Forever Fleeting

by Bret Kissinger

  “What are we doing, Wilhelm? He’s dead! We have to get out of here!” Höring said.

  “We are going to fly out of here,” Wilhelm said.

  “You can fly?” Höring asked, his voice a mixture of surprise, relief, and doubt.

  “Aaron showed me.”

  “Have you logged any hours?”

  “No. But we are not going to be able to sneak through those lines. Listen to that! They are getting mowed down! Our only chance is over them.”

  Höring looked at the plane and then toward the source of the terrifying gunfire. At that very second, men were dying. The plane was their best chance—their only chance.

  “There are worse ways to go,” Höring said.

  “There are worse ways to go,” Wilhelm repeated.

  The pilot was on the chubby side and, now, all two-hundred pounds of his five-foot-ten frame was dead weight. Wilhelm and Höring struggled to lift him out of the cockpit. The discarding of the pilot’s body was anything but honorable, and it hit the ground like a block of ice. Sporadic gunfire was exchanged somewhere in the west as the fleeing Germans were met by the Soviets. It grew louder. The noose that was the cauldron tightened one final time. Those inside it inhaled their final breath.

  Wilhelm and Höring climbed into the Junkers Ju 52 airplane. It was much larger than the Arado Ar 96 that Aaron had flown.

  “Are you flying out of here?” a German soldier asked, stopping in his tracks while his eyes searched for Soviets.

  The plane could fit eighteen soldiers, but there were supplies in the back.

  “Hurry on,” Wilhelm said.

  The soldier looked at Wilhelm and Höring as if he had been accepted by Jesus. He hurried on. A group of six saw the plane and scrambled on without invitation.

  “What are we waiting for?” one asked.

  “The cargo wasn’t dropped. Meaning, something wasn’t working,” Wilhelm said.

  The seven in the back became twelve.

  “Get the supplies off,” Höring ordered.

  They were supplies they absolutely would have and had killed for. But now, to fit more men, they needed to get them off the plane. But they were twenty, and if there were any more, they risked being too heavy to take off.

  “We have to go, Wilhelm,” Höring said.

  Wilhelm nodded. Leaving meant forsaking the men sprinting toward the plane. But it was either saving himself, Höring, and the twenty odd men or subjecting himself to the same fate. Wilhelm pushed the throttle forward, and the plane came to life with a mechanical buzz. He tried visualizing every flipping switch and every gauge check Aaron had done. He pulled on the yoke, and the front end of the plane lifted off the ground but bounced back down again.

  “Come on, come on!” Höring yelled, his leg shaking up and down.

  The front end lifted off once more, and the plane rose off the ground and climbed higher and higher into the sky. Those aboard screamed with excitement as they rose above the boiling cauldron. The tanks and soldiers below sent small orange and green flashes of firelight.

  The flight certainly wasn’t smooth, and there were a dozen gauges that Wilhelm had no idea what they were for. He checked those he knew—his airspeed, artificial horizon, altimeter, heading indicator and, lastly, his fuel gauge. It was less than half, but it would be enough to get them out of the cauldron, out of Stalingrad, and out of enemy occupation. Perhaps enough fuel to get to Poland. From there, Germany was only a train ride away and then the nightmare would end. He would go to Berlin and find Hannah, and they would leave. He did not know for where. Hannah had always loved New York, but Wilhelm was a German soldier and hardly expected to be given sanctity. But there would be time to decide where to go. He only cared about finding her and nothing about the destination.

  The sky lit up and exploded as the Soviets on the ground fired anti-aircraft guns. The plane shook violently when a shell exploded mere feet away from the plane. The sky flashed like a strobe light, exploding thunder that ruptured eardrums. The back end of the plane was struck. The outside air shot into the plane with a high-pitched whistle. The artillery ripped through the steel hull and through an unlucky passenger.

  “Pull up!” Höring yelled.

