The idea of having an ally had seemed like a necessity at the war’s outset. But nobody could have predicted the sheer dominance Germany had exuded so far, and they had done it almost single-handedly. The Soviet Union had aided in the conquering of Poland, but it had only sped up the process of a certain fate.
Wilhelm, Höring, and Jonas spent a week detailing the positives of a North-African tour. Wilhelm would have a chance to see the Great Pyramids, which Höring countered with seeing a great desert. But he made up for it by stating they most likely would travel through Italy and its historic, intrinsic cities of Rome, Florence, and Venice and the small country of Vatican City. Wilhelm had spent the first eighteen years of his life in the city of Schönfeld while in the last year, he had seen Paris, Cherbourg, and Brussels. But after all their planning and talks, the three stayed in Northern France, repairing damaged tanks, vehicles, and even aircraft. Wilhelm had been fascinated by automobiles, but as he worked on the Arado Ar 96, the Luftwaffe standard airplane, weighing over three thousand pounds, he could not believe it could defy gravity and soar through the air. He became annoying to the returning pilots because he would ask them everything from top speed, max altitude, to what the sensation of flying felt like. It was hardly the talk a returning pilot wanted to engage in and, often, they ignored him.
But there was one pilot, Aaron Rind, who was always willing to answer a question. He was in his mid-thirties, and his face would be stained with sweat and grease upon his landings. He was always polite, and if he was ever pressed for time, he would ask for a raincheck, but he always cashed it in. He had gone to university to study physics, and airplanes were little more than building blocks to him. Aaron would let Wilhelm take the pilot seat and point to the many controls and dials and explain what they did. Wilhelm found working on the airplanes to be therapeutic, much like his writing was. There were so many things with war that could not be answered—things that could not be fixed. But each time a plane landed, there was a series of checklists that needed to be completed and a solution to any problem found. There was always an answer.
“That is why I love math. There is no gray line. Nothing open to debate. There is only one right answer,” Aaron said.
Wilhelm despised math but could not find any fault in his logic.
He still saw Höring and Jonas during the mornings and nights, but they had been assigned to fixing tanks, and while the two wanted to fill their free nights with booze and French women, Aaron wanted to disappear into a good book. Wilhelm found copies of the books Aaron read from the local library, which had a surprising number of German-translated books, and as they would check over Aaron’s plane, they would discuss what they had read.
“Want to go for a ride?” Aaron asked.
It had been nearly a month of daily checks and conversations.
“Is that allowed?” Wilhelm asked.
“I will tell them I was running a diagnostics check,” Aaron said.
He climbed up the ladder resting against the plane and took his seat. Wilhelm smiled, checked to make sure no officers were around, climbed up the ladder, and took the seat behind Aaron.
“Run through the checklist,” Aaron said.
“Control surfaces, fuel tanks and oil, fuel contaminants, weights and balances, plane’s exterior was full of nicks and dings,” Wilhelm recited.
Aaron laughed. It was a part of their running gag. Each inspection called for an eye examination of the plane and to catalog any damages. It was war. No plane was unscathed.
“Now what?” Aaron asked.
“Push the fuel-mixture knob,” Wilhelm answered.
“Partially?”
“No, fully.”
“Right. To increase the revolutions per minute and generate thrust.”
“The plane will want to move left,” Wilhelm said.
“Very good. Adjust with the rudders,” Aaron stated.
The rudders were the foot pedals. The rubbers of your boots go on the rudder or, as Wilhelm remembered it, “rubbers to rudders.”
Aaron slowly advanced the throttle, and the plane jerked forward and sped faster than any one of Hans’ automobiles. The airspeed indicator light flashed.
“Meaning?” Aaron asked.
“We have achieved the necessary speed for liftoff,” Wilhelm said.
“Excellent. Do I push in on the yoke?” Aaron asked.
“Only if you want to eat dirt,” Wilhelm answered.
“Beats our rations,” Aaron joked.
