Forever Fleeting

by Bret Kissinger

  “Why do you do such a thing?” he asked as he continued to read.

  Hannah knew the Hauptscharführer had not seen Oberführer Köning’s journal, for the letters in there were extremely private. But it did not mean he had not received the same Enigma code dates as Oberführer Köning. But what need would there be for every one of the officers to have the codes if they worked exclusively under Oberführer Köning’s command? Having so many copies was an unnecessary risk of them being stolen by the Allies.

  “Why do you have numbers and not meals?” Hauptscharführer Voigt asked.

  “Because I did not feel like writing out apple strudel nine times,” Hannah answered.

  “You seem to be in a hurry,” Hauptscharführer Voigt said.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, Hauptscharführer Voigt, I am. Oberführer Köning’s éclair is most likely done, and it is best served warm. But, in this heat, it is nearly impossible to deliver it without the frosting melting off and ruining the dish. But if you wish to continue to interrogate me on how my aunt runs her business and knows what to stock so she doesn’t have to tell a customer she ran out of something, then please continue. Otherwise, your superior requires his breakfast,” Hannah said.

  Hauptscharführer Voigt scowled a moment longer before handing over the pad and stepping toward the bathroom. It made Hannah smile when he found out the door was locked. She took long strides toward the kitchen swing doors. Durand stepped into the diner. Hannah wanted to stop to look at him, but if she did, it would draw unwanted attention to both herself and Durand.

  “If you can find a seat, it is yours,” Josephine said from the German officers’ table.

  “Thank you, madam,” Durand said, inclining his head.

  Hannah stepped out of the swing doors with a platter full of food the German officers habitually ordered.

  “What will you do back in Germany?” Oberführer Köning asked Hannah after finishing his first bite.

  “I do not know. Maybe, take the first month of summer and just enjoy it with my boyfriend,” Hannah answered.

  “Send him our regards for fighting so fiercely on behalf of the Reich,” Standartenführer Ziegler said.

  Hannah was sure every German soldier who had been fighting either in the east against the Soviets or in Italy and North Africa against the British and Americans would be delighted to know high-ranking SS officers were enjoying pastries every morning in Paris.

  “I will. I hope to bring him back here. But I will be asking if the heater has been fixed before I do,” Hannah joked.

  The German officers laughed before shifting their undivided attention to their breakfast. Hauptscharführer Voigt sat and found the spoonful of butter that usually topped his croissant had melted into a puddle that surrounded his croissant like a moat surrounds a castle.

  Hannah stepped toward Durand, sitting alone in a corner of the café. His leg stuck out straight, and he wore a look that told Hannah he had had the same thought about locking the doors and letting them all die of heat exhaustion.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Hannah asked.

  “No. Just the coffee. I’m afraid the company has left a rather sour taste in my mouth. I am having to suppress the urge to vomit,” Durand said.

  The German soldiers around him couldn’t possibly understand the French he had spoken so quickly. Hannah sniggered and tore the order and coded message from her pad. She signed it at the bottom and set it on the table. Durand let it sit there as he tried to finish his cup of coffee, but it was too weak and watered down. He rose from his chair, pushed it in, and tossed enough francs to cover his bill and leave Hannah an overly generous tip. He seized the order form, pocketed it, and limped toward the door.

  Hannah stopped by the German officers one last time.

  “Gentlemen, it is time for me to say adieu and auf wiedersehen,” Hannah said.

  “It has been a pleasure getting to know you, Miss Hannah. I wish you safe travels,” Oberführer Köning said.

  The other officers nodded politely except for Hauptscharführer Voigt, who only curled his lip upward in the slightest amount. Hannah smiled and followed Josephine to her office for their final goodbye.

  “I will never be able to repay you,” Hannah said.

  Josephine only pulled Hannah into a hug and brushed Hannah’s hair away from her face to behind her ear.

  “Take care, Hannah,” Josephine whispered.