  Wilhelm pulled on the yoke, the veins in his forearms pulsed, and his hands shook as he tried to will the plane to climb higher toward safety. It shuddered from the pressure, but the plane obliged to his command. The shells exploded harmlessly below. Höring and Wilhelm smiled.

  “We made it,” Höring said.

  But no sooner had the words left his mouth, the 88-mm caliber shells ripped into the plane’s right wing. It broke off and sped toward the earth like a meteor. The warning alarms went haywire. The plane was punctured with holes like Morse code. The passengers were sucked out of the spiraling plane. The gauges spun freely. The propellers broke off. The ground came closer and closer. Wilhelm could do nothing but brace for impact. The plane smashed into the ground. The front end fell forward, Wilhelm’s body whiplashed, and his neck was forced out of place. Patches of fire ignited all over.

  Wilhelm looked himself over. His head pounded like a drum. He had to turn his whole torso, his neck was too stiff, in order to see what condition the other men aboard were in. Nobody moved—some had been torn and blasted into pieces.

  “Wilhelm,” Höring called.

  “I think everyone’s dead,” Wilhelm said.

  He struggled to remove his seatbelt. It had done its job, but it had gotten so tight that it left bruises.

  “We have to get out of here. The Soviets will be here soon,” Wilhelm said.

  “Wilhelm,” Höring called again.

  Wilhelm succeeded in removing the safety belt and tossed it to the side.

  Höring turned his body. A two-inch-wide piece of metal had ripped through his stomach, and when Wilhelm looked, he noticed it had punctured through his back and ripped through the seat. The moment it would be removed, Höring would only have seconds before he bled out.

  “Am I going to die?” Höring asked, his hand shaking violently and his head jerking back and forth.

  Wilhelm wanted to lie. He had seen it done by medics nearly two hundred times. How else do you calm a dying man? But Wilhelm couldn’t. Whatever lie his mouth would tell, his eyes would betray. Something warm ran down his face and dripped onto his hands. He thought it was tears, but it was red in color. As he put his hand to his head, a sharp pain erupted through his body. He had a gash across his head, and more blood gushed out when he pressed it.

  “I didn’t want it … to end like this ... I wanted to go home, Wilhelm ... I wanted to go home ... now I can’t ... what comes next? Where do I go now?” Höring asked.

  The unknown terrified him. Would these be the last few seconds that he existed?

  “There is something after. You will go there. First, you will sleep. Your body will heal. Your scars will fade. Your loved ones who are already there will be notified, and they will prepare for your arrival. There will be beer and food and even those cinnamon rolls from that café in Paris. All your friends and family will be there waiting for you. Who is there that you were closest to?” Wilhelm asked.

  “My grandfather,” Höring said.

  He spat blood from his mouth. The fear of what was awaiting him forced tears. His body was failing. His hands shook uncontrollably, and the color faded from his face, his skin turning ghost-white.

  Wilhelm grabbed his hand. “Your grandfather will meet you at the Gates. He will make sure you are comfortable, and he will answer all the questions I cannot. You will walk into that room, and everyone you know will be there. They will raise their glasses to you. There will be no more pain. No more sadness. Every day will be the best day of your life,” Wilhelm said.

  Höring gasped for breath, and even though the wind attacked his lungs, he could no longer breathe it in. His lungs had given up, and his heart soon would follow. Höring’s eyes filled with fear. Wilhelm could only stroke Höring’s face as tears and blood trickl
ed down his own. The life in Höring’s eyes was gone, but his body twitched spontaneously for another few seconds.

  “Fuck,” Wilhelm muttered through sobs.

  He collapsed back into his seat. Even his salty tears caused a burning pain. His face was smeared with tears and blood as well as with grime and oil. He climbed out of the plane and fell to the frozen ground. Men sprinted at him with their guns drawn. Any hopes he had that they were German evaporated when they shouted at him in Russian. Wilhelm raised his hands above his throbbing head. Just holding his hands in the air was a struggle. He was like Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. They kept shouting, and one of the ten men aiming his gun at him would most likely get an itchy trigger finger.

