Forever Fleeting

by Bret Kissinger

  She sniffed back her runny nose once more and rose to her feet.

  “Merry Christmas, Hannah,” Josephine said.

  She kissed Hannah’s forehead and hugged her. Her appealing perfume was completely overpowered by the smell of the Chardonnay.

  “Merry Christmas, Josephine,” Hannah said, her voice reflecting Josephine’s sadness.

  She wished there was something she could give her. Something she could say. But if she had something or had known what to say, she would have given it to herself years ago.

  Josephine returned to her bottle, and Hannah walked through the empty kitchen to Durand.

  “Josephine is staying,” Hannah said.

  They walked outside. Hannah locked the door behind her. Snow fell steadily through the frigid, windy air.

  “I imagined she would. The holidays belong to God, but its nights belong to demons,” Durand said.

  Pain, hurt, anguish, and despair fed the demons, and Durand had unwillingly fed his for years.

  “I expected you to drive a car,” Hannah said.

  Instead, he drove a dirty, beaten-down truck that Hannah had her doubts about it staying in one piece.

  “Unfortunately, I do not have much use for a car on the farm,” Durand said.

  He started the truck, and it whimpered like an annoyed old dog that had been woken from a nap.

  “Doesn’t your son get annoyed that while you’re in Paris, he’s working the fields?” Hannah asked.

  “I imagine he does,” Durand said, smiling and laughing.

  The truck sputtered out of the city, the Eiffel Tower receding in the rearview mirror until it disappeared. The snow fell faster, covering the roads with a white powder.

  “So, you wish to get to London?” Durand asked.

  “I do,” Hannah said.

  “There are ways. But it is extremely dangerous, and only the rich or important can leave.”

  Hannah had always planned on making it to London, but over the last few months, she had become aware of how unlikely it was. She was neither rich nor important.

  “It is beautiful here,” Hannah said.

  Every tree branch and blade of grass was covered in snow, but the winds were a reminder of how dangerous a snowstorm could be. But it was also relaxing and, compounded with the heat inside the truck, Hannah fell asleep and stayed asleep longer than she had in weeks. Durand softly rubbed her shoulder to wake her.

  They traveled on what must have been a gravel road, judging by its bumpiness. A short wooden fence stretched from the start of the road up to the farmhouse. The truck slid to a stop and groaned as the engine died. Six dogs sprinted toward them. Hannah’s eyes lit up in fear. She had only been around the German Shepherds used by the Nazis, and her experiences with them had been terrifying. Durand’s dogs were of the Beauceron breed and had a muscular black frame with brown tinting on their nose and legs and cropped ears. They barked and growled at the stranger next to their owner, and only after Durand rubbed their ears did they relax.

  “Hannah, this is Unus, Duo, Tribus, Quattuor, Quinque, and Sex,” Durand said, affectionately introducing Hannah to his dogs.

  “One, two, three, four, five, and six in Latin?” Hannah asked.

  “My daughter named them. Causes a bit of an awkward conversation when we have English-speaking guests and my wife calls for Sex,” Durand said, smiling his jovial smile.

  When the door opened and Durand stepped in, two young girls dashed at him with more force than the dogs had. Durand kissed their foreheads repeatedly, alternating between the two.

  “Hannah, I would like to introduce you to my beautiful daughters, Abella and Elaina,” Durand said.

  Abella had dark hair like her father and was a few weeks shy of turning ten years old. Elaina was six years old, had dark blonde hair and, according to Durand, she looked exactly like her mother.

  Hannah smiled. The two girls beamed at their father. The dogs stormed about and skidded along the wooden floor. Durand removed his jacket and hung it on the coat rack. He helped Hannah with hers, and she was pleasantly surprised to find she was not cold after parting with it. The house was heated by a roaring fire in the sitting room, and the oven had been put to heavy use, cooking turkey, potatoes, and an apple pie.

  A woman with a welcoming smile stepped into the kitchen and rushed toward Hannah.

  “You must be Hannah,” the woman said.

