Forever Fleeting

by Bret Kissinger

  Hannah took it, and Otto led her across the street to a small corner café. It lacked the panache of the “Givre Strudel,” and it looked like it was over a hundred years old and like the last place one would want to order a cup of tea. That was alright with Hannah. She ordered a pale ale. It was different tasting than the German beers she had had. The ale was decent, but German beer was far superior. Halfway through the pint, her nerves lessened and the chills the rain had given subsided. If she finished the pint, she would be a block past drunk and defenseless to stop anything. Otto had ordered a cup of lemon tea and stirred it an annoying amount of time before taking a sip.

  “Why are you not fighting?” Hannah asked.

  He was in his forties by appearance, yet he still looked fit enough to fight. It was a personal question and a rude one at that. She did not trust Otto, but if it turned out he was who he said he was, she did not want to start off on a bad foot with the agency that had gotten her into London.

  “I’m sorry. That was very rude,” Hannah said.

  “It is quite alright. I believe we can do as much good collecting intelligence. There are fine young men fighting and dying. If we can gather information that helps save their lives, I believe it to be worth it,” Otto said.

  Hannah was ashamed of the question and wanted to hide her face in her pint of beer but refrained.

  Otto sensed Hannah had finished her drink. He enjoyed another sip of his tea that flirted with becoming a gulp before it burned his throat.

  “Shall we carry on then?” Otto asked.

  Hannah had yet to make a decision on his trustworthiness or his honesty but decided it did not matter. If he was going to drive her someplace to kill her, he would do so. She would keep her promise to herself that she would rather be killed than board another train.

  “Yes,” Hannah said.

  Otto smiled and escorted Hannah outside. The rain had somehow increased, and it looked as though the entire English Channel had risen and fallen on Southern England and would allow the Germans to blitzkrieg into London with their tanks.

  “Weather takes some getting used to. But it has been one of our greatest allies since this war began,” Otto said.

  They dashed across the street toward his black car that was entirely conspicuous and screamed government. Otto spent the drive talking about how the stormy seas had repelled the German invasion. But as Hannah looked out of the window, the Germans may not have invaded, but their torrential onslaught of bombing had certainly wreaked destruction. It was amazing how a single building remained untouched when the buildings around it were nothing but rubble. It was a part of the indelible spirit Hannah had heard on the radio at night, sitting with Josephine and Radley. She had to give his resolve her approval and respect him for knowing it could have been much worse.

  The drive was north of two hours, and the rain followed them every minute of it. Otto pulled the car over. Hannah stepped and looked for a building that exuded the type of opulence the Reich Chancellery had. Yet, the buildings on the block were dingy and beaten down. Had the bombing done this or had the buildings always looked that way?

  Hannah and Otto crossed the street, and he waved his gratitude at the car that stopped to let them cross. The address on the building read “54 Broadway” and a brass plaque read “Minimax Fire Extinguisher Company.” The lackluster exterior was an exact match of the interior. The building had nine floors, and a woman was seated behind a receptionist desk on the first level. She was in her late sixties and looked as though she had slept a total of sixty some minutes combined since the war had started five years ago. The two greeted one another with pleasantries.

  “I will let him know you are on your way up,” the woman said.

  “Thank you, Jane,” Otto said.

  “What is this place? Why have you brought me to a fire extinguisher company?” Hannah asked.

  Otto was silent as he ascended the steps, and Hannah was forced to follow in matched silence. They reached the top floor. It was filled with wooden partitions separating desks. Otto led Hannah toward an office. Unlike the cubicles, the office had a door to allow privacy and discretion. Otto knocked on the open door.

  “Sir, Hannah Smith is here,” Otto announced.

  “Send her in,” a man said from inside.

  Otto nodded, and Hannah stepped into the office. Otto reached for the door and closed it as he stepped out. Hannah wished Otto hadn’t—not because she trusted or liked Otto, it was too early for an opinion, but because he had been the most familiar thing in a building of oddities and secrets. The man behind the desk was in a suit, and judging by the amount of sweat on his forehead, he was miserable in it. Hannah could not blame him. The entire building burned in an invisible flame, and Hannah considered spraying the whole floor with a fire extinguisher they claimed to sell.

