Forever Fleeting

by Bret Kissinger

  “May I remind you that silence is required. You are to stand in your place without movement. If this simple task cannot be completed, you shall be punished. Step forward,” Standartenführer Usinger said.

  The junior officer next to him opened a leather-bound book and handed it and a black fountain pen to Standartenführer Usinger. The pen, with its blade-like edge, nearly carved into the paper. The junior officer took the pen, and Usinger tore out two perforated punishment cards. “SS-Schütze Kranger, please escort these two women to the site of justice,” Standartenführer Usinger instructed.

  It was the title Erich had had the last Hannah saw him. Was he also at such a place?

  The two women followed Kranger, and though Hannah wanted to see exactly where the “site of justice” was, she knew turning her head to follow them would bring her a punishment card of her own. Once the appell concluded, the prisoners were once again separated. They were sent to work in either factories, construction projects, coal mines or farms. Hannah and Eleanor held each other’s hand in an effort to not get separated, but a guard pulled them apart and pushed Eleanor one way and Hannah, another. Hannah’s group was predominantly men.

  They marched past the electric fences and guard towers. Hannah once again found herself behind a tall man and was unable to tell if it was the same man who had nearly suffocated her. Three Nazis rode in an open top car alongside the workers. Two were riflemen with Maschinenpistole 38 guns in their hands, and the other wore the familiar insignia of Rottenführer. The march, although fast-paced, was peaceful. Hannah loved walks, and even though she had no feeling in her toes, when she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was someplace else. But the destination wasn’t her parents’ home or the Hausers or the Tiergarten, but a farmer’s field with a wagon in the middle and what looked like a million stones in a desolate field.

  The Rottenführer stepped down from the vehicle and surveyed the twenty-five workers who had been assigned to him. He took long strides past them, his arms resting against one another behind his back.

  “You will notice we have no walls in this field. But they are there—invisible to the naked eye. The field is your space. One step over without my permission, and you will be punished. This field is riddled with stones. You will remove the stones and place them in that wagon. When the wagon is full, you will push it to the edge of the field and empty it. A secondary truck will come, and you will reload the stones onto the truck. There will be no breaks. You work until I tell you,” the Rottenführer instructed.

  The prisoners immediately started lifting stones and tossing them into the wagon. The work got repetitive shortly after the first two hours. Hannah’s lower back ached from all the bending and standing. The sun beat down on her neck and arms, and she was in a no-win situation with her sleeves. If she left them down, her arms roasted in an oven of fabric. If she rolled them up, they seared and sizzled like meat on a charcoal grill. Her mouth and throat had been packed with sand, and her rumbling stomach was a seven on the Richter scale from the lack of water and food. She had been used to day fasts, but now that she had gone three days with nothing but half a chocolate bar and a bowl of imitation coffee, she was beyond starved. Her malnourished muscles made her weak and even the modest of stones to be thirty pounds heavier.

  “How long do we work for?” Hannah asked the large man. She had kept close to him, as his tall frame blocked the relentless ball of fire that was the sun.

  He shook his head in annoyance. He most likely had not understood a single word. He was tall, thick, and strong, and he looked like he could take the three guards on himself. But if his body felt anything like Hannah’s, his strength was at twenty percent capacity. She had never been a big eater and often could eat once or twice a day and be satisfied. This man looked like he ate every one or two hours and, therefore, had missed not a handful of meals but nearly two dozen.

  As the guards kept watch, she could not help but think they were lions and she and the workers, a field full of gazelles. They salivated, studying the herd, searching for weakness. Hannah came across a rock, roughly half the size she was, and the Rottenführer watched her with unblinking eyes with only one thought—had he found the weakling? If she moved from the rock, it would only solidify his answer. She crouched down beside the rock and tried to hoist it free. She failed. The lion licked its lips. The sun blinded her, and then it went black. The large man had created a micro-eclipse. He looked down at Hannah and crouched beside her. He dug his fingers around the base and heaved it free. They lifted it together and hurried toward the truck and dropped it onto the bed. Hannah thanked him, but the man only nodded and went back to work.

