How many people had bought into the magazine’s promise of relocation? The train was oddly quiet, and some showed no signs of panic. There were no four-bedroom homes with spacious lawns waiting for them. They couldn’t even give them a seat on the train or a proper bathroom.
The man in front of her took small but sure steps forward, and Hannah did not miss the opportunity to get out of the corner. As the people ahead of her swayed forward with small steps, the barred window became visible. People, one at a time, pressed their faces against the bars, breathing in the fresh air. They took puffs of it like the final breath before plunging underwater and moved on.
The cold wind hit Hannah’s face before it was even her turn. The man ahead of her threatened to take it all with giant gulps and nearly cried from the relief it brought. He finally moved, and Hannah rested her face against the cold bars. The train was loud and rhythmic. With her eyes closed, the air was the same it had been on cold winter days. It filled her lungs with a rejuvenating vapor. But she was only able to take five deep breaths before a push on her back sent her forward. By the time the line finished, Hannah was back in the corner, but she stood sideways to ensure she would not be pinned and nearly suffocate again. She rested her head against the wall, her eyes growing heavy. Sleep seemed impossible standing, but when her eyes opened next, sunlight was pouring in through the window. Her mouth was so dry that swallowing became a manual effort that almost required her to massage her throat. Her stomach gurgled. An invisible fist punched from the inside out.
The elderly woman beside Hannah rested her head against the wall of the car, and when a change of direction caused everyone inside to let out sighs of fright, the elderly woman did not stir. Hannah tried to wake her, softly at first and then more forcefully. But the woman did not wake. Hannah placed her hand on her forehead. The old woman was ice cold in the boiling hot car. Hannah whipped her hand away and gasped. “She’s dead,” Hannah said. But nobody appeared to pay any attention to her, and in a multi-lingual car, it seemed no one spoke German. Hannah couldn’t take her eyes off the woman. If she hadn’t intervened, it would have been Hannah ice cold with open, unseeing eyes. It was a sobering, awful thought—there was a dead person in the car, and no one cared.
But as the tall man in front of her swung his shoulder out of her eyeline, there were at least three more people face down on the ground. The elderly woman stared blankly at Hannah—their faces mere inches away. Hannah ran her hand softly across the woman’s eyelids to shut them. Those around the elderly woman created as much room as they could, and they helped lower the body down to the urine-and-feces-filled car floor.
The heat inside sweltered and only worsened the smell of human waste and decay. People vomited onto the floor or unintentionally onto other people. From what Hannah could tell, she was one of the few, if not the only one, to have any possessions in the car. She had inquired for information from as many people around her as she could, but only one understood her.
“We were given a number tag to put on our luggage and one to keep so we can claim it when the train stops,” the woman said.
The woman spoke German but had a strong accent, English by the sound of it. She brushed her light blonde hair away from her face, revealing eyes blue ice in color.
“What is your name?” Hannah asked.
“Eleanor. And you?”
“Hannah.”
“Are you Jewish?” Eleanor asked.
To Hannah, it was both safe and obvious to answer truthfully. There was no point in hiding it anymore. Hannah nodded. Eleanor shimmied past the three people between her and Hannah. Knowing her words would not be understood, she smiled apologetically as she bumped past instead of speaking.
“Aren’t you?” Hannah asked.
Eleanor shook her head. There were other undesirables to the Nazis than just Jews—Gypsies, homosexuals, and the disabled were among them. Perhaps Eleanor was one of them. But inside the boiling car, no one cared who was gay or straight, Slavic or Polish, man or woman.
“I guess you could say an honorary member,” Eleanor said. She smiled, finding her words to be delightfully cheery. It took all of ten seconds to see Eleanor had an unbreakable spirit. A quiet strength and an aura of positive energy emitted from her like a small sun.
“What do you mean honorary member?” Hannah asked.
Eleanor struggled to remove her passport from her pocket. She wore a nice coat that was more English in style than Central European. Hannah did not expect to see the red J stamped on the passport, but when Eleanor showed her, the red J was ever present.