  She wanted to tell Josephine so much more than what she had. But Josephine was not one for such emotional talk. Hannah hurried toward the back exit, Josephine’s smile giving her the will to leave. Durand was waiting outside. He gave her an encouraging smile and squeezed her hand. The truck Hannah had used to visit Durand was parked two blocks ahead. Durand placed her suitcase in the back of the flatbed, and the two hopped in.

  The truck sputtered out a puff of black smoke from its exhaust before it jerked forward. They drove to the warehouse where the German Enigma machine had been brought to see whether the information Hannah had gathered was worthy of sanctuary in London. It had not been Durand’s decision, and he had fought to have Hannah on the boat while they looked, but the higher powers of the resistance and the British Intelligence deemed otherwise.

  “I do not like leaving Josephine behind,” Hannah said.

  “She will play her part well,” Durand reassured.

  A man stood with his back against the warehouse, smoking a cigarette. His leg was raised, and his foot rested against the sheet metal door. He took a final puff before he tossed his cigarette and slid the door open. Dozens of people were inside. Some Hannah had seen before and others, she had not. Plenty were far above Durand in rank. Every person was indirectly or directly staring at the Enigma machine on the wooden table. A resistance fighter, a woman of Hannah’s age, was seated at a chair in front of it and ready to set the starting position.

  Durand removed the messages from his pocket and handed it to a man in his late sixties. He was balding on top and was short. To ask who he was would draw red flags so, instead, Hannah remained quiet. She would do nothing to risk her spot on a ship to London. The balding man handed the sheet of paper to the young woman sitting in front of the Enigma machine. She lifted open the top, adjusted the rotors first, and swapped out the middle one with rotary number four. The plugboard took the longest. The wires had formed some sort of knot that would make any seaman proud.

  “I am ready,” the young woman said.

  Durand sat beside her, a pencil and a blank sheet of paper in front of him.

  “Ready,” Durand said.

  The woman typed U on the front keyboard, and N lit up on the second. The woman typing called out each letter, and Durand repeated it to confirm. Hannah looked over Durand’s shoulder. Words came to life from cryptic code, words including “train,” “Normandy,” and “resupplies” but, more importantly, there were exact times, dates, and locations. Those who were quicker at putting the letters together into words erupted into smiles. Durand looked over the message before handing it to, who must have been, the highest-ranking man in the room.

  “Secure supply lines to Normandy. Five thousand troops to arrive in Paris on 26 April at 1 p.m.,” the man began to read.

  The report detailed which railways, which German officers, and which supplies would be coming in. With this information, the French could destroy the railroads, call in Allied bombing raids and, plain and simply stated, wreak havoc on the Germans. People erupted into cheers and hugs. Durand rose from his chair and spread his arms. He wore a proud smile as he hugged Hannah. Months ago, Hannah had thought she was going to be shot inside that warehouse for engaging in espionage against the French and Allies. Now, she had provided vital information for them.

  “How will we know when the invasion is coming?” Hannah asked.

  “When the English tell us Joseph has a mustache, we will know,” Durand answered.

  It was another cryptic radio message that would sound like nonsense to any German listening, but it
would be the sound of liberty approaching for every French.

  “Miss,” the high-ranking, balding Frenchman said, interrupting Hannah and Durand’s embrace.

  Hannah turned toward him, and the man stared her down. He dug into his pocket and removed a series of documents, passports, and tickets—all held together with a rubber band. He handed it to her, and Hannah removed the rubber band and looked through the stack. There was a passport granting her admittance into England. The name on it was Hannah Smith. Also, in the stack was a ticket for passage aboard a ship departing from Saint-Valery-en-Caux.

  “Your papers. Your request to enter England has been approved by the British Intelligence Agency, Ms. Smith. They thank you, the French thank you, and I thank you,” the man said, bowing his head.

  Hannah was silent as she stared at the papers. It was a strange thing to have her future condensed down into a passport and a ticket.

  “Ship leaves in three hours. We should go,” Durand said.

