Forbidden Love

by Mary Hagen

  His apartment was cold so he built a fire, put on pajamas and a heavy robe, pulled a chair close to the fireplace, and sat. To continue fighting a war he considered already lost to the Allies was better than having nothing to do. Tomorrow, he would ask for an assignment to any place as far from Berlin as possible even if he had been given more time to recuperate. Berlin depressed him, but first he had to locate Hannah. His eyes were heavy and Penn rested his head against the back of his chair. Without conscious thought, he rubbed his injured arm as he fell asleep.

  “Penn, Penn, I need you,” Hannah called. “Where are you? Come to me.” Hannah climbed over bodies and upward using chairs and the backs of men to high ground. Someone grabbed her leg, but she kicked and continued upward. An emaciated hand reached for her throat and pushed her back. She tumbled, falling over bodies. Armless hands squeezed her waist. She shoved them away. “Penn, Penn,” she screamed.

  “I can’t find you. Where are you? I’ll help you. Don’t leave,” Penn shouted.

  The dream replayed itself over and over in his mind, never coming to an end. Penn called to her, but she never answered. He couldn’t reach her, couldn’t touch her, as hard as he tried.

  He woke up in a cold sweat. Darkness surrounded him. He didn’t know where he was. Was he in water? He made a breast stroke but didn’t move. He was drowning. He struggled to his feet and waved his arms, hitting something hard with his injured arm. Pain shot through him. He cradled his arm with his hand. “Hannah,” he whispered. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer. She wasn’t here in his apartment.

  The fire had gone out. With black drapes pulled across his windows, he didn’t know if it was night or day. Feeling his way to the window, he opened the drapes and looked out. A cloudy day with light snow falling met his gaze. The evening with his parents came back to him leaving a bad taste in his mouth, but he learned Hannah had left her house with her mother, their housekeeper, and a small child. His niece had inferred the doctor was not with Hannah. Why? What had happened to him? Had he sacrificed himself to save his family?

  He put in a call to his cousin, but his phone had been disconnected. He asked for a new number by his name, but he was no longer listed. Penn needed answers. His cousin was his hope that Hannah had contacted him. He had disappeared.

  One of his university friends, an SS lieutenant, worked in Himmler’s office and was close to the unspeakable man. Even though they were no longer close friends, he would contact him, and ask him to check records of all Jews, see if he could find out something. One positive thing Penn could say for the Nazis, they kept records of everything they did. Other than that, he was at a loss as to where to start his search adding to his feelings of gloom and helplessness.

  Before dressing, he built a new fire in his fireplace to take away the chill and then made coffee. Someone knocked at his door. He opened it and faced the manager of his complex.

  “I heard someone up here and came to check,” the manager said. “I see you’re back from the battlefield none the worse. Good to see you.”

  “Come in. I’m making coffee and have a fire going to warm the room. It would help if I had some coal for my stove.”

  “Hard to come by. Coffee?” He sniffed. “Shortages of everything. Needed for the war effort. I hear we’re winning, but I have my doubts. Forgive me, I should never question the wisdom of the Fuhrer.” He ran his hand through his hair and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “He says we’re winning so I must believe him.”

  Penn poured coffee and handed him a cup. “Please sit.” He made no comment about the war.

  “We’re losing Stalingrad. My only son was there. I have no idea what has happened to him.” His words came out in anger. The man hung his head and he avoided looking at Penn. “General Paulus has orders to hang on. Why aren’t you giving air support?”

  Penn was stunned by the accusation in the manager’s words. “I’ve been in Africa,” he said.

  The manager lifted his head and looked at Penn, his eyes bleak. “Yes, of course.” He sipped his coffee. “This has been in short supply. You’re lucky you found coffee.”

  “I didn’t,” Penn said. “It was in my cupboard.” Penn frowned. His parents did not seem in short supply of anything. Were they receiving special treatment? He set his cup on his end table.

  “Could you ask about my son, Konrad Blomberg? You have connections through your father.”

