Hannah turned the water on. The shower head spat out freezing water, paused and then pelted them with liquid heat. Their fingers explored each other as the hot water ran down their bodies. Hannah used her foot to put the plug in place. The water filled as they laid down, Hannah atop of him, the water running down her front like tributaries of a river. His fingers followed the tracks from her stomach to her breasts.
The water splashed out of the tub as they rose to their feet. Hannah pressed herself against the shower wall while Wilhelm thrusted his hips slowly before going faster in obedience to her silent commands. Their moans were deafened by the running water. The room filled up with steam evaporating out of the tub and off their bodies. Both breathed heavily, staring into each other’s eyes after they climaxed—their bodies hyper-sensitive to the trickling water. Wilhelm shut the water off, and they laid back down in the tub. She rested her head against his chest, the water falling short of her face. They stayed there, fighting off the urge to sleep, until the water turned lukewarm.
After having dried off and dressed, Wilhelm and Hannah were anything but tired. It was their final night together for only God knew how long. Side by side, lying in bed, they stared into each other’s eyes, willing time to stop and for the other to become a mental tattoo that would never fade.
“I love you, Wilhelm. Don’t ever forget that,” Hannah said.
“From the moment I saw you, Hannah, I knew I needed you in my life,” Wilhelm said.
“I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
It was the truth, plain and simple. Even with their minds racing through what had happened and what would happen, they eventually drifted off to sleep. Wilhelm was never more relaxed than he was when Hannah was beside him.
Barely a word was spoken as they sat around the table for breakfast the next day. Heinrich would meet Wilhelm at his and Hannah’s apartment, and the two would leave together. The clock on the wall had betrayed Wilhelm and Hannah. The hour was at hand. The faded gray duffel bag he had jammed full of clothing for his new life in Berlin was now once again full as he left the city.
“I have something for you,” Hannah said, walking over to the coffee table in the living room and grabbing a two-by-four-inch photo. It was Wilhelm’s favorite photo of them and one of the hundreds of moments with the woman he loved. “I wanted to frame it. But this way, you can keep it on your person,” Hannah said.
“I will look at this every single day until I come back to you,” Wilhelm said.
“Come back to me,” Hannah ordered and pleaded, twirling the blue rose in her hand. “Dance with me when you get home?”
“Always,” Wilhelm replied.
A knock on the door served as the final alarm. Time was up. Wilhelm opened the door, and Heinrich stepped in.
“Sorry, my mother was having a tough time of it,” Heinrich said. The color in his face still had not returned, and his handsome looks needed a long night of sleep. “Ready?” he asked.
Wilhelm only nodded. He could not respond with “yes” to a question that implied he was ready to shoot, to be shot at, to kill, and to be killed.
“Take care of yourself, Heinrich. The women of Berlin will miss you,” Hannah said.
She hugged him and kissed his cheek.
“And I will miss them. Stay safe, Hannah,” Heinrich said.
Whether Heinrich knew she was a Jew or not, she did not know, nor did she really care to know. It was such an insignificant thing in comparison to the two of them marching off to war.
“I love you,” Wilhelm said, wrapping his arms around Hannah and taking in the smell of her hair.
She kissed him, tears filling her eyes as she did. She had wanted to show strength and stifle her tears until after Wilhelm had left. He wiped them with his hand and tried to smile. As the door closed behind him, no more air filled her lungs. Her heart stopped and then pounded and pounded, her heart rate skyrocketing. She struggled to breathe, struggled to move, and struggled to accept.
The modest even small apartment had been home only seconds ago. But now, the person who had made it home was gone. It was now nothing more than four walls and a ceiling. It seemed impossible that Wilhelm would not walk through the door later that evening—impossible he was not off selling cars with Hans. It was now not a question of when he would come back but if he would come back.
