Daisies Are Forever

by Liz Tolsma

  Gisela pointed at the tall, thin man, Xavier. “You are Siegfried Munchen.” She pointed at his friend who stood three or four inches shorter. “And you are Josep Cramer. You are supposed to be German and I am supposed to be your wife. Too many people heard that little exchange, so we will have to continue the charade for a while longer. Where did you come from?”

  “Stalag XX-A.” Xavier cracked his knuckles.

  “A POW camp.”

  He nodded.

  Great. Not only were they English, but they were escaped prisoners of war. Her headache got worse. “Are you going to wait here for the Soviets?”

  Mitch leaned forward, his eyes darkening, intensifying. “Too much of a risk. We’ve heard that oftentimes the Russians treat other Allied soldiers no better than their German prisoners. They’re brutal. That’s the rumor in camp. Not the allies we want to meet up with. So we’ll be moving on.”

  Gisela rubbed her hands together. This posed a problem. “You need to stay with me then, since we’re supposed to be together and all. I’m traveling with three old people and my cousin’s two young daughters. I have to tend to them, but be ready to leave as soon as possible.”

  One positive to the situation was that Mitch and Xavier could pull carts. Though they were skinny, they had to be stronger than Herr Holtzmann. They could prove useful.

  She spun to return to the house to awaken the rest of her group.

  Whether Herr Holtzmann liked it or not, their party had grown by two.

  “Gisela, what took you so long?” Herr Holtzmann stood in the middle of the clan waiting for her in the front hall, the sisters carrying beat-up suitcases. The girls grinned and ran to hug her legs. She could manage nothing more than a slight smile.

  “You look like the world is going to end.” His words, as soothing as her opa’s, almost did her in.

  She studied the cracked leather of her brown shoes. So much had happened in the little while she had been gone. “That sounds very good right now.”

  “It is better if you spit out poison.”

  He had a point. “A thief stole our bicycles last night.”

  Herr Holtzmann sucked in his breath and let it out little by little. “Then we have to pull the carts by hand.” He said it in such a matter-of-fact way.

  “It will slow us. And we have two other members of our party.”

  Bettina shoved her bony elbow into her sister’s equally bony ribs. “A party. What a splendid idea. Do you think my pink dress will do? Perhaps it needs to be altered.”

  Herr Holtzmann ignored his sisters as they planned the shindig of the century. “Anyone is welcome.”

  She dropped her voice to a whisper. “They are escaped English POWs masquerading as German SS officers. My concern is for the girls. Is it too dangerous?”

  “Danger is what life is about these days. We never know when our time will come. Do you want to help these men?”

  Crazy as it was, she did. The Lord had pricked her heart. She nodded. “They would be assets, helping pull the carts or carry the girls.”

  “That’s fine with me. Bigger problems are in front of us. Frau Becker told me, and I overheard it from some of the other men, that the road to Elbing has been cut off.”

  “Cut off?”

  “Ja. The Russians are to the south of us and to the east and west.”

  The Frische Haff, a large lagoon on the Baltic Sea, lay to the north. “We’re trapped.”

  “I would say so.”

  Much as she tried to control herself, her voice rose in pitch. “Then what do we do? Where do we go? Back to Heiligenbeil to face the inevitable?” Screams echoed in her head. Pleas for help. She took a deep breath. They couldn’t go back. They couldn’t. The girls stared at her, their mouths open.

  The Holtzmann sisters took a break from their party planning. “Swimming in the Frische Haff in this weather?” Bettina tapped her forehead. “Brother, you have become addle brained in your old age. Wouldn’t you agree, Sister?”

  Katya nodded, her speckled gray hair peeking out from underneath her brown hood. “I don’t much care for swimming myself.”

  Annelies tugged on Gisela’s arm. “Are we going swimming?”

  “Nein.” Though if the Soviets continued their three-way assault, they may have no other choice. Her stomach clenched. She leaned closer to Herr Holtzmann. “How will we escape? Is there a way?”