  “Ms. Smith, a pleasure to meet you. I am Stewart Menzies,” the man introduced himself, rising from his desk and offering his hand.

  Hannah shook it and took the leather armchair Menzies offered her. He sat back down and brought his fingers together and raised them to rest below his nose. A golden file with a button and string closure was on his desk.

  “Do you know who I am, Miss?” Menzies asked.

  Hannah shook her head.

  “I am Chief of Military Intelligence, Section 6.”

  He reached for the file at his desk and twirled the string free and flipped it open. Hannah’s own picture stared up at her from the top left.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Your file,” he said. He removed a stack of photographs of Hannah outside Josephine’s apartment, outside the “Givre Strudel,” and at “Les Sauvages.” “We don’t grant access into England without doing our due diligence,” Menzies said.

  With so many photos sprawled on his desk, each one made Hannah feel more violated than the last. Her love of photography was in question. She had used it as an innocent art form, but whoever had taken these had been a voyeur lurking in the distance like some kind of pervert.

  “What does it have in there?” Hannah asked.

  “We know that you are not Hannah Smith … that you are actually Hannah Goldschmidt, born to Josef and Emma Goldschmidt. I know that you are Jewish. I know that you spent a significant portion of time at Auschwitz concentration camp in Southern Poland,” Menzies said.

  The entire speech caused a range of emotions to storm through Hannah’s blood that made the storming outside look like the tears of a toddler. When he said her parents’ names, her heart stopped. “Significant portion of time” seemed like the most insensitive way to describe her experience at Auschwitz. The man had read life-altering and heart-breaking events as if they were simple dates and facts.

  “Your testimony to Radley Durand is one of the reasons we became aware of Auschwitz,” Menzies said.

  “Good. Have you shut it down?” Hannah asked.

  “No. It is still in occupied territory. We believe there are in excess of forty thousand camps.”

  Her heart fell from her chest and settled in the pit of her stomach. Forty thousand? Auschwitz was an unspeakable horror. It had to be a singularity—a rarity. To think the acts of that awful place had been mimicked and duplicated over forty thousand times was devastating. Was she the last living Jew in Europe? How could anyone else be alive?

  “I am going to ask you a few questions, dear, and I must tell you that for some of these questions, I already know the answers. I have told you bits of what I know about you so that you are aware we cannot be lied to or made a fool of. You may get lucky but, understand, if we find out you are lying, your sanctuary here will be at an end. Do you understand?” Menzies asked.

  Even if his tone had meant to be gentle, it came off like sandpaper.

  “I do,” Hannah said.

  “Who taught you English?”

  Hannah’s heart resting at the bottom of her stomach was kicked by an invisible foot as Eleanor’s kind face flashed before her.

  “A woman
at Auschwitz.”

  “A fellow prisoner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Of course I remember her name. I shall remember her until the day I die. She saved my life. Eleanor Cole. She was from York and worked as a school teacher in Germany. She snuck thirty-two Jewish children from the school before the Nazis could take them. They branded her an honorary Jew for it,” Hannah said, struggling to control her emotions.

  “Branded? You mean, tattooed?” Menzies asked.

  Hannah turned her left arm over and set it on Menzies’ desk. The black numbers 19653 with the black triangle underneath was as pronounced as the day she had gotten it.

  “Why did you want to come to London?” Menzies asked.

  “I wanted to get out of Nazi-occupied territory,” Hannah answered.

  “You want to stay here?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where I belong.”

  It was the most truthful answer she could give. Deep inside the parts of her mind that harbored her most vulnerable thoughts was the prospect that she would never find a place that was home.

  “You did well under pressure with the mission assigned to you. Would you consider doing more?” Menzies asked.

  “More?” Hannah asked, taken aback by the question.