The thirty seconds since she had seen him, felt his touch, and kissed his lips felt like an anguishing lifetime. Air flooded her lungs, powering her body out of its temporary paralysis. She whipped the door open and dashed down the steps, yelling his name. Wilhelm and Heinrich were already a block away. She sprinted across the street, ignoring the passing cars, still yelling his name. He turned and ran to meet her. Her lips smashed against his as he lifted her off her feet. It was a high they were addicted to and a withdrawal that came not days or even hours after but minutes. She kissed him long and hard and he, her. But all of Europe was tearing them apart, and their hold on one another broke. Their fingertips clung to one another for as long as they could before they broke apart.
“Look up at the stars and you are anywhere,” Wilhelm said.
Hannah watched him as he crossed street after street until he was nothing but a small figure in the distance before he faded entirely from sight.
Round-Up
Christmas, a time of giving, had taken the best thing in Hannah and Wilhelm’s lives. The year 1940 came without much fanfare for Hannah, and the spring months crept by. Hannah visited her parents more often than they had wanted her to due to the danger of it, but they were the only people Hannah saw apart from the grocery clerks. The days moved like weeks and the weeks like months.
On one of her visits, Hannah’s parents showed her a magazine they had been given by a family friend. The magazine’s cover featured a Jewish family, and the articles inside were dedicated to the relocation of the Jewish people. The images inside were of luscious lawns, spacious two-story houses, and smiling families. Josef’s remaining Jewish friends had told him that relocation seemed like a fair offer.
Hannah had not been contacted by any Nazi officials since Jakob Hauser had discovered her secret. She had not told her parents for the only thing that could come from it was an unrelenting worrying. She had been warned not to try and leave the country. She had not seen or spoken to Lena since that day but, no doubt, Jakob was among the forces that had invaded Denmark or Norway in April.
Her thoughts drifted to Wilhelm and where in Europe he was. When spring arrived, it brought sunnier, longer days that helped raise Hannah’s spirits. Winter, with its short, dark, gloomy days had been lonely. She missed her winter walks with Wilhelm. Her parents insisted she limit her visits to once a week. For the other six days of the week, she was trapped in her apartment. She spent her days painting, drawing, and playing Wilhelm’s guitar. The summer of 1939 had been filled with friends, dancing, and sun, but the summer of 1940 had been one of isolation.
On an early morning, Hannah left her apartment for her weekly visit to her parents. She had debated with them that arriving before most of the city woke and leaving after most of it had gone to bed was safe. But her true intention was to spend as much time with them as she could. But she had woken late that day, and the blocks between her apartment and her parents’ home were full of people. Possessions were thrown out of windows. SS officers were on every street corner. People, all ages, races, and genders, were being searched. Hannah had stopped short of the search radius and planned on turning around and walking the block back to her apartment, but three SS officers swept the spectators forward like a broom. Lines formed, and people held out their passports. It was common practice to keep them on oneself, as random searches were prominent.
“Passports out!” an SS officer shouted.
Hannah weighed her options—sweat dripped down her brow as she did. Her fingers trembled. She discretely searched the lines for her parents. Their home, over five blocks away, could be safe, but if her parents had gone for a w
alk or an errand, they would have been led into the search. Hannah could not simply leave, as it would certainly draw attention to her. The search was cerebral and fast. Those dragged from the lines appeared to be random in their selection. But each, no doubt, had the giant red J stamped onto their passport, which was accompanied by the name “Israel” or “Sara.”
The man ripping the passports from their hands and checking them was tall and thin with nearly black hair and a face that was terrifyingly familiar, but she could not put either a location to where she had seen him or a name. But Hannah recognized the patches on his collar and shoulder. He was an SS-Rottenführer. Lena had spoken incessantly about the rank, as she had hoped Erich would reach it within six months. But that itself was nearly six months ago, and for a second, she wondered if Erich had. But the wonder ceased and fear took over. Hannah was now at the front of the line.
“Your passport,” the Rottenführer demanded.
