

  Downstairs, a few women used the small stove. She predicted that within an hour, the kitchen would be packed, humming with women cooking breakfast for their families. Not too many people had roused themselves in the yard yet. Horses munched on a little patch of grass they had uncovered. While a horse and wagon would make their burden much lighter, the animals required food and care. Their bicycles did the job just fine.

  She stopped to think a moment, trying to remember where they had left their belongings the night before. On the far side of the yard, she located their carts.

  But no bicycles.

  Where were they? Gisela pivoted around, sure they would appear.

  Her search yielded nothing.

  This couldn’t be happening. Did they unhitch them and park them somewhere else? No, she would remember doing that. Then again, she had been exhausted.

  She turned and stared at her cart. And at Herr Holtzmann’s. How would they pull them, loaded as they were, without the bicycles? And how would she tell him? Her head spun. She stood with her hands on her hips and closed her eyes, trying to wish this all away. Yes, when she opened her eyes, she would see those bicycles.

  Or better yet, find herself snug and warm and safe in her bed at home.

  One, two, three.

  Nothing.

  She scurried from cart to cart, examining each bicycle. Someone must have mistaken Ella’s for theirs. Many were similar. One looked like it but didn’t have a scratch on the frame. She had fallen one day when the road was muddy and a rock nicked it.

  Only looking at the bikes and not at where she was going, Gisela slammed into an older man, almost knocking him over. She took hold of his arm just in time. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  The man’s mustache twitched. “No harm done. What are you looking for?”

  Gisela swallowed back the tears. Crying would accomplish nothing. “Our bicycles. Someone stole them during the night. We left them hitched to our carts, but they’re gone. Herr Holtzmann needs that bike.”

  He patted her shoulder with his gnarled hand. “Slow down, fräulein, let me help you.”

  “Have you seen them? Can you help me?”

  But they were nowhere around. They had vanished. She rubbed her throbbing temple.

  Shouting drew her attention. The woman with the bedraggled hair and the screaming baby towered over two soldiers. “You dirty Brit, you killed my husband in Normandy. You are those men the SS was looking for last night.”

  “Nein, nein. We are German officers.” The one man’s hand shook as he drew it through his dark, wavy hair.

  The woman, however, was right. She could tell it in his speech. He was British.

  A friend.

  An ally to an American such as herself.

  She scanned the crowd. The woman’s outburst had awoken and captured the attention of many. They knew the truth. Such a mob would be all over him in a matter of minutes. And they would do away with him.

  Her legs moved forward of their own volition and her mouth formed the words she hadn’t bothered to check. “Leave them alone. This one”—she pointed to the dark-haired one—“he is my husband. He fought bravely for the Fatherland.” She stepped beside him.

  He gave her a tepid smile, doubt and confusion in his fabulous brown eyes.

  The woman shifted her weight and jutted out her right hip. “If so, then who is he?” She motioned toward the fair-skinned man with a shock of bright red hair sticking out from under his hat.

  Her heart pounded, the full impact of what she was doing dawning on her. “My brother-in-law.”

  “Why are they here?”

&n
bsp; Very good question. Very, very good question. She hugged herself to still her trembling. If she had thought through her actions, she would have a ready answer. She turned to her supposed husband who lifted his shoulders in an almost-imperceptible shrug.

  Her mind refused to conjure up a reason.

  The woman tapped her foot.

  “They were shot.”

  “Sure. Millions of our boys have been shot. If they don’t die like my husband did, they keep fighting.”

  The man beside her tapped her arm, then his chest.

  “My husband was shot near the heart. Ja, the bullet just missed his heart. They were unable to remove it.”

  “I thought he was a POW guard.”

  The man could have told her that. Or he could have answered the question. “Ja, after he was shot, he went to be a guard. He can no longer handle the rigors of marching and fighting. It could kill him. He served our homeland.”

  “And your brother-in-law?”

  “He is carrying a special message for the Führer.”

  “The Führer?”

  Both men gazed at her, as did the woman shaking her head. With her stomach dancing in her abdomen, Gisela nodded.

  The woman gave them all a look as hard as stone, then turned away.

  Gisela released a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

  “Brunhilda.” The man touched her hand.

  Warmth spread through her despite the frigid temperatures. “Pardon me?”

  His eyes widened when he heard her speak in English. He replied in that tongue. “That’s what I’m calling that old bird. Rather appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “I think you’re lucky she didn’t turn you in.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “American?”

  She nodded.

  “Now I understand why you helped us. You’re a swell gal.”

  “It would be best if you didn’t speak at all. Your German is poor and your English is dangerous. I’m Gisela Cramer.”

  “Mitch Edwards.”

  “Xavier McDonald.”