Fire and Steel, Volume 2

by Gerald N. Lund

  Once in the kitchen, she shut the door softly behind her before she turned to him.

  “My goodness, Mutti,” Hans said, curious now. “I didn’t expect something quite this dramatic.” Inga came over to face him but stopped two paces away. She shoved her hands into her apron pockets and stared past him for a moment. Her face was suddenly so grave that he thought she was going to tell him that his father had cancer again. He grasped her hands. “What, Mutti? What’s wrong? Is Papa all right?”

  She nodded. “Papa is fine. I think he even understands what you did last night and why. He seemed at peace this morning.”

  She motioned for Hans to sit down and then sat across the table from him. “Hans, I need to say something to you before you go. I don’t expect an answer. In fact, I’d like you to just listen.”

  “All right.” He sat back.

  “What you did last night—for your sisters, for your brothers-in-law, for your nieces and nephews—it was magnificent. I have never been more proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Mutti.”

  Inga took a deep breath. “And because of that, I am reluctant to say what I’m going to say now. But I feel that I must.”

  Hans felt a little tingle of warning. The pride in his mother’s eyes had gone as swiftly as it had come. “Go on.”

  “Why is it, Hans, that you feel that you have to lie to me?”

  He knew instantly what she meant but feigned ignorance. “Lie to you? About what?”

  Inga sighed. “Even now? Emilee told me when she called that she and her brother were leaving right away to go north. You were still in Berlin. Why would she invite you to go when there was no way you could get there in time?”

  Hans felt his face burning but didn’t look at his mother. What was there to say? Finally all he could think of was, “It was a stupid thing to do.”

  “Yes it was,” she said. “So why did you do it?”

  “Mama, I—I’m sorry. I mean it.”

  “Shush,” she snapped. “Your apology means nothing, Hans. Not now. That’s what grieves me the most, Hans. How easily the lies fall from your lips.”

  “Mutti, I just didn’t want to make you feel bad.”

  “How noble of you.”

  “I. . . .”

  “Do you remember the story about the Dutch boy and the dike?”

  “What?” Where had that come from?

  “This happened in Holland. A young boy, whose name was Peter, was on his way to school when he noticed a small leak in the dike that held back the North Sea from the lowlands of Holland. Even though he was late for school, he decided that if something wasn’t done, the dike might eventually collapse and the lowlands would be flooded. So he stuck his finger in the hole to plug the leak. Even though it was cold, he stayed there all night until someone came along and found him. Men were called, the leak was plugged, and the lowland villages were saved.”

  “I know the story, Mutti. We studied it in my literature class at the Von Kruger Academy. Did you know that it never really happened? It’s a myth. It actually comes from the famous children’s book called Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates. And here’s an irony for you. The book was written by an American author who had never been to Holland. And Hans Brinker, the hero of the story, was not the boy who put his finger in the dike. It was story within a story. And the author made it up. Oh, and by the way, the boy’s name wasn’t Peter. He wasn’t named at all in the original book. Someone gave him that name later.”

  She watched him steadily as he spoke. When he finished, she asked, “Are you finished now, Mr. Valedictorian of the Von Kruger Academy?”

  “I. . . .” Stung, Hans struck back. “I just thought you ought to know that it is not a true story.”

  Her eyes bored in on him. “Does it really matter whether it is a true story or not? That was not my point.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to sound condescending.”

  She harrumphed softly. “Well you did, whether you meant to or not.”

  He flinched but said nothing. Trying to reason with her was only making it worse.

  “You are an engineer,” she said thoughtfully. “Let’s suppose for a moment that it was a true story. What would have happened if the boy hadn’t put his finger in the dike?”

  “Well,” he said, a little surprised by the question. “Theoretically, the leak is caused by some weakness in the dike structure, a crack of some kind. Engineers would say that its structural integrity had been compromised.”

  Her head came up. “Structural integrity? They actually use those words?”

  “Yes. But the leak itself is caused by the tremendous water pressure behind the dike.”

  “So, answer my question. What happens if the boy doesn’t put his finger in the dike?”

