by Liz Tolsma
The entire party took its cue from her and paused. She rummaged through her cart, filing through the items they had taken from her grandparents’ home. Oma’s silver, picture albums, quilts she had stitched by hand, and duvets filled with goose down. And Gisela’s Bible.
What should she keep? The silver could buy them food, lodging, and train tickets. Parting with her Bible, Opa’s daisy pressed between the pages in Isaiah, was out of the question. Some of her clothes? No, she needed those.
In the end, she discarded her coffeepot, the partial set of china, and all but a few pictures from her album. She repacked the cart and settled Annelies inside once again.
Mitch came to her. “What can I take for you?”
“Nothing. You have a heavy enough load.”
“Every now and again we were sent to work on farms while we were prisoners. Manual labor was new to me, but I managed.”
Yes, he looked strong despite his captivity. Still, she didn’t want to burden him. “This will be enough for now. Later, we will have to see.”
Situated for the time being, they continued their slow trek north, each turn of the cart’s wheels taking them that much farther away from the Russians. Even so, Gisela could almost feel them breathing down the back of her neck. Maybe they would be waiting for them on the other side of the Haff.
A loud, sudden snap sounded.
Her heart roared to life.
The ice under their feet cracked.
She flicked her gaze to Mitch. He stared at the frozen Haff.
With another great creak, the chunk of ice under Herr Holtzmann’s cart broke. The handles slithered from Mitch’s grasp.
His eyes widened as the cart sunk into the water.
He slipped and slid.
The ice snapped.
SIX
Mitch was helpless against the frigid water as it pulled him down. So cold it took his breath away.
As he sank, he grasped for something, anything, to hold on to. He raked his glove-encased fingers across the frozen surface. He couldn’t get a grip.
Voices, people shouting, sounded like he was already underwater.
Strange, really it was, that he wasn’t afraid.
The German greatcoat served as an anchor, dragging him down.
The last thing he saw was a pretty pair of brown eyes. He waved as the Frische Haff claimed him.
Then fingers clamped around his wrist, like a vise crushing his bones.
In that moment, the panic rushed over him. His heart revved into high gear. Dear God, help me.
He kicked his legs, though they were weighted down by his heavy boots. Dizziness threatened, blackness at the corners of his mind.
Harder, harder he fought. Kicking. Reaching.
Lord, get me out of here.
Would he end up at the bottom of the Haff, dead like Xavier? His throat constricted. All thanks to the Russians.
Whoever tugged on him had incredible strength. He rose toward the surface.
His face broke the plane. He gulped in air. It stung his lungs.
Bright sunshine assaulted his eyes.
Another couple of pulls and he lay panting on the ice.
He was alive. Thank You, thank You, thank You.
Gisela pounded him on the back.
“What on earth are you doing?”
She fell over on the ice beside him. “Getting the water out of your lungs.”
“What kind of way is that to go about it?”
“I don’t know. I saw a lifeguard do it once to a woman he pulled from the water, so I gave it a try.”
“Rest assured, I haven’t any water in my lungs.” Then he thought about what she said. “You rescued me? A tiny girl like you?” A beautiful, tiny woman like her with a heart-shaped face.
She crawled to her cart, sat up, and rubbed her arms. “Don’t act so surprised.” He followed her lead. She stood and offered him a hand.
He declined it and got to his feet on his own, flashing her a smile, his teeth chattering. “My chums are going to razz me about this one.”
“Instead of telling them Gisela rescued you, maybe you’d better tell them Herr Holtzmann did.” No amusement in her voice. Was she teasing him or not?
“They’d tease me about that too. No, I like a good story. I’ll tell them I rescued Gisela, my wife.” Even that didn’t elicit the laugh he hoped for. He rubbed his arms in a desperate bid to get warm.
Herr Holtzmann brought them towels from Gisela’s cart. “You are going to freeze to death.”
The magnitude of what happened hit him then. The Holtzmanns had just lost all of their possessions. They owned nothing more than the clothes on their backs. Even when trying to do good, he failed to succeed. “Herr Holtzmann, I don’t know what to say. I apologize for losing your cart.”
The old man clapped him on the back. “More important than possessions is that you are safe.”
“If I had been more careful, had watched the color of the ice, I’d not have lost it.”
“Blame the Russians for that. It is their bombs and bullets that weakened the ice.”
He would. No worries about that. He shivered and shivered.
“Don’t take the guilt on yourself.”
Mitch appreciated Herr Holtzmann’s words. His own father would have berated him for his carelessness and rebuked him for not being able to complete such a simple task. “I am sorry.”
“We know that. No apologies are necessary.”
“I will make it up to you.”
“You don’t need to. They are just things.” Herr Holtzmann tapped his chest. “In here is where your memories are. In your heart. Those, no one can take away. I tried to hang on to Ursula’s clock, but now it is gone. Yet she is with me. I hear her laughter and feel the touch of her skin against mine. Those things do not fade.”
Mitch didn’t miss the implication that replacing the items would be impossible. He heard his father’s voice. “How could you be so careless? You lost all this poor man had left in life. He’s destitute because of you.”