  Penn hesitated aware of but not wanting to acknowledge the power his father possessed, nor did he want another encounter with him. As he studied the hunched over aging face of the man, pity overwhelmed him. “I may not find out anything, but I’ll ask.”

  “Thank you.” The manager finished his coffee and stood. “I’m sure you need to report to work, and I have much to do.”

  After the manager left, Penn dressed in his winter flight suit, warm boots, heavy woolen sweater, and leather jacket. He would eat at the mess, call his friend at Himmler’s Head Quarters, and report for duty even if his arm was painful. Pulling his lined-gloves over his bad hand was difficult. Eventually, he managed by forcing each finger individually into the glove.

  No transportation was available so he hitched a ride to the airfield on a motorcycle with a young SS officer. They made no effort to talk above the roar of the motor.

  Penn gasped as they passed the Tiergarten in daylight. The beautiful park he remembered was littered with broken glass and crumbled concrete from bombed out buildings. The lawns and trees had been replaced with vegetable garden plots frozen over by the cold in Berlin. The few people on the streets walked with heads down as though discouraged. The sight saddened him. None of this had been reported to troops fighting in Africa. Goebbels is a master liar.

  Penn reported to the commander at the airfield. As he walked into the building, he wondered where the planes were. He saw none on the field. Led into the office of the commander, he gave the Heil Hitler salute by using his left hand to lift his right arm. The colonel did not follow with his own. Penn lowered his arm.

  “Sir, I’m Captain Penn Schwartz, recently returned from Africa.”

  “Why are you in Berlin and not in Sicily where you’re needed?” the colonel asked without looking up.

  “My arm was injured, but I feel I’m ready to fly and would like orders.” The colonel did not ask him to sit so he stood at attention. “I’d like to return to my squadron as soon as I can.”

  The colonel put down his pencil, folded his hands on his lap, and met Penn’s stare with one of his own. “I need someone to fly into Russia, on a reconnaissance, and radio back what you see. Our contact has been spotty.”

  “Yes, sir. Will I have air support?”

  A harsh, short laugh escaped the colonel. “Support? I’m lucky to have a plane available to fly in and out of Russia. Pilots are in short supply.” He paused and tapped his fingers on the desk. “If you’re not up to it, I understand. Goring’s not getting us replacements.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Better than sitting around waiting for answers from my one-time friend.

  “The weather forecast is for clouds but no snow, so you should be all right. I’ll ready one of the few aircraft we’ve still got available. I’d like to send medical supplies, messages for the general, and what food we can spare.” The colonel shook his head. “The men need so much—winter clothes, ammunition, boots, replacement tanks, airplanes, and food.” He stood and offered his hand to Penn. Penn couldn’t refuse to shake it, but with his right hand so he gave a weak grip.

  A question appeared on the colonel’s face. “You’re up to this flight?”

  “Yes, Sir.” Penn clicked his heals.

  “You’ll have an hour before take-off. I should warn you, the plane is using synthetic fuel. I question how well it works. Tanks have been stalling on the fuel so take care and see if you can get a count as to how
many tanks are still functioning.” The man shook his head. “You can refuse.”

  “I’ll chance it,” Penn said. “I’m waiting for information about a friend and have nothing to do until I hear about her.”

  “There are three airfields in the city still working where you can land if you need.” The colonel handed him a map and pointed out the airfields. Penn accepted the map and took his leave.

  Penn called his friend to ask him to check records regarding Dresser and the manager’s son. “You’re interested in a Jew? Surprising request, but I’ll see what I can find out about your requests. I guess I owe you for helping me pass my exams. May take a few days.” The two men exchanged words about their time together in the Hitler youth camps and the war before hanging up as though still buddies.

  Penn grabbed a bite to eat at the mess and scouted out the plane he was to fly. He found the mechanic checking over the engine while fuel ran into the tank.

  The mechanic was young, but he seemed careful with his work. “Sir,” he said when Penn knelt next to him near the tires.