  Hannah’s neck was on fire. She no longer worried about sunburns, but legitimate burns. She had thrown what must have been the five hundredth rock into the wagon when the whistle finally blew.

  “Prepare to march back to camp for lunch,” the Rottenführer said.

  The idea of lunch was alluring, but the long, three-kilometer trek back was not. Hannah’s arms were beet-red, her hands, black from dirt, and her face, remarkably ghost white. She was light-headed and dripping with sweat. She tried to find Eleanor in the lines, but without walking up and down them, she would not be able to decipher one scarf-covered head from the next.

  The worker slopped ladles full of soup into bowls. Hannah glanced down at her silver bowl. There appeared to be nothing in it but water, save for a small potato peel. Hannah had been one of the lucky ones. Many bowls did not contain any potato peels. But the soup, although hot on a hot summer day, did moisten her mouth that had turned into a desert. She sat next to the tall man. The disappointment on his face formed a frown as he drank his soup.

  “What is your name? I am Hannah,” Hannah said.

  It was tough to tell if he was more annoyed at his liquid lunch or the question.

  “Rafel Trugnowski,” he answered.

  “Where are you from?” she asked slowly as if it would help.

  He only stared at her. She tried using her hands, and the more she did, the more annoyed he looked. “I am from Poland,” he said in German. Hannah’s face contorted at his flawless German. “My mother was German. Father, Russian,” he added as he smacked the bottom of his bowl to get every last drop into his mouth.

  “If anyone has to use the toilet, now is the time,” the Rottenführer announced. Bits of food shot out of his mouth as he yelled. His plate was nearly spilling over with cut potatoes, sausage, and fruit. He used his fork to scrape, puncture, and bring food to his already-full mouth. When he ate as much as he wanted, he set his plate on the ground and let a German Shepherd slop it up with its long tongue. At that moment, every Jew, Gypsy, homosexual, and other non-desirable wanted to be that dog.

  Hannah followed the rush to the latrines, used it, and joined Trugnowski and the twenty-three others on the two-mile march back to the field.

  “You don’t speak much,” Hannah said.

  “Not when I have nothing to say,” Trugnowski mumbled.

  “Do you have a family?” Hannah asked.

  He nodded. “I have not seen them since the day we arrived. My wife, Natalie, and my daughters, Aloysha and Naenia.” For a second, the constant annoyance changed into hope. He gave her enough details for her to sketch a face in her mind, but it was a face Hannah did not know. She told him the truth that she had not seen them but promised to ask about the camp. He was silent for the rest of the march and the day in the field.

  With the sun relentlessly attacking her neck, Hannah removed her scarf at the cost of the embarrassment her shaved head brought her and covered her neck. It took twenty people to push the wagon forward and empty it. The moment the rocks fell to the ground, a second truck drove up. It seemed too cruel a coincidence to be accidental. The Nazis wanted to break their spirit, and with every stone, it cracked and tore.

  “Day is over. Begin the march back,” the Rottenführer announced after blowing his whistle.

  Hannah was sore nearly everywhere, but her
shoulders, lower back, and her feet were in a three-way fight with no winners. She could barely lift her feet to walk the long, arduous march back to the camp. When they reached the camp, there was another whistle, signaling another appell. Hannah wanted to look for Eleanor but knew she must keep her eyes straight ahead or risk receiving a punishment card. She wanted nothing more than a shower, a full plate of food, and a comfortable bed, but all three were dreams of fallacy. It was 6:30 when they returned to camp and after 8 when the Kapos stepped out for appell. They waited another forty minutes for Standartenführer Usinger.

  Afterward, Hannah joined the long line for the evening meal of a piece of bread and a slice of cheese. The sight was enough to nearly make Hannah cry with joy and relief. She stayed close to Trugnowski, feeling like an annoying fly. Trugnowski did not share the same jubilation for his ration. Though each and every one in the fields had worked beyond exhaustion, it had been Trugnowski who had lifted the heaviest of the stones.

  “Hannah,” a voice beckoned.