  “Become an agent for the British Intelligence Agency,” Menzies explained.

  “I just escaped, and you would ask that I go back? I have been branded a Jew. It is not safe for me,” Hannah said.

  “The world is at war. No one is safe.”

  “I understand that there are jobs to be done. I am willing to help. But I will not go back there while the Nazis are in control.”

  “Very well.”

  “Was the information I gathered useful?”

  “We shall know in the coming days. I will keep you posted.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You acquired the information. It is the least we can do.”

  “No, thank you for granting me entrance.”

  “War is hell and hell is war. You have had your fair share of both.”

  She certainly had. But the city of London had also taken its fair share of blows.

  “You are a woman who has had to keep many secrets in order to survive. The area I ask you to help with will require the same. Any information you overhear is top secret. To tell it to anyone is treason and punishable by death, do you understand?” Menzies asked.

  Hannah nodded.

  “I am afraid I will need a verbal response,” Menzies said.

  Hannah realized her entire conversation had been recorded by a microphone hidden somewhere in his office. She guessed either under the lamp or in one of the six ballpoint pens stored in the pen holder on the left-hand side of his desk. “I understand,” Hannah said. She should have figured the conversation would have been recorded, yet she still felt violated, much the same way she had when she saw the photographs of her taken without her knowledge.

  “Excellent. As our French agents may have told you, there will be an invasion to open a western front. The Soviets in the east have stopped Germany and are pushing them back,” Menzies said.

  “What do you need from me?” Hannah asked.

  “We cannot spare anyone. While our young men fight, our women are producing in the factories so they have guns to fire, helmets to wear, and planes, tanks, and trucks to transport them,” Menzies said.

  Hannah knew nothing of factory work, but if it would grant her amnesty, she would learn.

  “Yet, there is also a need for nurses to treat the wounded. It is not an easy job, but I think you’ll find it gratifying,” Menzies said.

  Had they seen in her file that her mother had been a nurse? Hannah had given up hope of becoming one long ago.

  “I will do everything I can,” Hannah said.

  “Our hospitals get flooded with injured every night after the bombing ceases. The Canadian, American, and British soldiers who will invade will require nurses. Will you help where needed?” Menzies asked.

  “Yes,” Hannah said.

  “Good. From this moment on, you are Hannah Smith. Raised in Ludwigsfede, Germany until you were nine when you moved to London. It will cover up the reason for your accent, as there is no denying you do have an accent,” Menzies said.

  Hannah nodded.

  “I am going to introduce you to Kay Summersby. She is currently working for the American General Eisenhower as his personal assistant. But she spent a great deal of nights driving ambulances through London, escorting the injured to hospitals. She will be a valuable resource to you,” Menzies added.

  He pressed a button on his phone and, seconds later, the door opened with Otto standing at the door frame.

  “Yes, Sir?” he asked.

  “See to it that Ms. Smith is given a proper meal and night’s rest. Be sure to give her a rundown on procedure before you drop her off at her hotel,” Menzies instructed.

  “Yes, Sir,” Otto said.

  Menzies stood from his chair and extended his hand. Hannah rose and shook it. “We shall be seeing you again, Miss,” Menzies said.

  Hannah smiled and followed Otto out of the office and toward the stairwell.

  Otto took her to a nearby restaurant. Hannah did not even have to look over the menu. Her dinner was chosen for her because there had been extreme rationing in England. She was served a baked potato with less than ten shreds of cheese and a sliver of butter. After dinner, Otto took her to a hotel not far from the MI6 headquarters.

  “Are you coming up?” Hannah asked after she was checked in.

  “It would be improper. But I would like to go over a few things if you please,” Otto said.

  He offered the lobby sofa for Hannah to sit on. The lobby was much more opulent than the outside had looked. It was filled with gold and scarlet and the wallpaper, a crisscrossing of the two. Golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling and cast a bedazzled glow across the gold-tiled floor. The couch itself was crimson and placed beside the dormant fireplace. Otto removed a series of pamphlets from his breast pocket and set them on the coffee table in front of them, pushing aside the newspapers in the way.