He pulled back on the yoke and the plane rose, nose-first into the air. The force caused every one of Wilhelm’s organs to press against his back. It was equally terrifying and exhilarating. The ground was far below, and the stars seemed to be within reach. Aaron steadied the plane. The turn and bank indicator leveled, and the vertical speed indicator returned to zero. He would no longer quiz Wilhelm to allow him to enjoy an awe-inspiring view. At that moment, Wilhelm was an eagle with a view that the likes of Napoleon, Julius Caesar, Da Vinci, and not even Jesus Christ had ever seen. It was hard to believe the world was at war. There were no troubles, no worries at 6100 meters above sea level.
Aaron talked about the valor of the British RAF (Royal Airforce) pilots and the level of respect he had for them and stated Germany had not accounted for such resolute resolve. Aaron stayed close to the French coast, not wanting to go too far across the Channel and provoke the aforementioned RAF pilots.
“This is unbelievable!” Wilhelm exclaimed.
“It is. I rarely get to enjoy it like this,” Aaron said.
“I suppose it is a lot different when you are being shot at,” Wilhelm said.
“It is. I have been lucky so far, but if my fortunes should change, there are worse ways to go.”
The black sky was speckled with stars—clearer, more vibrant, and larger than Wilhelm had ever seen. Wilhelm decided that when he would return to Germany and to Hannah, he would get his pilot’s license. Hannah was as much of a star aficionado as he was, but to experience the stars from this altitude was to glimpse into the universe.
The Arado Ar 96 had a max altitude of 7100 meters, but Aaron found it unnecessary to test the accuracy of that statistic and cruised at 6400 meters. Aaron brought the plane into a descent, and the sheer wonder of the flight warped into worry. Aaron explained everything he did and had told Wilhelm the landing was the scariest part. And it truly was.
“We are still okay,” Aaron said, his voice calm.
The ground grew and sped by. There was a jerk and a bounce as the wheels touched down. Wilhelm had floored the gas pedals of many of Hans’ cars, but the plane traveled over double the speed of any. The breaks pressed down, the wheels grabbed the runway, and the plane decelerated.
“You alright?” Aaron asked.
“More than alright,” Wilhelm answered. The droopy smile on his face was half-formed from the force at which they had traveled.
As they rechecked the entire plane and refueled it, Aaron explained things in greater detail. Somethings could only be explained through experience. His excitement caused him to rattle off in such great detail that Wilhelm could not keep up. But Aaron would always find a way to simplify it. It was no surprise to Wilhelm that Aaron flirted with the idea of becoming a teacher after the war. Aaron had taken Wilhelm up three more times, but on the landing of the third flight, his superior screamed so loud that the plane practically shook from turbulence.
The war had taken a temporary hiatus for Wilhelm during those weeks. The French Resistance was more active in Paris and the larger cities. The blitz in Britain continued every night, and each night, there were a handful of pilots and planes that never returned. Some nights were worse than others, and Aaron would only wave and leave Wilhelm to refuel and check the oil and fluid levels. But Wilhelm wondered if Aaron had gotten severely reprimanded for his unauthorized flights.
“I am sorry for making you take me up,” Wilhelm said after four days of near silence.
Aaron shook his head. “If they
banned us from flying, every last one of us would break the rules. We’re flying over London. What other mad men will they find?” he asked.
Some would have used the word courage. It was hard to decide which was the worst fate—being shot down over England or being shot down over the Channel.
“How many men have you killed?” Aaron asked.
He had been holding the same wrench in his hand for twenty minutes, inspecting it more than his own plane. The monster in his chest finally left and breathed in the Channel air.
“I don’t know,” Wilhelm said.
It was the truth. He had fired at soldiers in the distance, and a part of him wished he had missed every time. But deep down, he knew he had not. He did not need Aaron to calculate the probability for him.
“Me either. But you shoot bullets. I drop bombs,” Aaron said.