  Hannah turned. Eleanor and Kitty approached. It was easy to tell by appearance alone they had been given a better job than her and Trugnowski.

  “Where did you get assigned?” Hannah asked.

  “Toilets,” Eleanor said, unable to contain her smile. It was customary for Eleanor to find the best in situations, but she was overly accepting of a job that required her scraping out human waste from toilets. “There are no guards in there,” Eleanor added.

  “Just you?” Hannah asked.

  “No, one other woman,” Eleanor answered.

  All four sat on the ground. Their throbbing feet could not support their weight a moment longer. Even the hard ground was welcomed. “Sister?” Trugnowski asked Hannah, nodding his head at Eleanor. Hannah shook her head.

  One of the oddest things had been the camp orchestra playing music while the other prisoners worked. The musicians themselves were prisoners, and Hannah could not think of a better duty than to play music all day, but she could not deny it lifted her spirit to hear it.

  Trugnowski gently checked the man beside him. He had not moved since he and the three women had sat down. His skin had gone hard and cold. “He is dead,” he said. He searched the man’s clothes and removed the slice of bread. “He will not need it,” he said in defense of his scavenge. It was alarming and sad at how little reaction death received. The man was nothing but bones cloaked in what could have passed as bed sheets. He surely had died of malnutrition. But to Hannah and most of the prisoners, and to the Nazis, he was simply a man with a number tattooed on his arm—a cog in the German labor machine.

  Eleanor was generally a gregarious person and had asked Trugnowski how long he had been in the camp and where he had come from. She was relentless, and Trugnowski found it to be less annoying to answer her and accept he now had two flies circling him. Trugnowski had actually fought for the Germans during the Great War, fighting alongside his maternal uncles. His paternal uncles had fought for the Russians. He had been fifteen at the time of his fighting and was no stranger to hellish conditions.

  They continued to talk until a gong rang out to signal for the prisoners to return to their quarters. Hannah promised to ask about the barracks for his wife, Natalie, and his two daughters, Aloysha and Naenia. Trugnowski nodded his appreciation and joined the other men. Hannah, Kitty, and Eleanor followed the long line of people waiting to use the bathroom.

  After using the latrine, they returned to the barracks moments before a second final gong rang out. Nighttime silence was in effect. Any noise would be treated with punishment. Hannah and Eleanor clambered onto the top-level bunks. Somehow, the mattress seemed comfortable.

  It had been the hardest day of Hannah’s life, not only physically but also emotionally. She had been stripped of her dignity—stripped of her humanity. She was covered in dirt and human waste and shrouded in a foul odor. Eleanor slid her hand into Hannah’s and squeezed it. It was her inaudible way of saying the same feelings were going through her mind. Eleanor, once again, kept the ember of Hannah’s spirit flickering.

  Paris

  May of 1940 could not have gone better for the Germans. Belgium had surrendered on 28 May. Over three hundred thousand French and English Allied troops had escaped the city of Dunkirk, but the Germans took Paris on 14 June.

  For the first time, Wilhelm could enjoy the pause in battle not in some farmer’s field or village but in one of the greatest cities in the world. He had read about and seen pictures showcasing the opulence and romanticism of Paris. The city had been under bombing earlier in the month, but Wilhelm was delighted to see that the Eiffel Tower, along with most of Paris, remained undamaged. After the city had been fully secured by the Germans, the French signed an armistice on 22 June.

  The next day, the Führer visited and was photographed in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was the second time Wilhelm had seen the Führer in person. He and Höring waited patiently until the Führer had his photograph taken in front of the famed landmark. Wilhelm and Höring gave him the Nazi salute, and Hitler shook their hands. He had a strong gaze that fell on Wilhelm and pierced through him to an unknown distance.

  “I remember you from the Reich Chancellery,” a voice said.

  Wilhelm had recognized the man but did not think Albert Speer, the Reich Chancellery’s architect, would remember one of a hundred workers, especially one who had spent most of the workday eight meters up on a scaffold.

  “Hello, Mr. Speer,” Wilhelm greeted.

  “You have done Germany proud,” Speer said.

