Forever Fleeting

by Bret Kissinger

  After nearly two months and forty-seven dead, they arrived at the destination. The great Russian city of Moscow was less than nine kilometers away. Their new camp would not lead to any factory jobs. Instead, they would farm the land to help feed a starving nation. The hours were much longer than the factory ones had been—sun up to sun down.

  Wilhelm considered himself blessed when the first snow fell and blanketed the fields. There were still tasks needed to be done—feeding the cows, pigs, and goats—but the sun rose later and fell earlier than the spring and summer months. Besides seeing Hannah dance under the falling snow, he had never cared for winter, but it had become his favorite season. He and Torben would milk the cows and drink some of the milk before bringing it to the farmer. They were lucky the guard who watched them found the barn too foul and would elect to stand outside. It may not seem like much, but to get extra calories whenever possible sometimes made the difference between life and death.

  The holiday season came and went without Wilhelm even knowing it. Winter increased colds and flu, but the holidays brought an epidemic of homesickness. It was not until early February when Wilhelm found out what the date was. Wilhelm and the other Germans were brought out of the barracks and forced to stand and wait for Captain Sokolov. It was frigid, and they were hardly dressed for it. They had been given the most crudely sewn sweaters to wear, and each had a variance of holes. Torben called some of them Swiss cheese sweaters.

  The same rules applied as in Stalingrad. Any soldier who died was fair game to be stripped of anything valuable. Neither Wilhelm nor Torben were proud of it but some nights, they kept each other awake. When it appeared all had fallen asleep, they crept about the bunks, checking to see if any had died. It was how they both received their second sweaters, another pair of socks, and a pack of smokes. The socks were almost more important than the sweater. It was impossible to keep feet dry, and wet feet led to fungus and disease—something called trench foot. They kept a dry pair in their pockets, and when the pair they wore became soaked, they switched, wrung out the wet pair, and placed them in their pockets, hoping the friction against their legs and body heat would eventually dry them.

  “Going to just let us fucking freeze out here,” Torben whispered.

  They had been standing outside in the freezing cold for over twenty minutes. Wilhelm had considered himself lucky. He was in the middle and sandwiched between two men. It was the body heat he was after, and every soldier was closer to the man beside them than they might care for.

  Captain Sokolov walked forward with a thick jacket covering his body, a fur Ushanka hat on his head, and the love of his life between his lips. Torben had devised a plan of ransom that involved not stealing but “kidnapping” Sokolov’s cigarette supplies. He was willing to believe in exchange for the cigarettes, he would grant him and Wilhelm their release.

  “How long is that cigarette?” one man remarked.

  It defied logic. But the red ember at the end of his cigarette died off as it fell to the ground and was squished by a fellow officer. That lazy asshole couldn’t even step out his own light. Sokolov stepped forward and took a deep breath. His tar-covered black lungs had probably taken in less than five percent of the oxygen.

  “The Soviet Union continues to drive back the German army. While tucking their tails between their legs, they left behind something horrible. In Southern Poland, a camp of Jewish prisoners was liberated. These were death camps where Jews were sent to be gassed to death. I am told there may not be a single European Jew alive today. I want you to reflect on what you fought for and what your people did,” Captain Sokolov said.

  As he walked away, lighting another cigarette, and disappeared, a hundred conversations broke out.

  “What is this bullshit he’s talking about?” Torben asked but knew Wilhelm couldn’t possibly have the answer.

  “I don’t know,” Wilhelm said.

  Hopefully, it was another ploy of Captain Sokolov—a way to kill any morale or pride left. But he had spoken grimly, and his usual sly smile was absent. Had Germany committed such an atrocity?

  “They can’t do that,” Torben said.

  But they had instituted innumerable policies as a part of the Nuremberg Laws. Wilhelm knew first-hand the law’s impact on Jewish people and Hannah’s deep fear of “relocation.” He had seen the shops vandalized on, what history called, the Night of Broken Glass. Hitler had never lied once about what his intentions were for the Jewish people. He may not have openly said he would gas them and wipe them from the Earth, but he did say they were to blame for a great deal and had no place in Germany or Europe.

