Forever Fleeting

by Bret Kissinger

  “We tried surrendering to the Americans. But they wouldn’t let us,” the soldier said.

  Höring had been wise to state they should not be captured by the Soviets.

  “Where were you fighting?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Southern Italy. Bailing out the damn noodles. You?”

  The Italians had sometimes been referred to as noodles or pasta by some of the Germans. It was definitely not a term of endearment, which one would think was odd, seeing as they were allies. But the Germans, more specifically German young men, had to constantly aid the Italians as they lost battles and land.

  “Stalingrad,” Wilhelm said.

  The soldier’s face turned grim. “You fought at Stalingrad?” he asked.

  Wilhelm nodded.

  “We heard it was the second Verdun,” the soldier said.

  Stalingrad—a single word that brought a torrential onslaught of faces, names, sights, sounds, and smells. Wilhelm would forever have a permanent chill in his bones from the winter spent there.

  “Tell me how to survive in this place,” Wilhelm said.

  The soldier’s words were shockingly boring. However, he told Wilhelm to expect a change now that spring was on its way.

  “Try to pick up as much Russian as you can. The guards seem to speak a dozen different languages. But the higher-up ones speak Russian. If you can speak it, you make yourself more valuable,” the blonde-haired soldier said.

  Several languages were spoken in the Soviet Union—Russian, Belarusian, Ukrainian, Lithuanian, Latvian, and Finnic to name a few—and was one of several reasons the Soviet Union had allowed itself to take heavy blows to the head before it raised its hands and struck back. Orders had been given in multiple languages and much was lost in translation. It also did not help that Stalin had purged (executed) many of the Soviet Union’s top generals out of fear of betrayal and uprising.

  The soldier showed Wilhelm to one of the housing buildings. Bunks lined up along the wall and were four-rows high. Wilhelm was not alone in climbing onto an empty bunk. It was too small and only had one blanket and a pillow that was little more than an inch and a half thick, but it was the best sleeping arrangement Wilhelm had had since he was in the infirmary.

  It took thirty seconds for Wilhelm to fall into a deeper sleep than he had in months. There was no steady artillery fire or explosions that woke him. Not even the loud snoring coming from beside, above, and below him could wake him. In his dreams, he found Hannah, and when he did wake to the sound of a ringing bell, reality had never been as cruel.

  Wilhelm followed the blonde-haired German to morning breakfast. Wilhelm was not shocked, though entirely disappointed, to see kasha was also the breakfast of choice.

  “So, do you speak Russian then?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Bits. Not enough to be dangerous. We have to learn like dogs,” the blonde German said.

  Beaten dogs most likely.

  Wilhelm raised a sloppy spoonful of kasha to his mouth. Breakfast was expected to be eaten quickly so the work could start.

  “Have any skills?” the blonde soldier asked.

  It was a question that affected Wilhelm in a way he had not expected. It almost made him cry. It had been so long since he had done anything for fun. He hadn’t touched a guitar since he had left for war. He hadn’t been around fast modern cars, only panzer tanks. He hadn’t done anything in so long that he could hardly remember what he had been good at. His hobbies came back to him, and their absence was never more profound.

  “I helped on airplanes back in France,” Wilhelm said.

  “Listen, I know nothing about that stuff. But I don’t want field duty. If I can talk them into letting us go to the factory, can you teach me?” the blonde soldier asked.

  “Sure,” Wilhelm said.

  The hundreds of Germans were separated into different lines based solely on physical appearance. Those who were tall with broad shoulders were put into lines of hard manual labor. Those who looked to be intelligent (generally based on who wore glasses) were put into lines involving more complex tasks.

  Wilhelm looked around to see to which line he would be pre-selected to join. He was tall, and though he had lost much weight during the last month of Stalingrad, he was in much better shape than some of the prisoners. The blonde soldier squeezed his way toward one of the Soviets. Wilhelm shadowed him. The blonde soldier spoke with much struggle and was only able to say a few words, one of which Wilhelm knew to be airplane based on the way the blonde soldier used his hand to mimic a takeoff. He even made the sound of the engine. The Soviet pointed at Wilhelm and spoke.