  Penn introduced himself and the mechanic responded in kind.

  “The radio’s working. The engine’s purring like a kitten. Everything is in order,” the mechanic said. “I should warn you to watch your fuel gauges. The fuel you’re using is supposed to be as good as the real thing. So far, we haven’t had problems, but I’ve heard it’s failing in tanks when the temperature drops too low. May be just a rumor. Who knows?” He shrugged.

  “Who knows anything anymore.” Penn rolled his eyes as he made the comment.

  The mechanic glanced at him in surprise. “We must have faith in the Fuehrer. He’s the only one who can save us.”

  Penn said nothing, neither expressing an agreement, nor disagreeing with his faith. He zipped his jacket, pulled the flaps of his hat over his ears, and wound his scarf around his neck. “I’m ready if you’re finished.”

  “Good luck, Sir. The truck delivering fuel pulled the hose and closed the tank.

  Before taxing to the field, Penn checked his instrument panel and listened to the hum of his motor. As he lifted off the ground, he waved at the mechanic, glad to be back in the air with something to do.

  Because of the clouds, he flew low, observing the snow-covered ground below him and to his surprise, men heading on foot toward the west. He reached for the papers handed to him by the colonel and read, “‘30,000 wounded men in need of evacuation.’” My God, why aren’t they being flown out of Stalingrad if three landing fields are open?

  Below him, troops were spread out in open country around Stalingrad and in the city. None of the tanks were stalled but Soviet troops with tanks and aircraft were drawn up around the city in greater number than the German’s had. He was the only German plane in the air. Spotting an airfield, he landed and was met by men dressed in ragged summer fighting uniforms wrapped in worn blankets to keep warm. Some had bound their feet with rags.

  “I hope more planes are coming,” a sergeant said.

  “I don’t know.” Penn could not tell them the sad fact there were no other planes arriving. His plane was unloaded and mail was put on board but not the wounded men. Shells started hitting the field.

  The temperature dropped. Penn hurried the men working the airfield to give him permission to take-off as a shell hit near his plane. Without waiting for signals, he revved up the plane, made it to the end of the runway and lifted off. Before he could gain altitude, a Soviet YAK-3 fighter came at him. He turned his machine gun and let a round burst into the oncoming plane. His firing was erratic with his weak arm but he hit the mark and the plane spiraled toward land. Hoping for cover, Penn nosed his plane into the clouds. Once in the heavy mist, he checked his compass and headed due west.

  He radioed Berlin. “Paulus’s troops are spread thin in open country around Stalingrad and in the city,” Penn reported, “but I’ve seen a huge force of Russian troops and tanks moving toward the city.”

  Static blurred his commander reply, then cleared. “That doesn’t sound promising for us.” He paused. “Why doesn’t Paulus withdraw?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Come back. The weather’s deteriorating.” The radio went dead.

  Penn set his compass allowing for delineation and continued flying in the clouds. Snow battered his vision panel and the temperature dropped further. He tightened his wool scarf around his neck, a gift from Hannah, checked his directions, and decided to risk dropping below the storm so he could see the ground. His aircraft coughed, jolting him forward in his seat, sending his heart into a fast beat. The motor resumed its hum, but when he checked his altimeter, he realized he should have been below the clouds. He was but to close to the ground. He couldn’t see.

  Yanking back, he lifted the plane watching the altimeter and leveled out when he had put enough distance between himself and the ground. The plane coughed, sputtered, and shook again before the motor died. Penn took a deep gulp to settle the uneasiness taking over his mind with the fear of crashing. He couldn’t panic. To do so meant certain death.

  As he had been warned, the cold had separated the synthetic substitute fuel. Anger engulfed him, rushing in leaving hot coals in his stomach even though the heat came with a chilling wind. “Those stupid Nazis. Damn Hitler’s war,” he yelled. Now, he might never know what happened to Hannah. With no power, he could only hope he’d make a belly landing on level ground and not into a narrow ravine, crest of a hill, or some of the few trees that cut into the land.

