Flying Without Wings

by Paula Wynne

  ‘What happened to your shoes?’

  ‘Last week we were ordered to start making thousands of the American one-hundred-dollar note. I heard them say they wanted us to print one million dollars every day.’

  ‘And?’ Johan asked.

  ‘The soldiers came again and ordered us to pack it all up. Papa told me the guards were taking him and the other printers to a camp in Austria.’

  Ima’s gasp shuddered out. ‘So he is still alive!’

  ‘Yes. When I left, anyway. But Ima, I don’t hold out much hope. Papa said they wouldn’t keep someone like him alive if they knew Hitler’s secret. He said he knew too much.’

  Ima inhaled sharply and her hand flew to her mouth.

  Aron was quiet for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Ima, I have to tell you this. The Nazis regarded Papa highly for his skills. They told him that was why our family was brought to Terezín, because only important Jews come here. But they needed his cleverness for their forgery.’

  Ima’s eyes above her hand seemed to lose their focus.

  ‘Our operation was split up. Papa was sent to print English pounds, and I was good enough to go with the group who were to print dollars. The men all thought we would be shot when the printing stopped. No one, not even Papa, would stay alive to reveal their secrets.’

  ‘Then…then how―’

  ‘When we arrived at our new camp, it was full of people and everything seemed confused and hurried. On the very first night there was a massive air raid. Our kommandant was killed and several of the buildings destroyed. At first light I saw a line of people being herded like cattle out of the camp, so I just joined them. The guards probably think I died, but I don’t think Papa will be so lucky.’

  Ima turned pale and didn’t say any more about Papa. Instead, she turned the imaginary ring on her finger again. She did it every time she worried about their survival in Terezín or thought about her missing loved ones.

  Aron placed his hand in hers and continued, ‘In the group of prisoners I was with, one of the guards made a bet with the other soldiers. He bet that I was a rich Juden because my shoes were not broken in. So he forced me to take them off at gunpoint and hung them around his neck by the laces. Each day as we marched he kept checking to see if I had fallen like many of the others who were left on the side of the road, but I carried on. I refused to give up and stop walking, even though every step was agony.’

  Ima leaned over Aron’s feet and kissed them. Tears streamed down her cheeks and onto his feet, running to hide between his bloodied toes.

  ‘Finally I stole some clothes off a dead prisoner by the roadside and tied them around my feet many times, and that helped a little.’

  ‘We have to do these things to survive,’ Ima murmured, as though to herself.

  ‘Also, the guards didn’t notice that whenever we saw grass the other prisoners let me walk on it.’

  ‘And what of the boxes?’ Johan was impatient to know where the money had gone.

  Aron laughed. ‘You are not the only spy in our family, little brother. After the air raid, I saw some of the officers having an argument, so I crept up to where I could overhear them. One said they are taking all that money to Austria. They have to dump it, so the Allies never know what we were doing.’

  ‘Was it wrong…what you were doing?’ Johan asked.

  Aron shrugged, his shoulder bones poking high up under his thin shirt. ‘Papa said it was a bad idea. Some of the other men said that there were bankers and politicians in London and Washington who would think it much worse than murdering Jews!’

  ‘And so they’re just going to dump it? Why take it all the way to Austria, when they could just burn it?’ Johan persisted.

  Aron wagged his finger. ‘No, that’s what the officers were arguing about. One wanted to destroy it all, but the other said he thought the money was just a ruse. Something that would distract treasure hunters from what they were really doing: making a vault, a top secret place they could hide all the Nazi treasure for the next Reich. That’s what’s in Austria.’

  ‘Where?’ Johan’s face took on an adult hardness as the thought: I can buy another aeroplane with some of that money. A real one.

  Aron leaned right up close to Johan’s ear and whispered,

  ‘Lake Toplitz.’

  11

  A new sensation crept inside. A quest…to find this Lake Toplitz. Find the Nazi secrets and treasure so that their new Reich would never have them. That would certainly be revenge.

  Johan gaped at Aron’s words. His breath caught in his throat. ‘Lake Toplitz? I know that name.’