  “Nod,” the blonde soldier whispered.

  Wilhelm nodded, and the Soviet nodded to the right. Wilhelm and the blonde soldier joined the line of roughly eighty prisoners. As they marched to the fence entrance, a dozen guards with PPD-34 submachine guns at the ready stalked beside them.

  “That was Russian?” Wilhelm asked.

  “More sign language,” the blonde soldier said.

  He grinned, but as they approached the machine gun-carrying guards, his grin vanished.

  “Don’t get any ideas. I’ve seen a dozen men shot down. They barely broke a stride too,” the blonde soldier whispered.

  “Where are we?” Wilhelm asked.

  What would he do if he escaped? Where would he go? He didn’t even know where he was.

  “I don’t know. They didn’t exactly hand out maps,” the blonde soldier said.

  A half-dozen military trucks with canopies covering the cargo portion of the truck were parked outside the fence line. The Germans loaded into them. The armed guards stood vigilant, looking like guard dogs, hoping for somebody to run.

  “These are American. Saw the same ones in Southern Italy,” the blonde soldier said.

  Wilhelm stepped into the back of the truck and took a seat along the left-side bench. The truck had two benches, and they were filled beyond what was comfortable. The back door lifted and slammed shut, and the truck charged ahead.

  “Where are you from?” the blonde soldier asked.

  “Schönfeld. And you?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Würzburg.”

  Every turn caused Wilhelm’s body to move with it. Even with the ride being incredibly bumpy and uncomfortable, it was strangely relaxing. Wilhelm had always loved driving. Even if he wasn’t behind the wheel, there was something relaxing about a drive.

  The truck pulled to a stop, and the back door dropped. Two Soviets stood with their machine guns pointed at the Germans to prevent them from charging out.

  The factory was a tall building that was larger than any football stadium Wilhelm had seen. It was covered in sheet metal, and some sections looked as though a strong wind would send the covering soaring through the sky. The Germans were led inside and, somehow, it looked even bigger than it had from the outside.

  At the far end were complete bomber aircrafts. The middle was filled with planes being assembled and before that were assembly lines producing engines, propellers, throttles, yokes, and other parts. Soviet guards were spaced every fifteen feet, creating a fence of flesh.

  In addition to the Soviet guards were Soviets who managed each area. Again, the Germans were selected at random to work different portions of the assembly line.

  Wilhelm and the blonde soldier followed a Soviet worker who looked far too old to still be working. He had a gimp to his step and a walking stick to correct it. His name was Sanjik Mikhailov, but he had a nickname that Wilhelm and the blonde soldier had given him—“Old Uncle Joe.” The American president, Franklin Roosevelt, had called the Soviet leader, Josef Stalin, Uncle Joe, and since the man looked like a much older Josef Stalin, thick mustache included, the nickname fit. Old Uncle Joe was also far easier to remember and pronounce than Sanjik Mikhailov.

  The man’s voice was strong, raspy, and he would trail off the ends of his words. His Russian was entirely different than any other Wilhelm had heard. He understood the language barrier and showed how each part was
to be assembled into the plane. Instead of speaking, he simply used his walking stick to poke them.

  “This pilot you helped, he didn’t crash on takeoff, did he?” the blonde soldier asked.

  It was a joke, and his smile showed it, but Wilhelm found no hilarity in it.

  “He left for a bombing raid over London and never returned,” Wilhelm said.

  “Oh, I am sorry. I was trying to be funny. I should have asked first,” the blonde soldier said.

  Wilhelm only shrugged. The man had meant no offense. It was impossible to find anyone who had not lost a friend.

  “He was a genius. He had a life of plans,” Wilhelm said.

  He had always envied and respected Aaron for that. Wilhelm was spontaneous and a procrastinator. He thought only of the present, mostly because the present had been so damn perfect. The present now made him long for the great memories of his past or the unknown events of his future.

  “And you? What plans did you have?” the blonde soldier asked.

  He was poked for talking.

  “To marry the love of my life,” Wilhelm said.

  “Did you?”

  “I did.”

  “Lucky bastard.”