  “Well, that’s part of the problem. It’s doubtful that a boy’s thumb could have held back any kind of serious leak.”

  She sighed wearily. “I said that we’re supposing the story was true. What happens if the boy doesn’t put his finger in the dike?”

  He thought he saw where this was going but saw no way around it. “If something isn’t done about it, what is at first only seepage through the dike would become a trickle. A trickle might then widen the crack enough that you have a tiny spray of water, and then a gushing leak, and . . . eventually the whole dam would rupture if it weren’t stopped.”

  “But all of this is just theoretical, right?” she asked quietly.

  Hans was silent. There was nothing to say. It was an elegant metaphor, perfectly describing his growing tendency to bend the truth to his own convenience.

  “Right?” she pressed.

  “All right, Mutti, I get it. It was stupid of me to lie to you. But it was only—”

  She cut in quickly. “Only a little trickle of a lie, right?”

  Hans shrugged, knowing that there was nothing to do but to let her get it out.

  They sat there for a moment, listening to the sounds of the family through the door. Hans finally looked at her. “I need to go, Mama.”

  She nodded but didn’t move. After a moment, she reached across the table and laid her hand on his. “You have greatness in you, Hans. I saw a glimpse of that last night, and I wept. But there are places where I worry that your structural integrity is being compromised. Isn’t that how you said it?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Tears squeezed up from beneath her lower eyelids. “Oh, my son,” she said in a tiny, tremulous voice, “I cannot begin to imagine what these last four years did to you. Who am I to judge you?”

  He took her hand in both of his, near tears himself. “You’re my Mutti. That’s who.”

  “Then stick your finger in those holes, Hans. Before they get so big that you can’t stop them anymore. Remember Peter.”

  Hans smiled sadly. “His name wasn’t Peter, Mutti.

  “You don’t know that. Peter’s a pretty common name in Holland, you know.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Hans got to his feet, came around the table, and pulled his mother up to face him. He went to put his arms around her, but she reared back. “Before we get all mushy here, I’ve got one more thing to say to you.”

  Hans feigned a groan. How he loved this mother of his. “I’m listening.”

  “About Emilee.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “What about her?”

  Inga raised a finger and shook it at him. “Don’t you mess things up with her, boy. If you do, your father and I are going to take a cheese paddle to your bare backside. I don’t care how big you are. Got it?”

  “Yes, Mutti,” Hans said meekly. “I understand.”

  8:55 a.m.—Telephone exchange, Oberammergau Railway Station

  Hans sat alone at a small metal table in the train station café, which was really little more than a hole in the wall near the far corner of the terminal with three rusting tables out front. They served stale cheese, stale Kaisersemmel, a hard roll named for Kaiser Franz Josef of Austria, wilted red cabbage, and s
tale coffee.

  Hans didn’t care. It felt good to be alone with his thoughts for a few minutes before he started on yet another interminable trip to Berlin. And his thoughts were on his family. How long would it be before he got back here? Would his dear Anna be a mother by then? Would Miki still be that impish, impudent little tornado that he so adored? He swallowed quickly. Would he ever see his father alive again?

  The phone beside him rang. He picked up the handset. “Yes?”

  “I’m ringing your number now, Herr Eckhardt.”

  “Gut. Danke.”

  Almost immediately the phone began to ring. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Come on, Emilee,” he muttered.

  Four times. Then five. A sudden sinking feeling hit him. But then, a moment later, there was a click and a male voice spoke. “Hallo.”

  It was Heinz-Albert’s voice. “Is Fräulein Emilee Fromme there?”

  A long pause.

  Finally Hans spoke again. “Hallo?”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Hans Eckhardt. Is Emilee there?”

  “No.”

  “When will she be home?”

  “Dunno.” He sounded half asleep.

  “Is she back from Königsberg yet?”

  “No.”

  “Have you heard from them?”

  “No.”

  “Were they able to get gasoline?”

  “Dunno.”

  Growing exasperated, Hans wondered why Emilee’s mother never answered the phone. “Can I leave a message for her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t have a pencil.”