  Aron frowned at him, but before he could ask how he knew, Johan leaned closer and whispered, ‘How do you know they were dumping your printed money in that lake?’

  ‘Before we were split up, Papa was told to help design containers that would keep the notes dry in deep water.’ He held up a finger. ‘Not sea water, lake water. After the bombing raid, I saw soldiers moving some of these cases out of a burning building. They were stamped for shipping to Toplitz, so I figured out their secret. It must be that lake! I studied Austria at school.’ He tapped his head. ‘Those Nazis think we’re all stupid, that we don’t have an education or know of places such as this. But little brother, how do you know about Toplitz?’

  Johan proudly recounted to Aron what the Wolf had said about his cousin finding the Reich’s Alpine Fortress to hide their secrets. Then he grasped his brother’s hand and his voice had a determination it had never known before. ‘Will you come with me, Aron?’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To find this place, find their money. Your printed money.’

  A sudden ear-splitting roar filled the building as a bomb exploded close to the gate. All three of them dived sideways and landed on top of the woman with the big, hollow eyes. Another one clung to Aron. The bunk sighed under the weight of all its dwellers.

  Shocked silence filled the barracks. Then cries broke out from some of the small children clinging to their mothers. Johan ran to the window to see plumes of smoke rise up over Terezín’s high wall and creep towards them.

  A moment later, a metal door clanged. Boots crunched on the gravel path. The Wolf’s deep voice boomed out orders for the prisoners to stay in their bunks.

  Any minute now he would check on the women’s barracks and find Aron in here with them.

  ‘The Wolf! He’s coming. You’ll have to go,’ Johan grabbed Aron’s arm. ‘The men’s barrack is next door. I’ll show you.’

  Aron leaned over and kissed the top of Ima’s head. ‘Chutzpah.’

  The other women in their bunk had allowed Aron to spend the past day sleeping there. The one who always pulled her hair had even curled up beside him and murmured to his sleeping form for hours. Ima had said she was pretending Aron was her newly-returned husband.

  Johan yanked on Aron’s arm. ‘Come on!’

  Aron shrugged his arm free and draped it over Johan’s shoulder. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. And the next day.’

  At the door, Johan opened it a crack and peeped out. He pointed to a barrack with its roof caved in on one side. ‘There. That’s the men’s barracks. You’ll have to fight for a bed.’

  Aron patted Johan’s cheek. ‘In another year you’ll be moved to the men’s barracks with me, so I’ll make a place for us.’

  Ima shivered. ‘I pray the Russians get here before that.’

  Johan watched from the door as Aron slinked through the late afternoon shadows and slipped into the men’s barracks.

  After checking that the Wolf hadn’t emerged and seen Aron, Johan latched the door and sneaked past Ima to his spying post. She opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her, ‘Shh, Ima! I must find out what is going on.’

  For once she remained silent, perhaps waiting to see what fate would decide for them.

  Like Ima, Johan too wondered at their fate. Would they die in this final battle as the war ended? Would this prison hovel that was now their only home be bom
bed as the Russians came to free them?

  At his spyhole, Johan glanced up as another blast lit the heavy rain clouds, reflecting on the arched, stone ceiling above the window. For a second, the barrack was lit up in bright shades of red and orange, but all too quickly the cheerful colour was gone, leaving the room in its normal gloom.

  The rattle of machine gun fire grew louder.

  Johan bit his lip. The wait for the Russians to rescue them seemed to go on forever. Another assault pounded the valley. Shells droned for several minutes. Then stopped.

  Silence.

  As if on cue, the murky sky opened. Was Ima’s God cleansing the sky and washing the stain of war and blood off the land? Or was He trying to hamper the Russians getting to them?

  Throughout the night rain hammered the roof above, seeking holes to get inside. The latest bombs had cracked the roof, and there were now so few guards and so many holes that there would surely be no repairing it this time. At least the women inside could harvest sweet rainwater again, instead of what Frau Gerber collected.