  Hannah nodded. She wanted to say goodbye to Josephine one last time and wished she would have come with her. But the ghosts of her family were in Paris—they were both her anchor and her chains. Stealing from the Nazis had been one of the most terrifying experiences of Hannah’s life and, yet, she could hardly recall a time when she felt more alive. She had made a significant difference in the war.

  “Hannah,” Durand said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  Hannah had yet to move. She had nodded she was ready to leave, yet her feet remained glued to the floor as if she had stepped on wet concrete and let it dry. Hannah nodded again and lumbered toward the door.

  “Are you alright?” Durand asked.

  “I am leaving people I trust behind for another unknown,” Hannah said.

  “London is far safer than Josephine or I can make Paris,” Durand said, squeezing her shoulder to offer encouragement.

  He started the truck and pulled forward. They drove in silence, a hundred emotions crossing her mind. She was not as elated as she had thought she would be. Instead, a feeling of loss spread over her again. Would she find someone who would look after her with as much devotion as Josephine and Durand had? But she continued to remind herself they were alive. She was not losing them in the way she had lost Trugnowski and Eleanor. She tried to find how she would say goodbye to Durand and had expected more time. The nearly two-and-a-half-hour drive seemed to have taken fifteen minutes. The truck was more than happy to shut off and sighed when the engine was killed. It looked as though over a hundred boats and ships were in the port.

  “Radley, I don’t have the words,” Hannah said.

  Durand placed a hand on top of Hannah’s and shook his head. “It’s auf wiedersehen, not goodbye.”

  They stepped out of the truck, and Durand lifted her luggage from the flatbed. Nazi guards blocked the entrance to the port.

  “How do we get past them?” Hannah asked.

  “Your papers will grant you admittance. This is as far as I go,” Durand answered.

  Hannah lifted onto the tips of her toes and kissed his cheek. “You are a good man, Radley Durand,” she said.

  “Perhaps, I could get that in writing so my wife has proof,” Durand joked, flashing his intoxicating smile—how Hannah would miss it!

  She took her suitcase from him and gave him one last look before faltering toward the Nazi guards. She extended her passport and ticket. The guards looked her over. The last time she had had her identification looked over, she had been thrown aboard a train to Auschwitz. She turned her head to see whether Durand was still there. Perhaps, there would be time to dash back to the truck if the papers were determined to be falsified. The guard searched for signs of tampering and forgery on a passport tampered and forged by the British Intelligence Agency but found none.

  Durand was still there, looking on with a strength that wafted toward Hannah with the sea breeze. The Nazi guard stared hard at Hannah before nodding. The other guard lifted the boom barrier and allowed Hannah to step through.

  “Hannah!” a voice rang out.

  Hannah turned. Josephine dashed toward her with remarkable agility, considering the length of her heels.

  “I had to see you off,” Josephine said.

  She took Hannah’s hands in her own and squeezed them.

  “I will see you again,” Hannah said.

  Although she wanted it to be a statement, it hovered on the line of being a question.

  “You will,” Josephine said, stroking Hannah’s hair.

  “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t have made it without you,” Hannah said.

  “Connerie. Now go,” Josephine said, wiping Hannah’s tear away with a rub of her thumb.

  The Nazi guard pushed Josephine out of the way. Hannah crossed the gate barrier, and as she did, Durand wrapped his arm around Josephine.

  “This way, Hannah,” a nearly eighty-year-old man said.

  The man had hair as white as clouds and was extremely frail-looking. His ship looked worse and was only twice as large as the truck Durand had driven her in.

  Hannah stepped aboard. The old man was joined by two others—one who was a quarter his age and another, no more than twelve years old. As they removed the ropes securing the boat to the dock, Hannah looked on as Josephine and Durand waved goodbye. The boat pulled away from the wooden dock, and Hannah blew them a kiss goodbye. The details of their faces were no longer visible. She could only make out Durand’s near-black hair and thin mustache and Josephine’s thick, flowing brunette hair and fierce maroon lipstick. As the distance furthered, she could only make out his suit and her burgundy spring dress. When she could no longer see the dock or the coast, she turned away.