  “Hannah is Jewish,” Wilhelm said.

  Torben had been the one wanting assurance, but he sensed it was his turn to do the same for Wilhelm. Wilhelm had told Torben about Hannah, not her Jewish heritage but everything else ten thousand times. It was likely every German in the camp had heard of Hannah, but he kept her secret his secret. He waited to see how Torben would react.

  “This can’t be true, Wilhelm. They can’t get away with killing thousands of people,” Torben reasoned.

  He completely breezed over acknowledging the importance of what Wilhelm had said. Wilhelm was unclear if Torben had never cared or if he felt too betrayed to care. But he was horrified at what they had been told, and even if the doubt of his words showed in his eyes, Wilhelm appreciated the gesture. But there was nothing Torben could say to make him feel better. He spent the better part of the night staring blankly at the ceiling inside the barracks. Only one question went through his mind—a question more complex and thought-provoking than how the universe was created—what was Hannah’s fate? And from that stemmed infinite questions. What had happened to her? Where was she? Who was she with? Was she safe? But all the questions brought him back to the question that had started it all—what had been Hannah’s fate? If she was alive, his desire to live would stay resolute. But if she was dead, he wanted to know. He wanted to know if he could give up and die—end the slave labor, the marches, being urinated on, end the constant state of hunger, thirst, and sheer exhaustion he was in. Torben tried without success to keep Wilhelm’s spirits up. But Wilhelm was a ghost who was neither connected to the present world nor the life that came after. Wilhelm did not even care when Captain Sokolov pulled his classic prank the next night, and for the first time, Captain Sokolov got no joy from doing it. Like some bullies, if there was no response, the game was no longer fun.

  As the early months of 1945 passed, it had become clear Germany would lose the war. The great Battle of the Bulge launched by the Germans in the forested Ardennes had been their last major offensive. The Americans and British had defeated them after Germany had gained the upper hand. The melting snows and warmer temperatures meant more hours were required on the farms. The Germans hated the brutally cold winters, but spring brought its own issues. The daily work had increased three hours, but to Wilhelm, it eliminated tormenting thoughts for another three hours of his day.

  Torben and Wilhelm shared a unique bond. Wilhelm had been the optimist from his time of arriving at the camp until February of 1945 when he found out about the concentration camp. Afterward, Torben took over the reins and became the positive beacon. He talked of Francesca and his parents and detailed down to the meal of what his first day back in Würzburg would be like. His persistence paid off. The tide switched back in Wilhelm’s favor. He allowed himself to think about the future and took Torben’s offer of attending his wedding and being a groomsman. Instead of thinking of themselves as prisoners, they thought of themselves as work colleagues who lived together. They planned a trip to Rome. Torben knew all the secret, less-crowded but better-tasting restaurants. They planned trips to Paris, Egypt, New York—anywhere but Russia.

  After supper one night, Captain Sokolov ordered the Germans to stand and wait for an announcement. He stood in silence as he finished his cigarette. Even if the weighted stares of three hundred German prisoners were noticed, he did not show it. He finished his p
uff and let out a cloud of smoke.

  “Prisoners, it is my duty to inform you that your Führer, Adolf Hitler, is dead—dead at his own hands. He put a pistol to his head as he cowered in his bunker. The Soviet Union in their might have invaded the city of Berlin, and the Americans are closing in. This war will be over in days. I consider it my duty to keep you informed of your country’s actions. You have my word that when I receive news the war has ended, you will be made aware. That is all,” Captain Sokolov announced.

  No German cried out with joy, but if they felt anything similar to Wilhelm, they were screaming internally with relief. Torben put a hand on Wilhelm’s shoulder to signal he too felt the same unspeakable relief. The end of the war meant the Soviet Union would have no reason to keep soldiers. Wilhelm could not find fault in their reasoning for keeping them while the fighting continued. But every soldier had family throughout Germany. They knew what damage bombing could do, and even if civilians were not the target, it was impossible for there not to be casualties. If the Soviets were in Berlin, they would not bomb the city with their own troops in it.