And Xavier wasn’t around to tease him. His chest ached.
Gisela held out a red wool sweater and a pair of pants. “Will these help you?” She bit her lip.
“Help with what?”
“You have no clothes to change into and you’re soaked to the skin.”
The corners of his mouth curved as he towered over her by a head at least. “I believe they would be a wee bit too small.”
She peered at the offering in her hand.
“Thank you, anyway.”
Away she bustled, slipping the sweater over her own damp blouse before buttoning up her long black coat.
“How much farther?” Mitch rubbed his hair and handed the towel back to Herr Holtzmann.
“Can’t be too long.” The older man sounded out of breath. “Perhaps another couple of hours.”
All this occurred while the line of refugees snaked around them, careful to avoid the thin ice. No one came to their aid. With faces pointed north, they marched ahead. Like the wind-up toys he’d played with as a child.
Katya stepped to her brother’s side and shook her index finger at Mitch. “Sister and I told you that swimming in this weather was lunacy. You should always listen to us.”
Reprimanded like a tot, Mitch nodded and shivered.
As dry as they could be, they set off once more. Mitch was now able to pull what was left of Gisela’s belongings while she carried Renate and kept an eye on Annelies. At least the work warmed him.
Herr Holtzmann plodded along, holding his sisters’ hands. He limped and breathed heavily. Mitch stopped. Worry knotted his stomach. “Come on, Herr Holtzmann. It is your turn to ride in the wagon.” The old man needed to rest.
“Nein, danke. See up there?” He let go of Bettina’s hand and pointed to the gray streak on the horizon. “Land. Tonight we will sleep with a roof over our heads.”
Gisela watched as the old man lowered his arm and rested it over his chest.
He bowed his head. “You need to go ahead. My sisters and I are slowing you. Don’t worry about old people like us.”
“Nein.” She and Mitch spoke at the same time.
“No one gets left behind.” She glanced at the girls, their gray eyes large in their peaked faces. She had made a vow. “No one.”
He shut his eyes. “I pray that you and this soldier and the girls will be safe. For myself, God has other plans.”
“I have plans of my own. And they include getting us out of harm’s way. No matter what, I will do it.”
He touched her hand. “You are sweet.”
“Ja, sweet and right. We stay together.” Mitch nodded at her and she appreciated his support.
“I beg you to leave me here. Take my sisters, but go on without me.” Herr Holtzmann gripped his heart. A physical pain cramped her chest as well.
“Are you ill?”
“Nein, just old. And slow.”
“We can see land now.” And they could. A few trees and scattered houses. Hope lay ahead of them.
Mitch cleared a spot in the cart, making a nest of sorts. “We all get a chance for a ride. Now it is your turn.” He led the old man by the elbow to their makeshift form of transportation and got him settled.
Gisela pulled a blanket over his thin frame, worrying the satin edge of it as she kissed his wrinkled forehead.
A smile crossed Herr Holtzmann’s face. “If Ursula could see me now, like a king riding in his chariot, she would tell me to stop being so lazy and put a hoe in my hand.”
His little joke eased Gisela’s concern just a bit.
Not too long afterward, the travelers stepped from the Frische Haff to the Frische Nehrung, their feet soaked. The last few meters, the ice had been almost nonexistent. But they were once again on solid land, wet feet a small price to pay.
They had fallen far behind those they had started this journey with. No matter how far they fell back, though, they never reached the end of the line. Gisela hadn’t known this many people existed on the face of the entire earth. As far as she could see in front of her there were people, and as far as she could see behind her there were people.
They had come to a populated area—as much as this narrow strip of land was populated. The tiny fishing village was full to overflowing with people. Scattered homes rose over what would be a sandy shore in summer. A single chimney jutted from each steeply sloped roof.
Not trusting Mitch’s German, she left the girls and the old people in his care and went to search for a warm place where they might be able to rest. Herr Holtzmann needed a good place to sleep.
Gisela pushed through the crowd, jostled by women and old men.
She knocked on the door of the first house she came upon. A haggard middle-aged woman answered the door. “No room.” She slammed it in Gisela’s face before she even asked the question.
At each of the half dozen or so homes, she got the same response. She deflated. No one would take pity on the elderly and the children. Because they weren’t any different from the norm. The Frische Nehrung was laden with the very old and the very young.
But what would she do? She feared for Herr Holtzmann’s health. Everyone’s health. They had all gotten wet. No matter which way she looked, no answer presented itself. There were no barns, just fishing shanties and summer homes.
A rumble sounded in the distance. She gazed at the sky, expecting more fighter planes, wanting to shake her fist at them. They couldn’t leave civilians alone. But then again, they didn’t sound like aircraft. She cocked her head. More like trucks. From the sound of them, a convoy of trucks.
Lord, is this the answer to my prayer?
A short time later, a dozen or more green canvas-covered trucks rolled into the village. The throng surrounded them so they were forced to stop before rolling over the clamoring crowd. Gisela shoved aside those in her way. A German officer sat inside the first truck she came to, his billed hat embellished with a brass eagle.
“Where are you headed?”
“To Danzig.”