  The English Channel was remarkably calmer than normal, and the sun was high. Hannah was thankful for that. She did not want to be aboard a boat of that size should the waters turn choppy and the skies, gloomy. Hannah was uneasy and untrusting, but the fact that the three men aboard the ship comprised a three-generation family lessened it. But she could pay little attention to any of the three men. Her thoughts had taken over, and she had no ability to maintain small talk. They were like the reel of a movie, which needed to run the length of the film before it would stop. Her entire life had been lived in Europe and, now, she was leaving the heart of it behind. She could only hope that, someday, she could return.

  Prisoner of War

  The vicious Soviet winter finally lifted. The frosted ground thawed. Wilhelm had no idea where he was, nor did he know how much time had passed since he had tried to fly out of Stalingrad. He had marched nearly all day, every day, and every day, the number of Germans diminished. Some never woke for the next day’s march, and those who fell too far behind were shot.

  The days were filled with a stronger sun than any day in Stalingrad since the battle had started. But the end of the weeks or month-long march was at hand. A large fenced-in area with towers on each of the four corners loomed ahead. Soviet soldiers jeered at the German prisoners. But there were far too many Germans, nearly 91,000, to accommodate in one camp.

  Wilhelm’s life depended on being herded into the camp. His feet were covered with blisters and, no matter how numb his frozen feet were, he could feel each blister shoot pain up his leg with each step. He would not make another long march. If he was forced to keep moving, his legs would quit on him. But fate took a kind turn.

  A push on his back ushered him inside the camp. A long line formed. Soviet soldiers demanded the Germans to announce their name and rank before entering.

  “Schreiber, Wilhelm. Obersoldat,” Wilhelm said.

  The Soviet wrote down the information, and Wilhelm followed the rush of Germans to the center of the camp. A colonel dressed in a gray suit covered in military medals and decorations stood in front. The whispers of the Germans died down. The Soviet soldiers turned to attention. The highly decorated Soviet spoke and then paused to allow the German translator to catch up.

  “My name is Colonel Vladislav,” he said, “I am t
he high-ranking officer at this prisoner-of-war camp. You are just that—prisoners. You have lost your battle. I will not stand for uprising at my camp. You refuse to do the work that is handed to you, you will be shot. You will not be asked twice. Before anyone mentions the Geneva Convention, I will remind you of how we Soviets were treated at your camps.”

  The Geneva Convention was terms of how prisoners of war were to be treated. It guaranteed certain rights, including a set number of calories, which stated they should be entitled to the same as the capturer’s enlisted men and determined by rank. The Soviets had not signed it and were not subject to any of its laws.

  How could they blame Wilhelm for how the Soviets were treated at German camps? Or, most likely, ninety percent of the men there?

  “You owe a debt to the Soviet Union—a debt that shall be paid through hard work or through death,” Colonel Vladislav said and then turned away.

  A bell rang, and the tenured prisoners rushed toward the food line like dogs hanging around the table at Thanksgiving.

  Wilhelm hurried to join the line. It may be likely those last would get little to none. The food was scooped out with a ladle and placed inside a tin bowl. It looked like a thick, soggy slop.

  “What is this?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Kasha,” the German ahead of him answered.

  It was a Russian word, and Wilhelm had no idea what it meant. But if he had to guess, it translated to “shit.”

  “Um, it’s buckwheat porridge. Boiled. Sometimes we get meat. Today, we don’t,” the German added.

  Wilhelm placed a spoonful in his mouth. It lacked taste and was like chewing drenched cardboard. But each spoonful appeased his appetite.

  “How long have you been here?” Wilhelm asked.

  “I don’t know,” the soldier replied.

  The soldier’s dirty blonde hair, if subjected to a good shower and scrub, would probably have been similar in color as Hannah’s. His face was sunken in, he had a thin frame, and his long nose was like the Jewish propaganda posters in Berlin.