  The top beds of the three-tier wooden bunks were quickly soaked through. As it poured down outside, water soaked the first mattress, and then trickled down the wooden frame, seeping to the middle and then right to the bottom bunk. Everyone used anything they could find to collect the water. Some sat licking the drops sliding down the wooden bunk frames.

  The barrack became humid and the damp smell mingled with the stink rising from the mattresses, where some had suffered from vomiting and diarrhoea and others were too weak to stumble to the bucket and so wet their beds.

  From his window, Johan could see that loaded trucks now sped along the road away from the camp, rumbling and rattling in their haste to get away.

  At dawn, a woman’s cry from near the door echoed through the silent barracks, ‘Look! The last few Nazis are fleeing; the Russians must be near.’

  Another cannon blast. It rocked the ground, rattling the creaky wooden beds.

  A loud siren rang out. Johan ducked as another shell hit the fortress wall, blasting a section of the stone to rubble.

  The fortress everyone had said was unshakeable shuddered, knocking Johan off his feet. The explosion seemed to rip up through his stomach and out through the top of his head. For a terrified moment, he looked down the length of his body to see if he was still in one piece.

  He was.

  Leaping back to his post at the window, he saw the last two SS officers run to an idling truck.

  The Pig ran through the fenced area security gates to the flagpole, where a tattered and torn Nazi flag flapped in the icy breeze. He pulled the flag towards him by yanking on the cord. With a swift tug, he tore the German flag off and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, without a glance backwards, he ran to the trucks and leapt onto the tailgate. He grabbed an outstretched hand and was yanked into the back.

  The Nazis really were leaving.

  At last, a piece of good luck.

  Johan’s heart skipped a beat. He raced to the barrack door, yanked it open and bolted over to the guard hut.

  As he splashed through the muddy courtyard, with his breath rasping in his throat, he saw The Wolf being hauled into the truck.

  Suddenly, as he gained his feet, The Wolf swung around and spotted Johan near the guard hut. He leapt down off the truck and sprinted back towards him.

  Almost out of breath, Johan reached the hut first. He seized the door and yanked it open. It shuddered and groaned, feeling as if it had come off its hinges. Johan picked his way between the crates strewn over the floor, expecting to feel the sudden pain of a bullet in his back.

  Instead, a bony hand gripped his shoulder and hurled him aside.

  He staggered upright and stood face-to-face with The Wolf.

  Wishing he could take revenge, Johan bared his teeth and raised his fists, although the obvious difference between the starved ten-year-old and the Nazi officer made the gesture seem absurd. He clamped his mouth shut to stop the noisy breath rising and falling from his throat.

  ‘So, flying schweinchen. Did I not promise you that you will never be good enough to own a Messerschmitt, even a toy one?’

  Abruptly, he pulled out his pistol and aimed it at Johan’s head. He stood there a long moment with his eyes fixed on him.

  Sweat trickled down Johan’s neck. His heart thumped against his ribs and he suddenly needed to use the barrack’s bucket, but he would not suffer the indignity of doing it in his pants.

  Instead, he bit down on his jaw and stared back into The Wolf’s eyes. They were dark and empty and cold and gave him the shivers, but he continued to stare. Daring the kommandant to shoot him.

  After a long moment of staring, The Wolf sniggered, ‘No! You’re not worth my last bullet. I’m going to save that for someone else. Death is the easy way out, so I won’t give you that honour.’ The Wolf laughed.

  Johan’s eyes darted towards the aeroplane.

  ‘But taking this will give you the same pain!’

  Johan made a sudden scramble to try to get to the aeroplane first, but even as he did The Wolf’s jackboot kicked out viciously, catching him behind the knees.

  Johan’s legs caved in. A sharp splinter of pain shot up through his body as he crashed to the stone floor.

  The Wolf reached nonchalantly over to the window ledge, snatched the aeroplane and walked out of the hut.

  As Johan gripped his fingers his nails bit into his palms. He pounded them against his thighs. Shaking off the fury, he hobbled to the doorway of the hut, desperate for one final chance to retrieve his most treasured possession.