“Look closer,” Eleanor said. The J was not as calligraphic as the J on Hannah’s or that of any other Jew. And unlike the other Jews, Eleanor’s hadn’t been stamped but written. “Terrible representation of the J. His handwriting is poor. Even for me,” Eleanor said. She recognized Hannah had no idea what it meant. “I am a primary school teacher.”
“Why are you here?” Hannah asked.
“There were Jewish children in my class. The principal told us the Nazis would be coming to collect them and that we should have them ready for when they arrived,” Eleanor said. It was obvious Eleanor had not done exactly that or she would not have been on the train with her. “I went back to my classroom, gathered the Jewish children, and left the school with them. I told their families to leave the city,” Eleanor continued.
“You don’t believe the magazines?” Hannah asked.
“Not at all. Any hopes that it was true vanquished when I stepped foot on this train,” Eleanor said.
Hannah was an adult, but the child in her longed for an answer of comfort and hope, no matter how naïve it was, instead of the cold, hard truth. But Hannah had come to the same conclusion. Lena would not have intervened if there was truly a two-story house with a spacious green lawn awaiting her.
“Do you have family on board?” Eleanor asked.
“I do not know. I was taken at my parents’ house. They were gone,” Hannah answered.
Eleanor gave her a silent apology.
“Your accent. Where are you from?” Hannah asked.
“York,” Eleanor said.
“England?” Hannah asked.
Eleanor nodded. Hannah had been right in her assumption.
“Do you know where they are taking us?” Hannah asked.
“I do not know. Maybe they keep us on the train until we all die.”
It was a truly horrifying thought. Hannah couldn’t fathom being the last living person on board surrounded by a hundred decaying corpses. Bullets would have been much more humane and easier for the Nazis. But Germany was fighting a war and bullets were not reusable.
“Starve us to death. I’m well over half-way there,” Eleanor said.
Hannah had one chocolate bar left in her bag. Petyr had offered her several, as he was a chocolate connoisseur, but she had only taken the one. Oh, how she wished she had taken every last one! Hannah turned to face the corner of the train and dug her arm elbow deep into her mother’s book bag, keeping the security latch intact, and pulled out the chocolate bar. It was not enough to share with everyone, but she could not in good conscious not share it with at least one other person. She peeled the aluminum wrapper and broke the bar in half and placed one half in Eleanor’s hand. The bar was half-melted and coated their hands.
“Eat it before anyone sees,” Hannah said.
The milk chocolate was creamy and satisfied her taste buds. The sugar surged into her blood, and the shaking of her hands subsided. Eleanor thanked Hannah before and after eating it. Hannah had appeased her hunger but had traded one evil for another. Her mouth was coated in a thick melt of chocolate, and she had not a drop of saliva to help wash it down.
The bucket made its way around again, as it did every hour or so unless a series of taps on the shoulders was passed along the car to signal the bucket was needed. Both Hannah and Eleanor had to use it though it hardly mattered, as the floor was covered with human waste. They made the rounds to the wi
ndow, taking in the life-saving gulps of fresh air. But equally life-saving was the companionship Eleanor provided. Her words killed time and diverted Hannah’s attention away from their dire situation.
Hannah discovered Eleanor was married to a man named Liam Cole who was still in the United Kingdom. He had urged Eleanor to leave when war was declared. But Eleanor wanted to finish the school year. She had actually been born in Germany, but her family had moved to York when she was twelve. Even though she was fluent in English and German, she had retained a German accent on her English and an English accent on her German. Hannah told her about her parents and Wilhelm, her secret marriage, and about Lena, the friend she had lost and the friend who had saved her life.
“At least the sun has set,” Eleanor said.
The number of people piled in kept the car constantly hot, but it did cool with the crisp, chilly nighttime air. But something even better happened than a drop in temperature—tapping hit the roof. Hannah’s first reaction to the tapping was gunfire. The taps came fast and furiously. But it wasn’t bullets. It was rain.