  “Isn’t there one in the house somewhere?”

  “Dunno.”

  That was when he began to understand why Heinz-Albert, who was nearly twenty now, still lived with his mother and sister. Now he better understood. And how could he be angry with him for that?

  “Is this Heinz-Albert?”

  Another long pause, then, “Yes. Who are you?”

  “My name is Hans. I am a friend of Emilee, your sister.”

  “Yes, she’s my sister.”

  “Can you tell her that I called?”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Hans. Please tell Emilee that—”

  “Do you like my sister?”

  He smiled. “Yes, Heinz-Albert, I actually do.”

  “Me too.” And then he abruptly hung up.

  Hans was ready to tear his hair out. Now what? Surely Heinz-Albert was wrong about her not being back in Königsberg by now. They had left almost a week ago. Maybe she was asleep. She said she always went to bed as soon as she finished her shift at the hospital. After a moment, he shook his head. Heinz-Albert wasn’t that deficient. Hans let out a long, slow breath. Why did everything have to be so miserably complicated? Should he buy a ticket for Berlin or all the way to Pasewalk? Then, with a start, he realized there was a simple answer to that.

  Turning on his heel, he headed toward the opposite end of the terminal, where another window had a sign over it: “Telegraph Office.”

  Five minutes later, he reread what he had printed out on the blank template.

  EMILEE STOP TRIED TO CALL STOP ARRIVE BERLIN TONIGHT 7:14 STOP WILL CALL AGAIN STOP CAN LEAVE MESSAGE FOR ME AT TELEPHONE EXCHANGE BERLIN OSTBAHNHOF STOP. HANS.

  Satisfied, he returned to the window and pushed it under the mesh screen. The man read it quickly, nodded, and counted the words. “That’ll be one mark twenty.”

  Ouch! But there was no choice. He paid the man and walked back to the ticket window. He recognized the man in uniform there. “A one-way ticket to Berlin, bitte,” he said.

  The man took his card, looked at it briefly, and then looked at him. “You’re really burning up the rails, aren’t you, Sergeant Eckhardt?”

  That made him chuckle. “I have a hard time sleeping without hearing the clickety-clack of steel on steel,” he said dryly.

  “Right.” The man wrote the ticket, stamped it, and handed it to Hans. “Sleep tight,” he drawled.

  January 2, 1919, 6:27 a.m.—Ministry of War, Mitte District, Berlin

  He didn’t have to wait until he reached the building to know the news was not good. The only things in the plaza in front of the ugly old Ministry building were the two lamps that threw small circles of light across the cement. The building was dark. The streets were nearly deserted. And there was no one waiting outside the main doors. Not a soul.

  “You can’t be serious!” he muttered as he walked across the plaza to the doors. But they were. The same sign was still up.

  NOTICE:

  All offices of the Ministry of War are closed for the Holidays.

  Offices will reopen after New Year’s at 8:00 a.m.

  Sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

  Merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

  “The holidays are over, you idiots,” he exclaimed. “It’s January 2nd.”

  But as he read the notice over again, he saw that it said only that they would open after New Year’s. It didn’t say how long after, right? And this was the government, right? Any other business would be open today to see if they couldn’t make a few marks. But, in the thinking of a civil servant, why would you open for only two days and then close again for the weekend, when you could just wait until Monday to open? So what if a few thousand people were inconvenienced? They had already said they were sorry for the inconvenience.

  Muttering all kinds of disparaging things about some of his fellow men and women, Hans sat down on the steps to figure out what to do next. There had been no message from Emilee left at the station. When he tried her phone again, there was no answer at all. He even called his parents under the guise that he was letting them know he had arrived safely in Berlin. His mother saw through that in an instant. No, she hadn’t heard anything from Emilee.

  No Emilee. No Ministry. No check. No hotel room. Just what did he do now?

  Hans sat there in the plaza for five more minutes, brooding over it, before an idea came to him. When it did, he reared back and then grunted in satisfaction. Why not? It was something, at least.