“Don’t leave.” As if he could. She twisted her way through the crush of bodies to where she had left the rest of her band. “Come on, we have to hurry. Leave the carts. Stuff the rucksacks with everything we can carry and go. There’s a truck headed west.”
Herr Holtzmann rubbed his eyes and stretched his limbs. “God does provide.”
“He did this time.” Gisela nodded.
Everyone pitched in to pack what few possessions they had left. The old women stuffed sweaters and wool pants and the girls’ underwear into the bags. Gisela added jars of pickled beets and the remaining sausages wherever she found room. In her search, her fingers touched her leather Bible.
Opa, what is happening to you? Are you still alive?
She pressed the book to her chest, feeling her opa’s work-roughened hand on her cheek. Not much room remained, but she packed it among their clothes.
More refugees joined the crowd. Mitch slung a rucksack over his shoulder, then picked up the girls—one in each arm. Herr Holtzmann hung on to Katya. Gisela grabbed three bags and Bettina’s hand. “Come on. We don’t have a minute to lose.”
Already a few men clung to the running boards of the idling trucks. Gisela hauled her band to the first vehicle where she had told the driver to wait. She had never seen even sardines packed as tightly as the people in the back. “I’ll see what the driver can do.”
She dashed to the cab. “Can you fit in a few more? I have little children and old people.”
“Fräulein, if there is not room back there, there is not room up here.”
Now she noticed the four other soldiers who filled the seats. “What am I going to do?”
“Whatever it is, do it fast. Frauenberg fell yesterday, the eleventh of February.”
First Elbing and now Frauenberg.
“The Soviets will be in Danzig very soon.”
“Are the trains still running out of there?”
“If you find one, get on it.”
The noose around the refugees tightened. When they were all pressed against the Baltic Sea, then what would happen? They had to get to Danzig and onto a westbound train without delay. With their slow progress, they would never be able to walk to Berlin and keep ahead of the Russians.
She scooped up Renate and grabbed Annelies. “Let’s go.” She pushed and pulled the group down the line of trucks.
All of them were filled to overflowing.
They came to the final truck, revving its engine. No matter how full it was, she would get them on board. She felt the Red Army’s breath hot on her neck, and it made her shiver.
This time, she wouldn’t fail.
Mitch climbed up. “Hand me the girls.” He had to shout above the noise of the crowd and the vehicles.
Diesel fumes choked her and she coughed. She lifted first Renate and then Annelies into Mitch’s arms. The trucks ahead of them in line pulled away, one at a time.
Bettina and Katya proved to be nimble and, though not very ladylike, climbed aboard without assistance, then tumbled over the closed tailgate.
The truck’s lights went off as she turned to help Herr Holtzmann. The tires rolled, splattering mud. The crowd parted and the driver picked up speed. She screamed for them to stop.
Gisela’s stomach dropped to her feet, her heart taking its place, her entire body thrumming with each beat.
“Halt! Bitte halt!”
SEVEN
Gisela held on to Herr Holtzmann’s hand, squeezing it, pulling him along. Her legs burned and she gasped for breath. “Halt, bitte halt.”
She ran behind the transport truck like a lion runs for its prey. With its heavy load of passengers and baggage, it moved f
orward at a crawl. The old man’s hand slipped from her grasp.
“God, help us!” If she shouted at the heavens, would He hear?
The truck lurched forward. It would leave and she and Herr Holtzmann would be stuck here, at the mercy of the Russian soldiers.
Her memory echoed with her aunt’s voice. “Run, girls, run.”
But she couldn’t run. To do so would leave the old man to face his fate. And she had promised she would leave no one behind. She grew light-headed and her ears buzzed. Every muscle in her body quivered.
“Halt! Halt!” The shrieks tore the inside of her throat raw.
With a sudden squeal of brakes, the truck stopped. From the corner of her eye, a dog darted from in front of the truck.
She clutched her neighbor’s hand once more and dragged him behind her.
“Leave me, Gisela, leave me.”
“Nein. Nein. Don’t talk like that.” God, get us all on this truck.
“I cannot continue. Take care of my sisters.”
“Ja, you can. You must.”
But two steps from the truck, he wrenched his hand free. She stumbled forward. Fingertips brushed hers and a strong hand gripped her wrist, pulling her into the truck. The bone in her shoulder joint shifted and her legs lifted off the ground. She swung her feet until she kicked the truck’s bumper.
Feeling a solid surface beneath her, she climbed over the tailgate. As she turned to help Herr Holtzmann, the truck jolted forward. “Nein. Nein. We can’t leave him.”
He made no attempt to catch the transport.
In the distance, explosions rocked the ground.
She leaned forward and banged against the gate.
Hands held her inside. She fought and wriggled but couldn’t free herself.
Herr Holtzmann waved with his right hand, his left over his heart.
A Russian plane zoomed from the heavens, spraying the ground around the truck with bullets. The rocks they kicked up clanged against the truck’s metal body. Without warning, the driver sped up.
Gisela bounced against a solid chest.
“Let me go. I have to help him. I have to get him.”
“You can’t. It is too late.” The deep voice in her ear was pure German. No British accent.