Hannah had kept it next to her side and tried to kill her trembling hand. The passport would be useless if she showed such a level of fear. She took a deep breath through her nose and raised the passport. The Rottenführer’s hand snatched it like the clamping jaws of an alligator. He opened it, his eyes going from the passport to Hannah. His thin lips curled into a smile.
“Father Declan,” he said, waving two soldiers over to him.
The two soldiers grabbed clumps of Hannah’s jacket and dragged her out of the line. Another officer took the Rottenführer’s spot as he followed Hannah.
“You were seen at the priest’s house, Mrs. Schreiber,” the Rottenführer said. He stared long and hard at Hannah, but his near growl showed signs of confusion. Did he recognize her too?
“I go to church there,” Hannah said.
“You are a terrible liar,” the Rottenführer said.
“I’m not lying,” Hannah said. Her face was on fire and, most likely, a beet-red in color.
“You are Hannah Goldschmidt,” the Rottenführer said.
“I am now Hannah Schreiber. I married my husband before he went off to fight.”
“You will board a train to relocate.”
A thousand thoughts flashed through her head. She wanted to run, but her legs no longer seemed connected to her body. She wanted to ask about her parents, but to do so would be a gamble. If they had not been caught, the Nazis would definitely be aware now. But if they had already been relocated, she wanted to be sent to the same city.
“What city am I to be sent to?” Hannah asked.
“The one over the mountains,” the Rottenführer answered, laughing at his inside joke, one he found amusing.
“Mountains?” Hannah asked.
“The gate of heaven,” the Rottenführer said. He and the two guards shared a smile. The realization hit Hannah. There were no resettlements, no relocations, no “Jew cities” out of Germany. Those who had left never returned. Those who had left were most certainly dead. “Time to board the train,” the Rottenführer said.
The two soldiers grabbed Hannah by the elbows and practically lifted her off her feet as they dragged her away.
“Rottenführer Weaver, what do you think you are doing?” a voice yelled out.
The voice was familiar and, unlike the Rottenführer, she knew why and to whom it belonged to—a voice she had not heard since late December of 1939. It was Lena.
“Mrs. Brinkerhoff, I am taking this Jew to a train,” Weaver said.
“Jew? Do you not recognize her? She was a guest of mine on several occasions. My father introduced you to her,” Lena said.
Hannah’s mind took her to the memory and every detail of it—the crackling fire, the mouth-watering smells wafting out of the kitchen, the comfortable couch, the Nazi officers cloaked in leather, and the stench of cigarette. Judging by the Rottenführer’s face, he had replayed an identical memory.
The two men ignored Lena and continued dragging Hannah away. “Stop!” Weaver yelled. The two men obliged. Weaver walked toward them. Lena followed behind him and, somehow, cast an even larger more powerful shadow than the much taller man.
“She is a Jew,” he said, poking his finger into Hannah’s forehead.
“You have been misinformed,” Lena said.
“By your father?” he asked.
“My father told me of his suspicions. But she only has one Jewish grandparent. The Mischling Test is clearly defined as requiring at least two grandparents,” Lena said.
“A Jew is a fucking Jew,” Weaver snapped.
“I agree. But the order has not been given yet,” Lena said.
“Her passport has been faked. She is Hannah Goldschmidt. It says Hannah Schreiber.”
“And I am Lena Hauser. My passport says Lena Brinkerhoff. It is called marriage, Rottenführer Weaver.”
“Her time will come. I do not think your father, a self-proclaimed hawk, would take kindly to having a daughter with a pet rat.”
“You can ask him when he returns. He is fighting with the other hawks while the birds that cannot fly stay here and look for worms.”
Lena had called a Nazi officer a chicken and hadn’t flinched a muscle. If Lena had been born a man, she would have risen to the top of the Nazi hierarchy due to sheer determination and fierceness.