  The following morning and the one after, the German prisoners expected Sokolov to inform them the war was over. But it wasn’t until 7 May that Hitler’s successor, Karl Dönitz, surrendered. But Stalin wanted the Germans to surrender in their own capital city of Berlin, and Soviet Marshal Georgy Zhukov oversaw as Field-Marshal Keitel signed a ratified surrender. The European theatre of war drew its curtains to a close. Wilhelm’s time as a soldier and prisoner was over.

  “Form lines. Those who step out of line will be shot. Those who ask questions will be shot twice,” Captain Sokolov commanded.

  It appeared Captain Sokolov was upset his reign was at an end and hoped he would be able to shoot one more German. Wilhelm and Torben did nothing to give Sokolov an excuse and literally slouched to appear shorter.

  As they marched, it was clear it was not just the prisoners in Wilhelm’s camp but also dozens of other camps near Moscow. They were herded like sheep toward the Red Square. The famed Saint Basil’s Cathedral looked like ice-cream cones on the beautiful spring day. Lenin’s mausoleum was one of the most revered buildings in all of the Soviet Union. The red, castle-like building was the State Historical Museum. It was a city like so many in Europe, rich with history, but Wilhelm would not stay to explore it.

  Thousands of people cheered on the streets. Soviet flags waved proudly, and posters of Stalin were held high. But the deafening cheers turned to boos when the Germans marched through the square. Wilhelm had heard booing at sporting events, but it was nothing compared to the hate that radiated from the crowd. These were people who had lost nearly everything and everyone. Millions of Soviets had died in the fighting, and there was not one person in the crowd who had not lost a loved one. It was an awful feeling, seeing the glaring faces of someone who hated you unequivocally without ever having met you. The hate ascended to the high command. Josef Stalin looked down from Lenin’s mausoleum.

  “They have so much hatred,” Torben said.

  “Can you blame them?” Wilhelm asked.

  Torben shook his head. No one could.

  “It is a small price to pay for going home in one piece,” Wilhelm said.

  Torben agreed wholeheartedly. It was nothing short of a miracle that he, Wilhelm, and the thousands of German soldiers had not been killed. It was even rarer for neither to have had lost a limb. Wilhelm had been injured several times, yet he was beyond grateful he had both his hands, both legs, and he could walk, run, jump, write, play music, dance, and so much more. He would be able to go home in one piece—physically at least. The horrors of war were something that never truly went away. They would be like achy bones that were worse on cold mornings. There would be nothing to alleviate them. But returning to a normal life and to Hannah would be the best remedy.

  When the Soviet national anthem played, both the Soviet soldiers and the civilians turned their attention to the red flag with a yellow sickle and hammer and chanted the words. The Germans stopped their marching. The Soviets would have taken great offense if they had not. Wilhelm was confident he could speak for the thousands of other Germans in saying they did not want to do anything to anger the Soviets further. If someone would have sneezed in the middle of the national anthem, they would have been strung up by their neck and hanged.

  After the Soviet parade of victory and the march of German defeat, Wilhelm and the Germans marched back to their camp. After getting a bowl of soup that was mostly water with a few bits of vegetables, Captain Sokolov demanded the Germans stand at attention once more. It was the moment Wilhelm and the others had been waiting for—the moment Wilhelm had waited for since his fingers slipped from Hannah’s on Christmas 1939. That was nearly six years ago—65 months, 1,964 days, 47,136 hours, 2,829,466 minutes. But no matter how precise the time was, it all added up to an eternity and a lifetime ago.

  “The war is over, and there is no longer a need for this camp,” Captain Sokolov said.

  It was too much for some to contain. Smiles spread. Tears fell. Hopefully, Captain Sokolov had not seen the smiles or the number of casualties of the war would increase. A feeling of euphoria spread over Wilhelm. A weightlessness took hold—the sort of invisible feeling he experienced when he kissed Hannah.