  “Don’t worry. We will go over the Frische Haff.”

  “Your sister is right. You have lost your mind.”

  He chuckled. “My mind is right here. The lagoon is frozen. We will walk over it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  An hour later, the vast whiteness of the Frische Haff stretched in front of the little band. Gisela stood unbelieving as a sea of humanity flowed forward, plodding across the ice of the lagoon, dark against the frozen brightness. She thought of her own black coat and how it made her vulnerable.

  A road of sorts had been sketched out across the ice. The German army had placed small trees along the way to mark the path the refugees needed to take. Out in the blinding, unending whiteness, it would be very easy to get lost.

  Mitch caught up to her and stood at her shoulder. “A far cry from the green hills of England.”

  “So you’re not from London?”

  “Not quite. The little town of Kendal. My mum and pop have lived there all their lives. My sister too, until she moved to Dorchester.”

  “You miss it. And them.”

  “My mum, anyway. It’s been a long five years.”

  “That’s how long you’ve been a POW?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has your father passed away?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “You said you miss your mother, but you said nothing about him.”

  “We have a complicated relationship. Shall we?” He led the way down the beach and onto the ice.

  Gisela took the hint and dropped the subject.

  After a while, the trees became redundant. The side of the “road” was littered with dead horses, discarded goods, and broken-down carts. Gisela tried to take it in at the same time she tried to close her mind to what played out in front of her.

  They plodded farther in silence, needing every bit of every breath to continue trudging forward. In places, small holes littered the ice. Herr Holtzmann had gathered a stick from the bank and walked in front of them, testing the depth of the water on the surface at those points. In some places, it was more than ankle deep. Their shoes and stockings and pants legs were wet.

  And cold. Gisela shivered.

  “How are you doing?” Mitch pulled the heavy cart without complaint.

  “Swell.” Ella and Opa had been right. He would never have survived this trip. Would any of them?

  “You’ve taken my title as the cheeriest chap on the planet.”

  She had to give him a little smile for his effort. “I’d like to feel my toes again someday.”

  “You will. And when you do, they’ll hurt like the dickens.”

  “Ah, now I see how you earned that title in the first place.” But Mitch was correct. She tried not to think of the pain that awaited her when they finally left the ice. Whenever that would be.

  They continued the trek, the line of refugees stretching as far in front of them as they could see and as far in back of them. The scene was surreal, like it should be in a motion picture and she should be Greta Garbo.

  “I want to get out.” Annelies leaned over the side of the cart as she whined. Poor kid. She had to be restless. Mitch lifted her and set her on a stretch of ice not pockmarked by bullets and missiles. She gave him the biggest grin and began gliding across the slick surface.

  A little bit ahead, Gisela spied a dark bundle on the right side of the road. Probably left there by someone who could no longer carry the heavy burden. The goods were wrapped in a gray army-style blanket. She broke off from the group. “I’m going to see what’s in tha
t package.”

  Herr Holtzmann on her left nodded. “Do you need the extra weight?”

  “Nein, but there might be valuables in there we could use. We have two strong men now.” She removed her heavy wool mittens and unwrapped the blanket.

  Her breath caught in her throat. A baby. Eyes closed, lips blue.

  She cradled the infant in her arms.

  Cold.

  Stiff.

  Dead.

  Her eyes stung.

  Who would leave their baby like this? How could they walk away from their child? The thought sickened her.

  A Soviet plane droned overhead.

  A tiefflieger.

  The single plane broke through the clouds, its shiny silver fuselage catching the light. The pilot wheeled around and gunfire rained down on them.

  Rat-a-tat-tat.

  Gisela spun to the left and to the right. Bright-white ice surrounded them. No trees. No ditches. No homes.

  Rat-a-tat-tat.

  Annelies broke off her gliding, her gray eyes huge in her face, her mouth hanging open. Mitch tackled the child to the ground like an American football player.

  Rat-a-tat-tat.

  Renate shrieked in the cart. Gisela flung herself on top of the toddler.