  “You have your passport and papers, correct?’ he asked.

  Hannah nodded and lifted them out of the purse Josephine had given her.

  “Excellent. This is your ration book,” Otto said, holding up a tan booklet, roughly the size of a journal.

  It had the words “Ration Book” engraved in black, block letters and the date 1944–45 on the right-hand side with an octagonal stamp near the bottom center that validated the booklet.

  “There are coupons in here and instructions on how to get your allotted food. Hope you’re not a big bacon enthusiast,” Otto said.

  Hannah took the book and flipped through it. There was rationing on about everything and the allotted amounts per week. Sugar, loose tea, meat, cheese, preserves, butter, margarine, lard, and sweets were just a few of them. But there were stipulations based on health conditions as well. People with diabetes were able to surrender their sugar coupons for more of something else. But the rations were not limited to food. Clothing, soap, fuel, and paper were also limited. Like any government writing, it made her question if she would ever be able to figure it out before starving to death.

  “Best to just get in line and watch the person ahead of you. Easiest way to learn I believe,” Otto advised.

  Had Menzies had her mind bugged too?

  But Otto lost her attention. She stared at the sign above the fireplace: “BLACKOUT MEANS BLACK.”

  “What is that?” Hannah asked, pointing to it.

  “That is my last bit of instruction. It is the most important also. There are to be no lights on after dark. None. Any bit of light can give the German bombers a target. If you hear sirens, move down the stairwell and come back into the lobby, understood?” Otto asked.

  The hotel building appeared to be the only thing left to bomb on the street. The nerves in her bo
dy pleaded her to run to the door.

  “Don’t fret. Tomorrow, I will show you London and then we shall meet Miss Summersby,” Otto said.

  He rose to his feet. He held his fedora in front of him and waited until he was given the okay to leave before putting it on. Hannah nodded for him to do so, but her eyes were fixed on the ominous sign.

  “Goodnight, Ms. Smith,” Otto said. He inclined his head, placed his fedora back on, and walked to the door but stopped and turned. “One last thing. Your room key.”

  He held out a lone key with a gold keychain with the numbers 414 inscribed on it. Hannah took the key and walked to the stairwell and climbed up the flights of steps to the fourth floor. She turned right and came to room 414. She inserted her key and opened the door. The room itself was pleasant enough with a small bathroom, a nightstand with a lamp, and a bed with a soft pink blanket covering it. It would be the first time Hannah would sleep in a bed in longer than she could remember. She set her purse on the nightstand and went into the bathroom to wash her face. She had meant to change into her pajamas, but as she laid down on the bed, her body experienced a comfort that it had been without for a long time. She went from drowsy to a deep sleep, skipping the usual stages in between.

  In her dreams, she was back at Auschwitz, yet was granted permission to make a phone call. Sturmbannführer Waltz escorted her into his private quarters and commanded her to pick up the phone. She brought it to her ear, but there was no one there. She put the black phone, a white circle with a swastika on it, back on the receiver. The phone rang again and again but morphed into a different sound—a sound much more terrifying. Hannah shuddered awake, but the sound did not go away. She sat up in bed and crept to the window. Realization spread across her face and gave way to a deep-seeded fear. The warped sound was an air raid siren. The fallen of England screamed for the living to seek shelter.

  Hannah jumped back from the window and scrambled to the lamp she had forgotten to turn off. It was still dusk when she had first laid down. Her fingers fumbled with the switch, and the room went black. She dashed to the door and opened it. Other guests of the hotel moved about the hallway. Some were frantic while others remained calm. Those who were calm must have been in the city long enough to know what they were doing, and she decided to follow them down the stairwell. She trembled, knowing, at any second, a bomb could fall through and explode the building into a heap of rubble. But the people moved aggravatingly slow. Slow had been the antithesis of everything that had kept her alive.