  As Johan clung to the doorway, the Wolf stopped, turned, and raised his hand. Thinking the kommandant was going to strike him, Johan cringed and tried to duck.

  Instead, the commander gave him a mock salute, an evil grin lighting his face. Then he clicked his heels in that horrible way and ran off to the truck that was waiting for him, slamming the camp’s gates behind him as he passed through.

  Johan forced his injured legs to carry him to the gate, and he watched the truck trundling away down the road. In the back the Wolf stood up, one hand holding onto a side rail and the other holding the aeroplane high in the air.

  Johan glared back with a colder, harder expression than any ten-year-old should be capable of.

  Within minutes, the truck had disappeared. The camp gate clanked as a gust caught it, swung it wide, then slammed it shut.

  Tears invaded Johan’s eyes.

  12

  Talk about a spirit being crushed! It has been hard to maintain hope, because if there is no hope what else is left? Yet hope only brings heartache and emptiness. This one small thing in a big war has finally finished us. Looking at that aeroplane from a distance has been the only way to survive this hell. Now this deliberately cruel and petty theft has started a personal war. Vengeance is something to hold on to…

  Johan didn’t know how long he sat huddled in the doorway of the guard hut, hugging his bruised and bleeding knees. Nor did he realise he had cried every tear he would ever cry.

  The Wolf’s parting taunt filled his head. Now, at last, his pent-up anger rose up from that hidden place and he felt his cheeks growing warm, his lips curl and his nostrils flare.

  Wave after wave of heat flushed through his body. He imagined punching the Wolf’s teeth out, beating his face to pulp. He didn’t stop his imaginings until his head ached and his clenched jaw was so rigid with pain that he felt he would pass out.

  The revving and rumble of trucks startled him. He sat up, thinking the soldiers were back and he could fight again for his aeroplane.

  From the men’s barracks behind him someone yelled through their window, ‘Hurrah, a red flag! The Russians are here!’

  Johan stared, wide-eyed, as the first Russian tank pulled up in front of the iron gates. A cover opened and a Russian soldier jumped out, punching his fist in the air. A few more appeared, and together they yanked open the gates and entered the camp.

  Tears
streaked Johan’s soot-covered cheeks.

  All around, the prisoners broke out with weak cries and shouts of relief. Within minutes, the camp was crawling with Russian soldiers. Herr Kleinman staggered up to Johan. ‘They are grumbling that the Germans planned to slow them down with so many starved prisoners to feed and process!’

  Johan looked at the old man as he tottered away, cackling wildly, and thought his clever mind must finally have snapped.

  In one of the barracks music suddenly exploded into the evening and Johan spun around to see skeletal people doing their best to dance in the centre of the courtyard.

  Most people were too tired to celebrate and just went to sleep, knowing they were free at last. Others sat around in huddles discussing the future of their destroyed country and their murdered people. And the future of their people. The future across Europe now that Hitler had failed.

  Although Ima was pleased to have the Russians in charge of them, Aron wasn’t so sure things would improve much.

  For the first moment in a long, long time, Johan felt half-human again. Ever since he had arrived at the camp he had felt himself become nearer and nearer to an animal, scurrying and afraid, existing only to search endlessly for food.

  Yet moments ago, he knew he had truly been ready to kill for his aeroplane. Too young, too thin, too weak and too late. He’d never see it again, but its loss had given birth to something inside him that was strong and real.

  The next time in life he had the chance to take what he wanted, he knew he would not hesitate for an instant.

  13

  Matt Buttrick

  July 1985

  Aldermaston, Berkshire, England

  Matt Buttrick slumped forward in his seat as the bus lurched to a stop. The paper in his fist, so often unfolded and refolded that it was in danger of disintegrating into a series of small squares, fell to the floor. He dived forward, grabbed it, and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. As he heard the commotion, he lifted his gaze.

  Outside, hundreds of shouting Greenpeace protestors filled the roadway. Many demonstrators were chained to the fence and the gates of the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment. A line of people lay in a long row across the road to block it, their ankles tied together with ropes.