  All around, women and children screamed. They melded with the screams of her aunt and cousins. Screams of the present, screams of the past.

  Gisela clutched her chest, finding it hard to breathe. The Russian pilot continued to shoot in the midst of the stream of refugees.

  Nothing but innocent ladies and babies.

  A bullet screeched past Gisela’s ear.

  She trembled and Renate shook under her.

  Only the dead infant laid still and quiet.

  FIVE

  The whistle of bullets and the screech of bombs scrambled Gisela’s thoughts. The sound of shooting, yelling, dying filled her ears and reverberated in her head. She quivered like a poplar tree in the wind.

  Renate whimpered underneath her.

  “Hush, little one, hush. God will take care of us.” But did she believe that? Had God truly watched out for her that one awful night last fall?

  The pilot wheeled around and the gunfire continued. With her face buried in the duvets, breathing was difficult.

  She didn’t dare raise her head to look for the other members of their party. Was Annelies safe? And the Holtzmanns? What about Mitch and Xavier?

  Time lost all meaning. They may have lain there for five minutes or five hours. The plane flew back and forth along the column of refugees. Would the shooting ever stop? Or did the Russian intend to kill every last one of them?

  The plane’s whine grew higher in pitch, coming closer. The incessant firing fractured the ice. It moaned as it split.

  Another bullet whizzed next to Gisela’s right ear. Renate screamed. Gisela held her breath. Dear God, dear God, dear God. She couldn’t control her shaking. How much longer until she awoke in glory?

  “ ‘When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee.’ ” Among Opa’s last words to her.

  “Are You here, Lord?”

  Rat-a-tat-tat.

  Shouts and prayers and curses. So much crying. Some of it was Gisela’s. But it surrounded her on every side.

  And then the Russian decided he’d had enough fun. He rose above the clouds.

  All sat silent, except for the cracking of the ice. No one dared to breathe. Was the tiefflieger gone for good?

  Time slipped away. A voice spoke here and there, joined by a few more. The plane had indeed left.

  Gisela gathered her courage and lifted her head. Blood soaked the ice, horses lay fallen, wagons split in two. She rose from on top of Renate and lifted her from the pile of blankets. She checked her over and saw no blood, though the toddler screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Gisela’s heart banged against her ribs, with a beat like a Duke Ellington song. Her knees were so weak she had a difficult time holding herself up.

  And right beside the indentation Renate’s head had made, the hole from a bullet burned through the quilts.

  So close. They had come so close. She held on to the cart to avoid slumping to the ice.

  Mitch lifted his body off of Annelies. She hurried to Gisela’s side and wiggled her way into Gisela’s embrace.

  “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” With quaking hands, she examined the child. No blood. But the girl didn’t blink.

  Gisela kissed her cheek. “You’re fine now. The plane is gone and can’t hurt us anymore.” Annelies began to cry and Gisela cradled both children.

  She turned to the Englishman. “Thank you.”

  Mitch nodded, his brown eyes darker than she had noticed before. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, then turned to see to the welfare of her other charges. The old ladies knelt on the ice beside a prone form. Gisela set Annelies on the ice.

  The chill permeated to the depth of her being.

  Mitch turned his attention to the place where Gisela’s gaze was directed. The old people huddled together. And Xavier . . .

  Where was he?

  Mitch’s gut clenched and his world narrowed until he saw nothing but the Holtzmanns.

  God, no. Please, not him.

  He hurried in their direction, slipping and sliding. “Xavier. Xavier.” God couldn’t do this to him.

  “Hush, dearie, he’s sleeping.” One of the elderly women patted his shoulder.

  He dropped to his knees by his chum’s side, his face ashen, lips blue, a crimson puddle spreading across the ice. “No. No!”

  Mitch’s throat constricted. He couldn’t breathe. His childhood pal. Always able to get him into scrapes. Always able to get him out.

  Gisela was there then, beside him. She placed her fingers on Xavier’s neck, searching for a pulse, he presumed.