  He then followed Hitler and sculptor Arno Breker, whom Hitler had named the “official state sculptor” in 1937.

  Wilhelm and Höring waited for Hitler to leave, not daring to rush the Führer. After the Führer, the architect, and the sculptor left to tour the Parisian art museums and galas, Wilhelm and Höring stepped in front of the tower, and the army photographer took their picture. Wilhelm could not wait to show Hannah and his father. He had advanced further than his father and the German army had during the Great War. The Mighty France had fallen to its knees in a first-round knock-out. Massive celebrations raged for the next two nights. German soldiers visited every French café and bar, stuffing their faces full with every French delicacy they could find. Wilhelm had refused countless pleas by Höring to visit a French brothel, but Höring and Jonas both went. The smile Höring and Jonas returned with were the same Erich and Heinrich had had on Wilhelm’s first night in Berlin—how were his two best friends?

  The next week was like a vacation. They seemed to visit every café Paris had to offer, from the “Prendre le Gâteau,” “Le Plat Blanc,” “Givre Strudel,” to “Le Bon Depart.” He attended the nightclubs, both risqué and conservative. Though he enjoyed himself, there was something missing—Hannah. Wilhelm stayed in Paris for the next three weeks until he was sent north to the city of Cherbourg.

  In an operation known as Sea Lion, Germany was to invade England. But the Royal Air Force met the Luftwaffe over the White Cliffs of Dover and England. The skies were ablaze with Armageddon in the form of spectacular dogfights. Germany bombed London nearly every night, and the Battle of Britain raged on and was fought entirely in the air. The air battles continued as raiders bombed the English cities of London, Southampton, Bristol, Cardiff, Liverpool, and Manchester. The British did their own bombing of Berlin.

  Wilhelm and the Sixth Army in Cherbourg were joined by the Ninth and Sixteenth Armies. Operation Sea Lion had been hindered by tumultuous waves and storms that made a sea invasion impossible, and it was thwarted by the unexpected defense of England by so few, and Hitler abandoned his quest to invade England—temporarily, at least. In August of 1939, Germany and the Soviet Union had signed the Non-Aggression Pact. Belgium, Norway, and France had all been defeated. The United States had stayed out of the war, and its people were adamant they remain free of the pit of war and a European conflict.

  Perhaps, the war was over. Germany had nearly doubled its territorial size and may
be the Führer would be satisfied with it. Germany had reclaimed the Sudetenland, the areas of Czechoslovakia that had been taken from them as a result of the Treaty of Versailles. The reclaiming had been a major goal of Hitler’s. More importantly, they had mended their pride. They were no longer the wounded sheep. They were the alpha wolf who had chased the British and French across the English Channel, and the two nations who posed the greatest threat, the United States of America and the Soviet Union, were no longer threats. If the Americans had any plan to join the war, they most likely would have when France was invaded and the Battle of Britain waged over the Channel. The idea of returning home to Germany had taken hold of Wilhelm, Höring, and Jonas, and they could do little more than discuss what they would do when they returned.

  “Maybe the war is over,” Jonas said. His expression was one of hope, and even if Höring and Wilhelm had knowledge to offer on the contrary, neither would have had the heart to burst his bubble.

  “The operation has only been postponed,” a soldier said in passing.

  Postponed—not canceled. The soldier was unknown, but in the three seconds he came into Wilhelm’s life, he dashed his spirits in a measly six words.

  “Shit,” Höring muttered.

  “So where are they sending us now?” Jonas called after the soldier.

  The soldier simply shrugged. The bubble of hope that had encompassed Jonas’ chubby cheeks, that Wilhelm and Höring did not have the heart to pop, had been shot down, bombed, and set on fire by the unknown soldier.

  In mid-September, Italy invaded Egypt, and on 27 September, Germany signed the Tripartite Pact with Italy and Japan.

  “They’re going to send us to fucking Africa,” Höring said.

  “It will be winter soon. No better place to spend it than the Southern Mediterranean,” Jonas said.

  Even if he looked at Wilhelm and Höring as he spoke, the words were more of a self-soothing pep talk.