It was all he said the rest of the inspection, but his words stuck with Wilhelm all that night. Perhaps it was a hidden blessing Wilhelm was not in the Luftwaffe. In the Wehrmacht, he shot at men, still horrible, but Aaron dropped bombs that exploded, burned, and buried in rubble women and children. From the God-like view, Aaron could see the sheer destruction he created.
Wilhelm, Jonas, and Höring had secured a pass to go to Paris for Christmas Eve. Aaron had been invited but refused. He was not one for large crowds. The city on the surface seemed to accept German rule, but there were pockets of French Resistance doing all they could to drive them out.
But on that holy night, Wilhelm simply wanted to celebrate the day with his friends and forget about the war. It had been one day short of a year since he had last seen Hannah, and the thought would not leave his mind, no matter how hard Höring and Jonas tried to rekindle his mood. He wanted the war to end, now more than ever. Three hundred and sixty-five days was three hundred and sixty-five days too many. He was tempted to walk east and continue until he arrived in Berlin, some roughly thousand kilometers away. But perhaps Aaron would share a bit of the generous Christmas spirit and fly him there. The distance would take less than three hours. In three measly hours, Wilhelm could be in Berlin and in another twenty-five minutes, be at his front door. What a Christmas that would be!
“Wilhelm, the war will be over soon. We’re just trying to get a better armistice from Great Britain,” Jonas reassured.
“Yes, we’re trying to fuck them like they fucked us,” Höring said.
It was a noble attempt to brighten his mood. But no matter how many Christmas lights hung around Paris, his mood stayed dark and desolate.
“I hope you are right,” Wilhelm said, then downed the rest of his beer.
Christmas Eve was also the first day of Hanukkah, and at that moment, the Goldschmidts were probably lighting the first candle of the Menorah. The homesickness did not subside even after Wilhelm returned to his busy days.
“Good thing you’re not going up with me. You’ve got enough weight on your mind to crash us,” Aaron remarked.
It was now Wilhelm who was silent during their pre-flight checks. His mind was in Berlin and on Hannah.
It was 29 December, and Germany was about to launch the largest bombing raid of the war on London.
“I miss Hannah. I miss my home,” Wilhelm said.
“I hear you,” Aaron said.
“All set,” Wilhelm said.
“Shall I go end the war?” Aaron asked, flashing a half-hearted smile.
“Is Berlin on the way to London?” Wilhelm asked.
“I suppose we could sabotage the heading indicator,” Aaron said.
As the pilots around them climbed up the ladder into their planes, Aaron paused.
“We’re firebombing,” Aaron said. He was unsure if he should or could tell Wilhelm, but he wanted him to know what that meant. It meant hell itself would fall on London.
“Next time we are granted leave, I’ll fly you to Berlin. Introduce me to this Hannah. You talk so much about her I feel like I know her. I also think I may love her. I will have to steal her from you,” Aaron joked. He extended his hand and Wilhelm shook it.
“See you later,” Wilhelm said.
Aaron nodded, climbed the ladder, and took his seat. He closed the glass canopy and gave Wilhelm a final wave. The planes roared as they lifted into the air and crossed the Channel like a swarm of bees.
It was the last time Wilhelm ever saw Aaron.
“His tail was completely shot off. Went into a mad spin of black smoke before he crashed into the Channel. I looked for a parachute but didn’t see any,” a returning pilot said.
Wilhelm had grown close to Höring and Jonas, but Aaron was at a maturity level Wilhelm tried to reach—a man who wanted to live his life and fulfill his life with purpose. His father had told him to not get close to anyone, but it contradicted what being human meant. But Wilhelm had to admit, it would have been easier. He liked to think Aaron had survived the landing and swam to shore. He wished the pilot who had told him could have left out some of the details that deflated that hope. But Aaron’s words came back to him …
“There are worse ways to go.”
Kanada
In Greek mythology, Sisyphus had been condemned to an eternity of rolling a boulder uphill only to watch it roll back down, and he would have to push it back up again—over and over again. Nothing summed up Hannah’s days in the field better. And with each passing day, her strength diminished exponentially. Of the original twenty-five workers, only eight remained.