  “One last crazy adventure, chap. I should have talked you out of it. Why didn’t I?” He wiped the moisture from his eyes.

  Perhaps it would’ve been better had they stayed with their fellow prisoners, marched westward by the SS guards, instead of slipping away that day, burrowing into a snowbank and hiding there until the Germans cleared the area.

  “He’s gone.” Gisela touched his shoulder. Mitch pulled away. What had he done? He shook his fists at the heavens. An ally. An ally took Xavier’s life.

  A fire burned in his gut. If he ever got his hands on a Russian . . .

  “You saved Annelies’s life.” Gisela’s words were little more than a buzz.

  He scanned the scene around them. The family in the wagon ahead of them lay unmoving, their bodies riddled with bullet holes. The women behind them stroked their dead horse’s mane. A wail of grief rose from this frozen grave.

  He added his to theirs. He sat shivering on the ice, wet through to the skin with water and blood.

  Annelies came and touched his wet cheek. “What’s wrong?”

  “Xavier died.”

  Katya, her brown hood askance on her head, kneeled on the ice beside Xavier but did not say a word. Perhaps, even in her senility, she understood.

  But they couldn’t understand. No one could. God should have taken him instead.

  Gisela put her arm around him and helped him stand. “We have to keep moving and get off this ice before more planes come.”

  Herr Holtzmann nodded. “She’s right, son. We can’t linger.”

  Mitch stared at the other bodies strewn over the white bareness of this place. Just leave Xavier here? To sink to the bottom of the Haff when it thawed?

  A physical pain clawed at his chest. Xavier deserved better. “Give me a minute.” Herr Holtzmann and Gisela led the two pairs of sisters away.

  This wasn’t right. None of this was right. If only he could undo what he had done five years ago.

  Tears blurred his vision as he bent and retrieved Xavier’s dog tags, then slipped them over his neck. His parents would want them.

  The stream of refugees swung a wide berth around the little group
, but continued unabated.

  Mitch covered Xavier with a green blanket Gisela brought him from her cart. She placed the baby beside his lifelong chum.

  Then they turned away, leaving the bundles on the frozen Haff.

  Like Lot’s wife, Mitch turned back, the sight of Xavier’s body seared into his memory.

  Time blurred for Gisela. How many minutes and hours passed as they struggled across the ice, she had no idea. Night came and they slept in the carts, huddled together under the duvets for warmth. The morning sun did nothing to change their circumstances.

  All she wanted was to get to the Frische Nehrung, the narrow spit of land separating the lagoon from the Baltic Sea and their road to Danzig. And safety. Out here, they were too vulnerable, too exposed.

  Every little bird that flew across the sky caused her shoulders to tense. They fooled her into believing they were tieffliegers.

  The Frische Haff was only twenty kilometers or so wide, yet they continued across the endless stretch of white. Unable to see either shore, it felt like they would never reach land.

  Mitch pulled the Holtzmanns’ cart with his head down, his back rounded, not saying a word. She wanted to comfort him, but the words stuck in her throat. In this situation, they sounded false and hollow. There was no comfort here. Even the Holtzmann sisters were subdued. They walked on without a word.

  The bullet-riddled ice creaked and cracked as the wheels of the cart rolled over it. She had lost feeling in her feet many kilometers ago. Her coat and dress and pants never had a chance to dry. Her ears burned.

  Renate whimpered at each little noise and insisted that Gisela carry her. Gisela’s arms ached after five steps, but Renate refused to be happy anywhere else. When Gisela tried to settle her in the Holtzmanns’ cart, she protested that idea in no uncertain terms. Gisela held Renate in one hand and pushed her cart with the other. She had a difficult time putting one foot in front of the other. Even plodding was too much work.

  The blisters and calluses on her hands hurt. By tonight, they would be cracked and bleeding. Her shoulders begged for mercy. The load became too much and she had to drop the handles and rest for a bit. She set Renate on the ice.