  Wilhelm was poked, and it was not because he had screwed up but because he had stopped working. His mind transported him from the present to the past. But Wilhelm fared much better than the blonde soldier. Wilhelm had worked on German planes and, though the Soviet bomber was different, he had a good idea of what the plane should look like when assembled and what each part did and how to ensure it was in proper working order. He gave the blonde soldier information on each part they placed inside the plane. Some required the use of a hoist and others, a precise touch.

  Old Uncle Joe looked at his pocket watch every twenty seconds and groaned. He poked Wilhelm and the blonde soldier in the ribs and pointed to different parts of the engine with his walking stick.

  After they assembled the first engine on their own, Old Uncle Joe inspected it. He let out grunts when something was displeasing and sighs when something was satisfactory. Whether it was done in an attempt to bridge the language barrier or it was an idiosyncrasy he had always had, Wilhelm could not tell. But Old Uncle Joe was much kinder than some of the other workers or guards. He even offered Wilhelm and the blonde soldier a drink from his flask. The moment Wilhelm swallowed the drink, he recognized it was the famed and lethal Russian vodka. Wilhelm repeated the words Alexander had said when he passed the flask. Old Uncle Joe nodded and repeated the same.

  The factory was anything but quiet, yet it was in comparison to the heavy artillery and gunfire exploding day and night at Stalingrad.

  Wilhelm had had many morbid thoughts during the battle, and they were hard to break. During breaks in battle, meal times or rest, Wilhelm would often look around at the hundred or so soldiers close by him and wonder who amongst them would live to see another sunrise, eat another meal or even take another breath. He stopped asking for names, even stopped seeking conversation. He only sought comfort in his journal. But that was no way to live. His father had been that way. Was the way he too acted some genetic trait or the way every battle-experienced soldier felt? As he and the unnamed soldier worked on a new plane, Wilhelm took the first step in reversing his outlook.

  “My name is Wilhelm,” he said.

  He had fought next to men who had died. Brothers in arms yet strangers. No more.

  “Torben,” the blonde soldier said.

  The next several months were filled with the same activities, and each day, Wilhelm picked up bits of Russian. Like any new language, he learned how to curse first, as they were Old Uncle Joe’s favorite words. Wilhelm knew roughly thirty words, and eight of them were a derivative of the word “fuck.” But after the first two months, he was able to communicate everything he needed to in order to get his work done.

  “Good morning,” Wilhelm said after arriving on another day.

  Old Uncle Joe was smoking a cigar that was down to a nub, but he was a stringy old bastard and was frivolous with everything.

  “Morning,” Old Uncle Joe replied.

  He had a habit of not adding good to his mornings and, instead, he preferred to simply state it was morning.

  “We need to talk,” Old Uncle Joe said.

  He was usually grumpy and had a permanent scowl on his face. Yet, his lips, which were usually closed and straight, were curled in a way that looked like a horizontal “S.”

  Wilhelm and Torben followed him to a corner out of earshot between two guards.

  “What is my name?” Old Uncle Joe asked.

  “Sanjik Mikhailov,” Torben answered.

  The pronunciation was dreadful.

  “So, you do know it? I hear you have a different name for me,” Old Uncle Joe said.

  Wilhelm and Torben looked at each other. They had never used the name while he was around, but they had been more careless with it over the last few weeks.

  “What is the name, Wilhelm? Go on, tell me,” Old Uncle Joe said.

  “Old Uncle Joe,” Wilhelm mumbled.

  Torben had pleaded to Wilhelm with his eyes to remain silent in hopes of continuing the façade of innocence. Old Uncle Joe’s face scowled, and his eyes squinted. But then they opened, and his mouth formed a smile. Bits of dust seemed to fall to the ground as his mouth formed into something it had not in the several months Wilhelm and Torben had known him.

  He shook his walking stick at the two before he nodded for them to get back to work. Old Uncle Joe was tough and demanded work, yet he treated Wilhelm and Torben with a level of respect absent in most Soviets. But there was always a poke to be had. Torben swore the man simply liked to poke things.

  “How did you get involved in this?” Wilhelm asked while working next to Old Uncle Joe.

  His Russian was far from perfect, and perhaps the order of his words was wrong, but it was close enough for Old Uncle Joe to understand.