The cattle car was anything but in pristine condition, and shady repairs had left the roof with more than a fair share of cracks and holes. In some places, the rain was only a teasing drop, but in others, it was salvation. People scrambled over each other to reach the ceiling. The drops hit their faces and trickled into their mouths. The waste bucket was emptied and raised to collect the water. The corner that had been a desert, that had almost killed Hannah, turned into an oasis. Water poured through a silver dollar-sized hole and into Hannah and Eleanor’s mouths. The repairs of the ceiling caused the water to flow toward the back, and during the peak of the rainfall, it looked as though a faucet had been turned on.
After the rainfall ended, Hannah repositioned her book bag so it could be used as a headrest for both her and Eleanor. Again, seeming impossible, Hannah was able to sleep, albeit intermittently, usually no longer than ten minutes without waking up. Her feet were ungodly sore, and her shoulders were tight with knots. The rain had quenched her thirst but had also dampened her clothes. They stuck to her skin, causing a hellacious itching. Her legs were ready to cave. Hannah and Eleanor leaned against one another and had found the perfect position that prevented them from collapsing but one jerk or twitch and they would surely fall.
A giant shriek woke the entire cabin. The train was finally stopping.
When Your Number Is Up
The stain of battle washed away. Wilhelm cupped his hands over the water basin and splashed his face. The white towel he had was now blotched with blood and dirt—blood that belonged to comrades and strangers and, although washed away, would stain him permanently.
A pause in battle came about. The planes flying overhead did little to even entice his wonder or attention any more. They had used the tactic of tanks with air support to keep the French in a continual state of retreat. It was only during times of rest did Wilhelm realize how far Germany had gone and how far he had gone. It was the furthest away from home he had ever been.
“Can’t say we don’t get to see the world,” a soldier said as he sat beside Wilhelm.
But Wilhelm’s world was in a small apartment in Berlin.
“I’d like to see to it without being shot at,” Wilhelm replied.
“Price of admission, pal,” the soldier said, lighting a cigarette.
Wilhelm kept a journal where, every night, he recapped what had happened. There was not a single entry that did not contain Hannah’s name. His optimism about the war ending early rose to the heights of the Luftwaffe. In only the first half of May, Germany was deep into France, and the word throughout the camps was, by the time June came, France would be out of the fight.
“How are we fairing in Belgium?” Wilhelm asked.
“Better than us,” the soldier said. He smiled a shit-eating grin, the cigarette dangling precariously from the edge of his lips.
Germany advanced at a rate Wilhelm’s father would be astounded at. Though Wilhelm did not care for battle, he could not deny the pride it brought him with each piece of French land they conquered. It was Verdun where the German army had been stifled. Had things gone differently and had the German leadership not “betrayed” Germany, as so many people saw it, perhaps this war would not have been necessary. The Great War, the war to end all wars, was doomed the moment Germany signed the armistice.
Every soldier in the German army had been raised in the ashes. The Americans had aided in the “Golden Years” of 1924–1929 by lending Germany huge sums of money, but the Stock Market Crash in 1929 sent America into a depression and destroyed Germany. Unemployment and poverty had reached unparalleled heights. Perhaps if there would have been better hospitals with more adequate medicines, his mother would not have died. The thought sent a rush of heat and color to his face but lasted only seconds. His mother’s smiling face came to his mind and a steam of anger rose, collected, and formed tears. He kept his eyes closed for a few seconds until the tears disappeared.
“Name’s Höring,” the soldier said, extending his hand, after tossing his cigarette.
“Wilhelm,” Wilhelm said and shook Höring’s hand.
“My father would shit his pants if I told him we made it this far into France,” Höring said.
“Mine too,” Wilhelm said.
“I guess this makes us men or, at least, it should,” Höring remarked.
“What city are you from?” Wilhelm asked, setting his pencil into the spine of his journal.