  The plane dropped, but Penn managed to level out before hitting the ground. He bumped over rough mounds of uneven ground, throwing him from side to side, forward and back. He tromped on his brakes, but the plane slid over the snow like a toboggan until it nose-dived into a something hard smashing the nose of the plane toward him and pinning his legs against his seat. His head bumped the instrument panel stunning him. Glass shattered around him, sending cutting shards into his face. For several minutes, he sat in a daze. As his mind cleared, he struggled to find his radio. When he picked it up, he tried to call Berlin. Nothing. The radio was as dead as the plane. He struggled to open his canopy realizing the synthetic fuel might catch fire. He slid the canopy backward with his good arm enough to let him squeeze outside into a numb jarring cold.

  Wind blew snow horizontally across the land, penetrating every inch of his clothing, blasting cold icy slivers against his skin, blinding his eyes and freezing his face. He made his way to the lee side of the plane swaying a bit on his feet from the wind before huddling next to the wing. He was alive, but for how long? Cynicism soured his mouth. Hitler had let him down. Penn had fooled himself into believing he could make a difference. He spit to rid the bad taste, but the spittle froze on his lip.

  Visions of Hannah filled his mind. She waited for him. He knew in his heart she did. He had to survive. His hat had come off during the crash. He tied his scarf around his head and ears before standing to reach inside the cockpit to search for his hat. Since the plane had not burst into flame, he debated if he should climb back into the cockpit out of the wind but changed his mind as quickly as the thought had entered it. If there was a small village or farm near him, the peasants would waste no time capturing and robbing him of his jacket, his flight boots, his gloves and cap.

  He cursed Hitler, the maniac who’s leading us to certain death. Rage burned inside him mixed with bitterness. He did not know what lay ahead of him. The troops who had rolled through the country earlier had turned the people against them. At first, the peasants had welcomed them with open arms glad for release from Stalin and his harsh rule.

  Instead of taking advantage of the situation, the Germans had robbed them and killed many of them under Hitler’s orders and their own stupidity. He flinched. Now, his life was in danger. He found his hat, put it on with the fur-lined earflaps providing a measure of
warmth, and readjusted his scarf around his neck and over his cheeks and chin.

  Crouching next to the plane, Penn folded his arms across his chest with his hands under his armpits. His knees ached from hitting the panel in his plane. The throbbing in his arm was almost more than he could tolerate. His head pounded adding to his discomfort. Snow built up on his hat, his exposed face, and collected in his folded arms. He pulled the collar of his jacket up.

  Lowering his head to his chest, his head seemed to spin out of control. “No,” he said out loud as a desire to sink into the ground and let the snow cover him and turn him to ice enveloped him. He shook his head. He had to clear his mind and think. Hannah needs me, my help. I must survive.

  He couldn’t stop shivering, his thoughts swirling with confusion. He had to move, but to leave the plane meant stumbling heedlessly through the blizzard. He could end up going in circles and die from exposure. He needed his compass. At least that would keep him heading west. The darkness would add to his blindness. What would he run into?

  If he made it to a ravine, a copse of trees, he might be able to build a small fire and stay alive until morning. Where was a ravine, trees, in relation to his present situation? A hopeless moan escaped him as his teeth started to chatter from the cold and his stomach churned at the thought of moving away from the plane.

  Penn stood. The blast of wind struck him with such force he grabbed for the wing of his plane to stay vertical. Struggling to retain his hold on the wing, he attempted to see through the blizzard. Ahead of him, not far to his left, he thought he spotted a square-shaped building and a small shed. Was it an illusion, a figment of his imagination in his hope to survive?

  Not only were his teeth chattering, but he shivered uncontrollably. He had to do something, anything, if he expected to survive. He had to for Hannah. Moving toward the buildings, if they were real, might warm him. He could only hope the residents would not kill him, but if he stayed where he was, he was going to die.