  He picked up his rucksack, pulled his overcoat more tightly around him, and started walking—not to the east toward the train station, but toward the west. Toward the Tiergarten District.

  Chapter Note

  Hans Brinker, alternately titled The Silver Skates: A Story of Life in Holland, was written by American author Mary Mapes Dodge and was first published in 1864. She had never been to Holland before she wrote the book. It became an instant bestseller and is still in print. It is considered a children’s classic to this day. It was so popular that it is credited with introducing speed skating to America. The boy who put his finger in the dike was not named.

  January 2, 1919, 11:38 a.m.—Tiergarten District, Berlin

  Katya Freylitsch turned around in surprise when she heard the tinkle of the bell in the downstairs lobby. Puzzled, she laid her book on the lamp table beside her. Then gathering up her cat, Kleines Kätzchen, in her arms, she kissed him on the top of his head and set him on the floor. His look of pure astonishment at this travesty made her smile. Had she really just unceremoniously dumped him without warning? Smiling, she reached down and stroked the cat. She went to the door, opened it just enough to slip through into the hallway, and closed it again before her cat could follow.

  As she ran lightly down the stairs, the bell tinkled again. It was definitely her bell. Her landlady’s bell had a much deeper tone. Through the opaque glass of the front door, she saw a large, dark shape. Clearly a man, she thought. Maybe the postman had a package.

  When she opened the door she stopped dead, her eyes growing wide.

  “Uh . . . oh, hullo.”

  He swayed back and forth as he stared stupidly at her. She caught a strong whiff of schnapps. “Sergeant Eckhardt?” Katya gasped.

  “At your service.” He swept off his army hat and attempted a deep bow. She leaped forwa
rd and caught his arm before he toppled backward down the steps.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Fräulein,” he mumbled. Then he burped loudly. One hand came up and clamped itself over his mouth and stifled a peal of giggles. “Sorry, sorry.” Then he put his finger to his lips. He leaned in closer and shushed her in a conspiratorial manner. The smell of the liquor was so strong she turned her head away.

  Looking quickly up and down the street to see if anyone had seen them, she tightened her grip on his arm and pulled him inside the tiny entryway and then shut the door behind him. Thank you, Frau Schmidt, for not being here right now.

  Twice Hans started to teeter backward, so Katya quickly got around behind him and pushed him forward toward the steps.

  “We need to go upstairs, Sergeant,” she said. “Lift your foot. That’s right. One at a time.”

  “Pleeshe. Call me Hans.”

  “Yes, Hans. Keep moving. Take another step. That’s it.”

  She propped him against the wall on the landing and opened her door. KK shot past her and down the stairs. Hans jumped a foot. “What was that?” he yelped.

  “My cat. Come back here, KK,” Katya snapped. The cat ignored her, so she grabbed Hans’s arm, wrapped it around her shoulder, and steered him through the door. “Welcome to my humble home, Hans.”

  He pulled free of her, looking around in surprise. “Where am I?”

  “This is my flat, Hans. This is where I live. Where did you want to be?”

  “Oh.” He did a wobbly half circle. “It . . . it . . . it . . . it’s very nice.”

  “Thank you.” She moved around him and removed his overcoat and then led him by the elbow to the sofa by the window. “Sit down, Hans. I’m going to make us some coffee.”

  “I like coffee.”

  She smiled. “Actually, you need coffee. Sit down and I’ll go make a fresh pot.”

  Hans didn’t move, and she finally gave him a gentle shove. He crashed down so heavily that the floor trembled a little. She winced and again was grateful that her landlady was gone for the day. That kind of a crash would have brought her running.

  And thank heavens Angelika is gone too.

  With a sigh, she took his coat and hung it up on the coat rack. Angelika, Katya’s flatmate, was also a civil servant. She worked for the Finance Ministry. But unlike Katya, who had come back to Berlin early because the craziness at home had finally gotten to her, Angelika wouldn’t be back until Sunday night. Katya started for the tiny kitchen and then changed her mind and moved over to stand in front of Hans. “What are you doing here, Hans Eckhardt?”