Weaver pinned Hannah’s passport against her chest with his long, skeletal finger. He stood silent and statuesque. The two soldiers would not disobey his command, but both knew who Jakob Hauser was and his rank and, more importantly, how important his family was to him. “Let her go,” Weaver commanded. The two soldiers released Hannah and gave Lena an apologetic frown. “Scurry along, rat,” Weaver sniggered, and then he and the two soldiers returned to the search lines.
Hannah and Lena stared at each other. There had been a time when Hannah could read Lena’s thoughts by just glancing at her face. But now, it was foreign and shrouded in mystery.
“Thank you,” Hannah said.
“Don’t,” Lena said, cutting her off.
Hannah fell silent. If a conversation were to occur, Lena would have to start it.
“My father had told me the date they would be searching these blocks,” Lena said.
“Why did you stop him?” Hannah asked.
“I don’t know. But I won’t do it again. They are forcing the last Jews out of Berlin. Leave Germany. Don’t ever come back.”
Hannah wanted to say so much more. She wanted to ask how Erich was, how Lena was. She wanted her to know she missed her. The months since Wilhelm had left had been the hardest of her life, and they could have been lessened had Lena still been a part of it.
“I wish you well, Lena.”
The emotion in Lena’s eyes was unmistakable. She had disobeyed her father and, possibly, tarnished his reputation. Rottenführer Weaver was a pawn of Jakob’s, but if Lena’s actions came to light, Jakob’s allegiance to the Nazi cause could be called into question.
Hannah staggered away, keeping her eyes on her best friend, hoping Lena could still read her silent expressions—expressions that simply translated into “thank you.” Hannah had no idea how long the searches would last. The SS officers knew her passport had been forged. There were two types of Jew hunters—those who did it out of necessity, the duties of a job, and those who were thrilled by the hunt. Hannah was a prey who had escaped, and Rottenführer Weaver would take it as a personal challenge to hunt her down. If she were to be caught by a different officer or soldier without Lena’s help, which she may not get again, she would be boarded onto a train.
The city swarmed with SS, and even if it was foolish, it felt like every one of them had one goal—to capture her. Hannah had taken to hiding in alleyways until darkness descended. She had to leave the city and let time stifle Rottenführer Weaver’s hunger for her capture. She returned to her apartment and grabbed her mother’s old book bag from her medical-school days and gathered what would fit—a spare change of clothes, her camera, a manila envelope that she filled with some of her favorite photos, her paint brushes, and drawing pe
ncils. She would have to leave so many of her possessions behind, but she told herself it was only temporary.
She slid the dried blue rose into the manila envelope and stood in the doorway, taking in her home before closing the door. She bolted to the bus station. She would have to leave town until the searches quieted down. Her parents’ home was blocks outside the search radius, and Hannah would return when it was quieter. She had narrowly escaped once and to think it would happen twice was foolish even for a person of faith. There was only one place she knew to go—Schönfeld.
The bus ride was under two hours, and with each mile covered, safety dulled her fears. The sight of the “Rote Blumen” calmed her. She took a deep breath as she stepped in front of the window. Petyr with his tall frame was visible inside. He had never been overly warm to her, but he had an effortless ability to make someone feel safe and safe was something she had not felt since Wilhelm had left and Jakob Hauser had confronted her. Hannah stepped inside.
“Hannah?” Petyr said, setting down the bouquet he was working on. She took long strides to him and hugged him. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I need a place to stay for a few days. The Nazis are looking for me,” Hannah explained.
“You can stay here as long as you need to,” Petyr said.
Though the Jews in their community had been taken, it was such a small city that it was not subject to as many searches as the nation’s capital.
“Thank you,” Hannah said.
“Have you heard from Wilhelm?” Petyr asked.
“No,” Hannah answered.
Petyr nodded. He understood how difficult it was to send letters.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” Petyr asked.
Out of politeness, Hannah wanted to say no, but she didn’t think her stomach would accept such betrayal. She had not eaten since supper the night before, over twenty-four hours ago.
Forever Fleeting Page 16