  “Mother Russia asked me and, once more, I need to suckle at her breast,” Old Uncle Joe said.

  “That must be one saggy tit if he is nursing on it,” Torben whispered in German, searching through the wrenches for the 178 millimeter.

  War had affected everyone, not just the soldiers who had to fight and die. Women were moved into fields of employment predominately occupied by men, and the elderly, who had earned relaxation, were required to help. Stalin did not believe in handouts, and every Soviet was expected to serve a purpose, and if they did not, they were killed.

  “Do you have … woman … ugh?” Wilhelm asked in broken Russian.

  Sometimes words were hard to find.

  “Wife,” Old Uncle Joe said.

  Wilhelm had heard the word before on several occasions and the fact he had forgotten was frustrating.

  “Wife,” Wilhelm repeated aloud and silently a dozen times. It better stick, he thought.

  Torben looked uneasy at how personal Wilhelm tried to get.

  “She passed,” Old Uncle Joe said.

  “Because of the war?” Wilhelm asked.

  Old Uncle Joe shook his head and pulled his cigar from his mouth. “No. She missed the war. I am thankful for that.”

  Wilhelm could understand. He missed his mother every day yet, strangely, he was thankful she did not have to live through another war. She was a kind person who was almost too compassionate. When she would hear bad news or someone she loved was feeling low, she would become prone to what Wilhelm called symptoms of sympathy. She would get stomach aches and become restless. She could not sleep at night and would often cry.

  “I understand,” Wilhelm said.

  He had paused too long to not receive a poke, and this time, it dug into his kidneys. Another whistle signaled the end of the workday. Wilhelm and Torben nodded goodbye to Old Uncle Joe and joined the lines to exit the factory and be brought back to the camp. The hot August air was thick with humidity, and the men reeked of sweat. Wilhelm did not know how close he was to Stalingrad, but it was hard to fathom the b
rutal cold could turn into something so hot. The gates of hell had opened, and the thick veil of steam and heat wafted upon them.

  Wilhelm and Torben sat at the back of the truck, removing their white t-shirts and rolling their pants up to their knees. The canopy covering had been removed, but any prisoner contemplating freedom would have to risk being shot by the soldiers in the surrounding jeeps or run over.

  The breeze from the speed of the truck was the best part of Wilhelm’s day. It was the only time the weather was comfortable. Wilhelm loved the heat but that was when he spent much of the summer at Lena’s cottage and nearly all day in the lake behind it. Yet, every soldier who had been at Stalingrad knew how torturous the winter had been. The bright skies and burning sun provided warmth, relief and, most importantly, hope.

  The soldiers sat with their arms raised to let their armpits air out. Sundays were their days to shower, but it was only Tuesday, and everyone smelt awful already. Some men, unfortunately, had a stronger disposition to sweat. Some were as oily as a fish, and Wilhelm sympathized with them over how uncomfortable they must have been.

  “Keep driving until you reach the Pacific,” one soldier said.

  Nearly everyone was in agreement.

  “Keep driving until you drive into the Pacific,” another said.

  Now, they were all in agreement.

  Wilhelm’s back had gone from a lobster-red sunburn to a nice tan, and he only got darker or peeled from that point after. But just as some were more prone to sweating, some were more prone to burning. The gingers in the group had learned they could not take their shirts off, for the sun had a hatred for their freckled skin.

  One poor bastard had burned to a purple, and his skin was full of water blisters. He was in the infirmary for weeks. He now kept his long sleeve shirt on even in nearly ninety-degree weather. Torben fell somewhere in the middle. He neither really burned nor did he tan. His skin seemed to redden and turn tan overnight, but by the afternoon, he would return to his natural pale color.

  The truck pulled to a stop, and the Germans groaned as, once again, they became aware of how hot and muggy it truly was. They were ushered through the fences and back behind them. The meal lines formed and Wilhelm and Torben waited in line, the sun beating down upon their neck and shoulders. The main summer meal had been Okroshka, a cold soup of raw vegetables, boiled potatoes, and meat. Meat was not always a given, as the Soviets ensured they themselves had plenty of food first. But when it was available, it was usually beef.