  Hannah extended her hand, but the woman grazed right past it and wrapped her in a hug, her long, flowing, ash brown hair covering Hannah’s face. Her skin was tanned and her eyes, olive green in color.

  “Hannah, this is my wife, Madeleina,” Durand said proudly.

  “It’s so great to meet you, Hannah. I have heard so much about you,” Madeleina said.

  “Thank you for having me. I know Christmas is a time for family,” Hannah said.

  “Family and friends,” Madeleina corrected.

  “Where are Sevrin and Simone?” Durand asked, sneaking a carrot from the vegetable tray on the wooden counter.

  “Finishing getting ready,” Madeleina answered, slapping his hand away from the vegetables. She was well aware of all his tricks.

  “It looks delicious, Mrs. Durand. I wish I was able to bring something,” Hannah said.

  “Nonsense. We asked only for your company. And, please, call me Madeleina.”

  The house had a soothing warmth to it, and comfort came to Hannah immediately. It was a rustic farm, and the house perfectly blended the appeal of antique nostalgia and modern designs. It was recognizable how laid-back Durand was at his home and with his family. They were an affirmation as to why he fought and why others should too.

  A man Hannah’s age came into the kitchen, holding the hand of a woman with pitch-black hair. The man had inherited his mother’s feminine looks but had his father’s body and black hair. The woman was the sort of French beauty Heinrich would have fallen for.

  “Hannah, my son, Sevrin, and his wife, Simone. Is the baby sleeping?” Durand asked.

  “Yes, I just fed him,” Simone said, smiling politely and shaking Hannah’s hand.

  Sevrin did the same and escorted his wife to the kitchen table.

  The dinner was wonderful—full of filling, delicious food, and hearty laughs and smiles. But Hannah could not share in them. Everything reminded her of her parents and of Wilhelm. When she closed her eyes and the laughter filled her ears, she was at her parents. Sevrin and Simone were the ghosts of Christmas present, showing her what she could have had had life not been so cruel. She was thankful the baby was asleep in the other room, for she did not think she could handle it. Shame spread over her for looking so depressed, but Durand’s life had been blessed with moments of luck.

  Even more special was the fact that everyone at the table, except Abella and Elaina, who were too young, appreciated how fortunate they were. Hannah had never taken that for granted, yet there was a certain level of appreciation for life that only death or a near-death experience could give—a certain enlightenment only achieved through a crucible of heartbreak. It was enough to make Hannah lose her appetite, but she had never left food on a plate since escaping Auschwitz, and she finished every last bite.

  “I’m going to show Hannah the horses,” Durand said.

  Madeleina washed the dishes. Durand had planned on drying them, but he had studied Hannah throughout supper—there was something wrong.

  “She needs it,” Madeleina whispered and kissed his cheek.

  “Girls, I need two heroes to help dry the dishes,” Durand said.

  Madeleina knew the hurt inside Hannah’s blank stare, for Durand had worn it for years after the war had ended.

  Durand whispered to his daughters and, although disappointed, they hurried to the sink to help their mother.

  “Hannah, I would like to show you something,” Durand said.

  He grabbed both of their coats. Hannah rose from the table and lumbered toward him. He helped her with her coat while Madeleina hurried
toward her.

  “Here, dear, it is quite cold out,” Madeleina said, putting an indigo wool beret on Hannah.

  The air was frigid, and flakes of snow blew into her face when the door opened, but it was welcomed. The ghosts of Christmas had created a panic in her that made breathing difficult. The air rushed into her lungs as they trekked through the ankle-deep snow.

  “Are you feeling alright?” Durand asked.

  “I am fine,” Hannah said.

  Durand smiled sorrowfully. “That will not work in this household, Hannah. I said that for ten years, and my wife called connerie on me every single time.”

  “I shouldn’t be here, Radley.”

  “Yes, you should.”

  “I’m not talking about here. I’m talking about being alive.”

  “I know.”

  They stopped next to the horse stable and rested against the fence. The snow fell in dancing swirls.

  “The fields of France were littered with the number of men who should be here instead of me. White crosses stretching further than I could see,” Durand said.