  Wilhelm only hoped what he had told Höring was true. His mother would meet him. Wilhelm nearly smiled at the thought. It wouldn’t be so bad. He would spend each day with his mother and his grandparents. Höring and Jonas would be there, maybe even Heinrich and Erich. He would wait for his father and years down the line, he would greet Hannah. His mother would be able to ease all his worrying with one stroke of his hair and one hug. No, it would not be that bad at all.

  The barrel of a rifle was pressed into the gash in his head, and the searing pain seemed to rupture his skull into powdered fragments. Wilhelm had trouble hearing anything the Soviets were saying. Yet, strangely, the sounds of hell in the form of gun and artillery fire, even so far away inside the cauldron of Stalingrad, were perfectly clear. Another rifle poked his back and prodded him to move. Wilhelm kept his hands behind his head, and when the Soviet wanted Wilhelm to move right or left, he slapped the rifle against either side. The taps were anything but gentle, and bruises formed around his ribs like a bad rash.

  As he marched on, more and more Germans joined his line. The heat of the fire from the plane had warmed his body, but after marching for a mile, his body returned to the homeostasis level of freezing it had been at since winter had set in. His feet sank into the snow, and his boots and socks were soaked. German prisoners in the line fell, and if they could not rise to their feet, they were stabbed with bayonets. Those whose hands fell were shot. But it was not only Wilhelm and a few dozen Germans who were being forced to march. The entire German army had surrendered the city.

  General Paulus had ignored Hitler’s suggestion (order) of suicide before surrender. Wilhelm had never spoken with General Paulus, but Wilhelm’s respect increased for him, for the general would rather surrender than allow any more sons of Germany to sacrifice their lives for a lost cause. The date was 2 February 1943 and, after months of catastrophic fighting, the great Battle of Stalingrad was finally over. But a fear spread amongst the Germans that they would all be executed. It was a fear well-founded. They had killed thousands and thousands of Soviets, and there was surely a desire for revenge. The Germans had had the same feeling. The battle had become personal. It was impossible for it not to have.

  The Soviets looked upon the Germans being ushered out east of the city with complete disdain. Wilhelm recognized the emotions on their faces, visible through the grime and blood. They were the same emotions Wilhelm had experienced. He had expected the Soviets to be some mythical, demonic force, and the same was true of the Soviets’ mentality toward the Germans—monsters of Moscow, beasts of Berlin. But both sides looked disappointed to find the enemy to be just men. But in their eyes was also hate. The average Soviet was expected to live a meager twenty-four hours after he entered the fray with a final death tally that would never be known.

  Wilhelm and the over ninety thousand Germans began the long march from the devil’s playground and deeper into Russia.

  The Offer

  The spring of 1944 came with much longing. Winter had always been Hannah’s favorite season, but the last few had soured her taste. The cold, dark days were an invisible weight that fell upon her shoulders and threatened to collapse her. Spring meant clear skies and longer days of sunlight. Even if it rained, she found the sound relaxing. But it also made her think of everyone she had lost and all those inside the concentration camps left to meet a terrible fate. Even the heavens cried over their fates. Rainy days also meant quieter times at the “Givre Strudel.”

  Hannah had become nearly fluent in French and, despite her accent, she blended in as a French woman. She had taken nearly a thousand photos with the camera Radley had gotten her. Hundreds were of the city and dozens were of Josephine and Radley. Despite both loving the spotlight, neither were entirely keen on having their picture taken. Hannah had visited Radley’s farm half a dozen times and received lessons on the French language from his daughters. The resistance continued to grow in number, and the information Josephine passed on continued to be valuable and led to many raids on resupply caravans. Hannah passed on what information she could but was still unwilling to join the true fight. She had only one goal—to blend in and not draw attention to herself.

  The rain had been falling for what seemed like a week straight, and the German officers had not been to the café. Josephine had grown incredibly irritated and felt helpless. Radley was much calmer. Each night, he would stop by at the café for information. “Then, we shall simply talk,” he would say with a smile when there was no information. But, one night, he had a new level of excitement about him that Hannah had rarely seen apart from when he pulled down the long gravel road to his home. He nearly danced toward the radio and turned the dials. Songs and speeches came in and out of signal as he fine-tuned the dial.