  There was not a single German who would not have preferred to have been captured by the English or Americans. Not only did they not have the same sort of animosity and thirst for revenge as the Soviets but, more importantly, they had signed the Geneva Convention. But it was over. None of that mattered now. Wilhelm had wasted five years of his life—the best years of his life. But Wilhelm was still only twenty-five years old. When he left, and when he found Hannah … when he found Hannah … she had to be alive. The gray, gloomy clouds that covered his thoughts parted, and the rain stopped. The bright sun was about to burst through the thin-veiled clouds and cast an expansive light upon the world for the first time in over five years.

  When he found Hannah, they would have a few years of catching up to do before starting their family. They would spend their Saturday and Sunday mornings with Hannah painting or drawing while Wilhelm would play the guitar. He would have to learn it again, and he hoped his fingers would start playing the chords they used to. They would travel anywhere and everywhere. He didn’t care if they didn’t have money for it. They would each carry a pack filled with food and supplies and travel the countryside. He would take her to Austria and to the lake that had been the muse for her favorite painting. He would take her to Paris so they could dine on pastries during the morning, view the art museums during the day, and dance the nights away. He would take her to New York, perhaps on their anniversary on 30 June. He would take her to see one of the American movies at the cinema. They would order popcorn and Coca-Colas. But why stop at New York? There was so much to see in America. They could go to Chicago and see the home of the famed mafia leader Al Capone. They could head north to Milwaukee for a taste of home in the form of a dark German beer and bratwurst. From there, they would travel west to the city of stars and see the famous Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn.

  There would be so much catching up to do with Heinrich and Erich and his father too. Even with the two being able to go a week speaking six words, converting that to years meant they had acquired enough words for a conversation. He would invite Torben too. He had become as close a friend as Heinrich or Erich and, in ways, more. There was no brotherhood like the one of soldiers. Men who fought together had a commonality no amount of time could create with someone else and, concurrently, no amount of time could take away.

  It was an impressive feat that Wilhelm, mere moments ago, had no plans that extended beyond a day, but now had the next five years of his life mapped out in seconds. Wilhelm even gained a level of acceptance for the way Sokolov had been. May he have a joyous life in the Soviet Union and may Wilhelm never have to see him again. He had no plans on sleeping the night in the camp. He would leave as soon as the gates
opened.

  “We’re going home,” Torben said, smiling wider and brighter than at any point Wilhelm had known him.

  “We’re going home,” Wilhelm repeated.

  He and Torben hugged. Soldiers all around them celebrated, prayed, hugged, and almost danced. But a gunshot stopped all of it.

  “I am not done speaking!” Captain Sokolov yelled.

  Smoke wafted out of his pistol that pointed down at his side. Wilhelm considered it a poor shot on Sokolov’s part, as it seemed unlikely he would pass up the opportunity to shoot a German. Torben and Wilhelm exchanged looks. The war was over. He couldn’t kill anymore. But that didn’t mean anyone was willing to test that theory, and the Germans fell silent immediately and faced Sokolov.

  “Though the war is over, its effects are not. Hundreds of cities have been destroyed. Thousands are homeless, and millions are starving. There is much work to be done. Each of you is responsible for this. You are required to help rebuild what you have destroyed,” Captain Sokolov said.

  Wilhelm was back in that plane, trying to escape over the Battle of Stalingrad. He had soared higher and higher only to be shot down. The same had happened again. He just wasn’t seated in the cockpit. He crashed and burned without ever leaving the ground.

  The Germans had somewhat been able to hide their joyous stupor, but disappointment was much harder to mask. Whether it was shoulders slouching or mouths falling open to audible gasps or downright sobs, each was devastated. Wilhelm had helped build the Reich Chancellery building, and it had taken months to finish one building. He had seen Stalingrad. The entire city was a wasteland of stone and steel. It would take years, not months, to repair the one city. The Soviet Union was a massive area that stretched from Eastern Europe to the Pacific. To repair every last city would take decades.