  “Eleanor gave me a seat on the train that could have been hers. It should have been,” Hannah said.

  “She chose you, Hannah. Take solace in that. The men who died around me did not. They were only standing in the wrong spot.”

  “Are you going to tell me it goes away?” Hannah asked.

  A flash of heat made her boil inside her coat, and her face reddened. She hated when people said that. It would never go away. How could it? How could you forget the memory of your parents being murdered or a woman who had become like a sister sacrificing her life for yours?

  “No. It does not go away. But it gets easier,” Durand said, “Not a day will pass that you do not reflect upon it. I was a different man when I returned home. I wasn’t around for Madeleina or Sevrin. She raised him alone while I sought the unreachable bottom of the bottle. I wasn’t a good man. I’ll never forget the way Madeleina looked at me—like it was the first time. She didn’t recognize the man she saw. I felt that way every time I looked into a mirror and wondered if I would recognize the man I was when I left for war in 1915. Or was he dead and too stupid to realize? One night, I stumbled in drunk and left the door open. Rain pelted inside, and I collapsed onto the floor—covered in my own vomit with angry tears falling from my eyes. Sevrin came from his bed crying. Loud enough for Madeleina to hear. She came into the kitchen to find me passed out with Sevrin sitting beside me—drenched from the rain and frozen to the bone. He came down with pneumonia. I tried to apologize over and over. But she reacted in a way much worse than anger. She no longer cared. I was a bullet, Hannah. As it ripped into her flesh, I caused her immense pain, but the further I tore into her, eventually, the wound became numb. She told me, ‘You are alive. I do not know why you were spared when so many were not. But you need to decide if you want to live or exist.’ You need to let it out, Hannah. It can’t be caged forever. You give it too much strength.”

  She had no response, but it did not require one.

  “Before I forget…” Durand said.

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, rectangular box wrapped with Christmas paper.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Hannah said, sliding her finger into the paper and tearing it.

  “Compliments of the Germans,” Durand said, pocketing the torn paper.

  Hannah had to hold the box out to catch the moonlight.

  “A camera!” Hannah exclaimed.

  Her eyes swiveled from the camera to Durand. Her mouth was wide enough for snowflakes to fall onto her tongue.

  “Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah, Hannah.”

  “Thank you, Radley.”

  Her first camera had been such an integral part of her life. It had captured so many moments that she had shared with Wilhelm, her parents, and her best friends. She would never get those photographs or those moments back. But it was Durand’s way of telling her to create new ones.

  “Care to join me back inside?” Durand asked.

  “In a moment. I would like to take a few photos before I do,” Hannah said.

  Durand nodded and trotted back to the house through the snow. Hannah readied the camera to snap a few photos of the starry sky and moon. When she took her first picture, it sent a wave of comfort through her that she had not felt in years. She loved taking photos. She loved capturing moments. She loved capturing life. As she looked through her lens at the stars, Wilhelm’s voice came to her.

  “Look to the stars.”

  She placed the camera strap around her neck and let the camera hang. She gazed up at the stars and raised her hand, fingers dancing with the air, to catch the falling snow. She danced slowly like she and Wilhelm had done. Only this time, she was alone. She could only hope he was alive and staring up at the same sky she was.

  Red Army Victory

  Mother Nature had sided with the Soviet Union, and its invisible bite was massive and sharp, It dropped the already freezing temperatures into the negative twenties. Many Germans froze to death quickly, and many stood from behind their cover and let the snipers take them.

  “Not the worst way to go,” one soldier said.

  “Better than freezing to death or starving,” another agreed.

  Wilhelm had not been able to write in days. He no longer had any dexterity in his fingers to grip the pencil. The one cathartic exercise he had had been taken away from him.

  Wilhelm and the Germans were on a rock at sea—the waves and water just short of washing over them. But the tide was coming. The rock would soon be underwater, and the sharks would feast on them.

  “Wilhelm?” a voice said.