He had only been half-committed to the conversation but could tell Höring was in the mood to talk. Some men handled battle differently. Wilhelm found writing to be extremely cathartic and did not feel the need to discuss it. He was able to address what had happened in his journal in a way he was uncomfortable doing with other men. Each night was a great relief of conscience. Other men replayed the day in their heads as they puffed on a cigarette. Others, like Höring, had to carry a conversation so they would not be alone with their thoughts. But Wilhelm was hell-bent on not allowing the horrors of war to eat and pick away at his soul like it had his father and so many others.
“Frankfurt. You?” Höring asked. He was overly excited, surely proud of his home city, but more grateful for the question and the continued conversation.
“Schönfeld. But I was living in Berlin with my wife,” Wilhelm said.
“You’re lucky. You got to wrestle in the bedroom a few times before leaving for this shit hole. I’m hoping a fine French woman invites me in for a match,” Höring said.
Höring sounded like Heinrich although Heinrich would not have to hope. The thought of his good friend put a smile on Wilhelm’s face and a worried knot in his stomach. He tried to trick his mind into saying Heinrich was young, tall, and strong, which meant he would be safe. Yet, these things did not mean anything in battle like they once had hundreds of years earlier. There was no way of accurately predicting the chances of Heinrich being alive or dead. The men had a phrase—“When your number is up, your number is up.” Simply put, it meant there was nothing you could do if it was your time.
“Tell you one thing, I’m volunteering first chance I get to go up in the air,” Höring said. He ran his hand through his cinnamon brown hair and lit another cigarette—they could always be counted on to stifle a case of the shakes.
Every soldier had had that thought while on the battlefield because, as chunks of Earth exploded and steel rain fell, the planes soared high above. It seemed so safe so far up in the sky—unreachable by even artillery. But the humming sound they brought struck a paralyzing fear in those on the ground. Wilhelm referred to planes, both German and otherwise, as hawks and the ground troops as worms. When the hawks came shrieking with their talons stretched out, there was nothing the worms could do but wiggle.
“We keep this up, you may be able to see her before ’41,” Höring said, giving Wilhelm an encouraging nudge on the shoulder.
The tents and impromptu barracks just didn’t seem enticing
in comparison to the open French fields, mild temperature, and star-covered sky. Two other men sat beside Wilhelm and Höring. Their faces were obscured with dirt. They each took a gulp from their canteen and poured some of the water onto their faces.
“Ever been to France before?” one asked.
“No. But it seems to be a family tradition to fight here,” the other one answered.
The chubbier of the two was Jonas. He had what Wilhelm would guess was dirty-blonde hair that currently was literally dirty. The other was Rudolph. He was rail thin and looked as though he could not afford to ration anything. It was remarkable he was even able to raise a gun to fire. At forty years old, he was older than most of the troops.
“Your father fought?” Höring asked.
“My father. His four brothers. Father was the only one to return to Germany. Left his legs in France,” Rudolph answered.
“Let’s hope we fare better,” Jonas added.
“We Webers sacrifice for Germany. Between my uncles and my father’s cousins, we sent twenty-four during the Great War. We have thirteen fighting right now, with the fourteenth soon to come of age,” Rudolph said.
“You have a son?” Wilhelm asked.
“Seven. Each prepared to fight and die for Germany when their time comes,” Rudolph replied.
“I’m fighting so that when I have children, they don’t have to do the shit we’re doing,” Höring said.
Wilhelm could not agree more. If he had a son, there would never be a circumstance where he would wish war upon him. His father, for all his shortcomings, had felt that way too.
“You have seven children?” Jonas asked. His jaw dropped open, and he wore a look of incredulousness.
“No. I have seven sons. I have twelve children. Wife wants two more girls to make the house an even match,” Rudolph said. He smiled. It wasn’t a good look for him. His teeth were shark-like and uncommitted to aligning in any way.
Forever Fleeting Page 18