The Rottenführer stared for nearly an hour. Hannah did her best to summon what hidden strength may have been dwelling inside her. But the spring was dry and had nothing to offer her. During the two-mile hike back to the camp, Hannah’s body threatened to collapse. She would have been powerless to stop it. At times, her legs did give out, but Trugnowski’s giant hand caught her by the elbow and kept her on her toes. During some of the return marches, his hand would never leave her. He was still almost mute but, for some unspoken reason, he helped her. But no matter how much Trugnowski covered for her, her lack of productivity had been noticed. As the group walked toward the gate, the Rottenführer put his leather glove-covered hand across Hannah, stopping her.
“Not you,” the Rottenführer said, pushing Hannah toward another group of thirty.
There were both men and women, familiar faces and unknown, in the group, and they were either silent or speaking incessantly in a language Hannah did not understand.
“You will be taken to the showers,” a guard said.
Hannah and those who understood German were beyond excited at the prospect of a shower. Hannah had not had one since she had first arrived—a day and month she could not remember. Her legs found a temporary strength at the prospect of hot water pelting them. Her skin was coated in dirt and desperately needed a good washing. It was doubtful she would be given shampoo or even soap, but just to watch the grime flow down the drain would be enough to lift her spirits.
Armed guards were on both sides, and they kept the group moving past the barracks and through the fence. Hannah and the prisoners were led to a building Hannah had never seen. It was nearly black with a brick chimney double the height of the building. The rumors in the camp whispered new arrivals were sent in the same direction—new arrivals who were never seen again. But there were hundreds of people who arrived at a time. Women with long hair and dressed in their own clothes. Hannah knew all too well how drastically different a woman looked after her head was shaven. But that rationale only explained the women. It did nothing to address the children. Children in slacks and dresses were still children, even in striped pajamas. There were hundreds of children who had arrived at Auschwitz—Hannah had seen them on her arrival—and their screams as they were pried from their mother’s arms were unforgettable. She never saw the children again. Perhaps, they were boarded onto another train. Or, perhaps, something much worse had happened to them.
The temporary strength in her legs vanished. With each step, her heart beat faster until it nearly beat out of her chest. The chi
lls on her arms and neck were like blades of grass on a windy day. Her hands were sweaty. Every ounce of her body told her to take flight. She needed to escape. But she was caught in the middle of an unsuspecting herd—like a water buffalo unaware the lion was close.
“Remove your clothes and place them on the hangers. Remember where you put them,” a guard instructed.
Those who understood German undressed, and the non-German speaking prisoners followed shortly after. Maybe Hannah’s nerves were poorly founded. She followed in removing her clothes and placed them on a hanger. But until the water from a showerhead poured out, the uneasiness would not leave. Why would they tell them to remember where they put their clothes? It was a rational thought. But a cold realization dawned on her. The Nazis were preventing panic. They had done the same with the luggage tags on the trains. That had been a ploy of deception. But the prisoners pushed her forward. She was naked in front of men, but that was the last thing on her mind. She stepped through an open door and into another room.
The walls were concrete and stained with smoke. A series of lights cast a yellow hue upon the walls. The room was empty but had a macabre invisible feeling that hung like a fog. There were no showerheads, but the ceiling had removable circular coverings, and the prisoners looked up toward them and waited for the water to fall. Even if they were going to be pelted with a fire hose, water was water.
But as the others waited for the water to fall, Hannah was fixated on the walls and the fingernail scratches on them. She breathed rapidly, but there was no air to fill her lungs. The door slammed shut, creating a terrifying echo and causing shivers to erupt on her arms. The hatch-like door locked, and the room groaned like a ghost. The other prisoners sensed the impending danger and rushed to the door, pushed against the walls, and tried to reach the removable ceiling covers. The room filled with a snake-like hiss that amplified off the walls. Hannah and the prisoners were rats who had been forced into its burrow, and the snake had coiled itself around them. There would be no escape.
Forever Fleeting Page 21