  It was hard to decipher where the voice had come from. Nearly a hundred men moved past him like frozen zombies. But the man who had spoken crouched and sat beside him.

  “Höring?” Wilhelm asked.

  His face was bearded and dirty, but his shit grin belonged to the Höring Wilhelm knew. It was the first time he had seen him since they had first entered the fray months ago.

  “You bastard!” Höring said, wrapping Wilhelm in a hug and eyeing him up for injuries.

  “I thought you had died,” Wilhelm said.

  “I thought we both had. I saw you being carried out on a stretcher. I called your name, but I think you were out of it. I thought for certain you were going to die,” Höring said.

  “Shot in the chest by a sniper. You get through unscathed?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Stabbed in the stomach with a rusty piece of steel,” Höring said.

  “And Jonas?” Wilhelm asked.

  Höring’s excitement vanished as he shook his head.

  “How?” Wilhelm asked.

  “He got hit in the knee and fell out onto the road. I tried to help him, but a Soviet tank ran him over. Those fucking bastards!” Höring said and kicked his foot against a slab of broken concrete.

  What a God-awful way to go.

  “Were you able to get a letter out?” Wilhelm asked.

  “No. Did you get one to Hannah?” Höring asked.

  Wilhelm shook his head.

  “I’m sorry. But everything you would have said, she already knows,” Höring said.

  Even though it was still a frozen hell, sharing a foxhole with Höring lifted Wilhelm’s spirts. They talked about the battle and the awful things they had done and seen. But, mostly, they talked about the fond memories of Paris and northwestern France during the pause in battle.

  “Africa would have been better,” Höring remarked.

  “Dying in a desert doesn’t sound any better,” Wilhelm replied.

  “At least I’d still have a schwanz. I think mine froze off,” Höring joked.

  Somehow, amidst all the death and desolation, they laughed.

  The sound of artillery grew louder day by day, hour by hour, and the noose burned around the Germans’ neck.

  “Remember the cafes in Paris?” Höring asked.

  “Jonas ate a dozen Écl
airs,” Wilhelm recalled.

  “Puked it up,” Höring added.

  “And went back for more,” they both said together.

  They grinned and laughed.

  “Sure wish we could go back there someday,” Höring said.

  “Me too,” Wilhelm responded.

  Höring stared out of the foxhole toward the dangerous looming distance.

  “When I die, I hope my body burns. I don’t want it out there—in some heap of corpses, stripped of my possessions and clothes,” Höring said.

  So many young men had accepted they would die—men yet to experience life.

  More troops came through, but unlike walking like frozen corpses like they usually did, they sprinted.

  “What the hell is going on?” Höring asked.

  “General Paulus is going to surrender. There are murmurs coming from outside his camp,” a soldier said before hurrying after his buddies.

  “Where the fuck are you going?” another asked.

  “Out of this fucking city!” the soldier yelled back.

  “Wilhelm, I heard the men talking. We do not want to be Soviet POWs. They will work us until we die. Something about payback. We need to get out of here,” Höring said.

  Would Wilhelm’s father think less of him for abandoning his post? Would he be disgraced? But the battle was lost. It had been for weeks. A competent ruler would have surrendered months ago. It was Hitler who disgraced his own soldiers by refusing to let Paulus surrender. But where did Höring or the other soldiers expect to go? They were completely surrounded. But a thought warmed his chest, flooding strength back into his frozen body—death was guaranteed. Did he truly want to die frozen in a pit? No. He would die trying to return home and to Hannah.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Wilhelm said.

  They grabbed their rifles and sprinted toward the back of the camp. Nighttime was their best chance at an escape. They were not alone. Over two hundred Germans tried to sneak through the thick Russian lines. While everyone pushed west, Wilhelm grabbed Höring’s arm and ushered him toward a lone plane. One of the brave German pilots who chanced the onslaught of anti-aircraft ammunition was still in the cauldron. The pilot sat in the cockpit, completely unaware of the gunfire, artillery, and mortars. But, as Wilhelm and Höring drew closer, it was clear as to why he was so peaceful. He was dead. A frozen mass of ice.