  “What is this?” Hannah asked.

  “Radio Londres,” Durand answered.

  “This is London! The French speaking to the French!” the voice on the radio announced.

  “They give orders to the resistance,” Durand said.

  It hardly seemed like orders more than it did incoherent ramblings. The channel was pro-French and, from the safety of London, degraded Germany. But it was surely being listened to by the Germans.

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Hannah asked.

  “Coded messages. Only a select few know how to translate—those who speak to the offices in England,” Durand answered.

  Josephine placed a plate next to Hannah and Durand. Both had an apple strudel with a perfect spoonful of frosting and cream on top of it.

  “I’m expected to give the leftovers to German soldiers. So eat,” Josephine said.

  Hannah had been able to try everything Josephine was able to cook up, and each surpassed the last. She was truly talented at not only making mouthwatering food but also turning it into art. The dishes looked so perfect that it seemed a crime to run a fork through them—the type of art the Nazis prided themselves on destroying. Hannah would much rather give the dish and its creator a mouthful-of-food smile and a thumbs up than see a smug Nazi eat it with ambivalence. But Durand had no problems and did not even think of the amount of time Josephine had spent in making the edible art. It was unintentional—not everyone had an eye for such things. Hannah particularly loved the fresh vegetables that were given as a side in some dishes. Josephine had always believed in a wide array of colors for vegetables.

  “Magnificent,” Durand commented after defeating the strudel in less than two minutes. Hannah had yet to take her third bite. She preferred to savor such things. Durand, on the other hand, was already scraping his fork against the plate to pick up every speck of strudel and frosting he could.

  “The Desert Fox has come,” Durand said when the radio program ended.

  “What is that?” Hannah asked.

  The whole program had been like a silly nursery rhyme. But the words “desert fox” had never been spoken.

  “Erwin Rommel—Germany’s greatest general. He was seen moving northwest from Paris,” Durand explained.

  Erwin Rommel was respected for his military prowess by both the Americans and British.

  “That means they must think there is an invasion coming,” Josephine added. Durand nodded. He had been talking about a proposed invasion from the Allies since Hannah had m
et him. “When did he arrive?” Josephine asked.

  “Uncertain. Late February or early March. He is scouting the beaches of Normandy,” Durand said.

  “They will be sending soldiers and supplies. We need to figure out where they are coming from and stop them from reaching Rommel,” Josephine said.

  “Yes, we do,” Durand agreed.

  An awkward silence fell. Josephine and Durand stared at Hannah with an intensity impossible to ignore.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Take a walk with me, Hannah?” Durand asked.

  Months ago, she would have pleaded to Josephine for her not have to. But things were different now. She trusted him. But the nervous energy he exuded was uncomfortable.

  “Radley, what is it?” Josephine asked.

  “Join us. I do not want to risk this being overheard,” Durand said.

  Josephine sighed with annoyance. They had held a thousand secret meetings after hours in her café, and if it was bugged, they would have been arrested or, most likely, killed by now. But, nonetheless, the fresh air might do her well. The rain had finally stopped, and there was not a better time to see Paris than at night. The water from the rooftops fell rhythmically. After Hannah and Durand stepped outside, Josephine flipped the lights off and locked the door. Durand carried on in annoying silence as he led them toward the Eiffel Tower blocks away.

  “Will you be speaking before we reach the Atlantic?” Josephine asked.

  Hannah had thought the same thing but did not want to come off as rude. But it was the sort of bluntness Josephine possessed that Hannah envied. She was a woman who valued her time. Hannah had always wished for this trait. Sometimes, she believed it was the difference between a victim and a victor. But, even if she did possess it, she would not have said such a thing to Radley. Both he and Josephine had done so much for her, and the least she could do was to let him walk in silence and gather his thoughts.