“Willi…” she begged.
Just then a second shot blasted, this bullet whizzing closer, just over my shoulder, before striking a heady board with a dull fleshy thud. I jumped aside and Heinrich focused on me. He smirked and I could see something dangerous and quite deadly in his aim: jealousy. He wanted my mother, wanted control of her. For much more than state security reasons, he was bent on learning everything about Anton.
Heinrich cuddled up to Mother, his arm slithering around her, massaging her back. Then he started kissing her, moaning venomous grunts in her ear. Mother's head dropped forward, she bit her lips. Tears streamed. Then his hand came up, and his fingers snaked through her hair, grabbed, and yanked back her head.
“Tell me about this Anton and his passes or I'll shoot your son!”
As his arm straightened toward me, the air rushed from my lungs. I couldn't move. He really would, I knew, kill me.
“Please, no!” sobbed my mother.
Heinrich laughed, this chortle high and slimy, and in that millisecond I saw Mother's arm come forward, then jab back into his stomach. Faster and harder than I could ever have imagined, my mother heaved herself into Heinrich. His foot catching in a crack, he lost his balance and began to fall. Desperate, he clawed out, clutched at Mother and brought her tumbling down with him. Just before they hit the floor, the gun fired in my direction. I dropped, heard the bullet zing past me.
“Run, Willi!” screamed Mama.
She belted him as hard as she could, tried to beat him down. I pushed myself up, started toward her. I realized that I couldn't abandon her because I was her kleiner Soldat and I had to help, protect! Any second a group of Heinrich's men would come storming over. My mother and I had to get away!
“Mama!”
“Run!” she screamed as she wrestled the eel around her.
Heinrich swung his gun out at me. I didn't want to go. But the pistol, he was waving it at me, taking aim!
I dove to the side just before he fired. Then I was on my hands and knees, scrambling my way out of the burned bakery. Bursting into the street. Charging away, rushing as fast and as far away as I could from my mother the informant and her Gestapo controller.
Chapter 20
I ran for blocks. I burst across one main street, then twisted into an alley, scrambled over a pile of rubble. My hands black with grime, I pulled aside a board, ducked into the darkness of a ruined building. It came above my heavy breathing, however. A huge whistle. Shouting. Then there was lots of tromping. Though I had no idea how many there were, it sounded like a squadron of soldiers. I heard them fan out. Comb this district, they had undoubtedly been told. Capture the boy! Drag his bloody body back here! And it struck me that I would forever be chased and hunted.
I moved on, slipped into an alley that was almost untouched. I looked up and down the narrow space. Brick walls. A pile of crates. No one. Only a sliver of light at the end. I passed what had to have been the last pane of glass in all of Germany. A little window. Sooty, but intact. I peered in. Saw a grandmotherly figure sipping tea and listening to the radio. Black. She wore a bulky black dress. Probably all her kindred had been wiped out. Husband, son, grandson. I stopped and stared at the kind face, admired her breadlike bun of hair coiled neatly on the back of her head. Here was her little untouched corner of the world. Waiting. I was sure that's all she was doing. Hoping. Probably no longer taking shelter in the cellar.
The pounding in my heart began to slow to a steady yet hard beat. I came to the corner, checked it, then continued on down the street that had little damage. I poked my hands in my pockets, hung my head, passed beneath balcony after balcony. A boy in a dark wool jacket, blond hair. I wouldn't, I knew, be that hard to pick out, so I turned off the street and wound my way on.
I started running, my imagination dripping red. Heinrich's wrath at my escape would be as foul as it would be great, and I feared for us all. A salty, rancid taste crept up my throat, blotted the back of my mouth. I clicked my tongue, tried to swallow the worry but couldn't. Someone, I was sure, was about to die in a manner most gruesome. I had to warn Joe and Loremarie.
I hurried down a street of refugees pushing prams loaded with clothing and clocks and children and potatoes. I heard Polish, noticed an old man leading a horse and cart that held his daughter and grandchildren. A babble of round faces and blonde hair and staccato language. Some of the lucky ones, I thought, to have a horse. Smart ones, too, squeezed from the east, fleeing the Russians.
The remains of the Pension loomed above the bar like a ghost standing boldly over a grave. I slowed near a hill of bricks and twisted metal, then sank behind a rusty mass of steel. The street was empty except for one young woman in a black coat and pants and hat, her face quite serious. She carried a small valise in one hand and a purse in another. Had she, I wondered, been bombed out, or was she heeding the warnings, fearing the stories, aware that nice young girls like her were mere fodder for the approaching hordes of Ivans?
I scanned the street, saw no lingering men in lengthy coats, no soldiers either. Had I made it back here first, or could Heinrich and his men be already hidden about or even down below in the bar?
The young woman approached, and I motioned toward her.
“Bitte,” please, I began, “Have you—”
Her icy stare froze my words. She gave me the once over and read, I'm sure, that at the moment my fear was greater than hers, that right now her hold on life was stronger than mine. All this she did with a severe, glum face, that of a person who learned to depend on no one because everyone always died.
She spoke quietly, softly. Without stopping. “I've seen nothing.”
Which told me as much as I needed. At least there wasn't a truck of troops about, and I turned, hugged the ruins, made my way as cautious as a cat. My eyes hesitated on the remains on the Pension's top floor. The big room with the curving balcony—was this Dieter's private lair? His hideaway where he indulged his sexual preference? Was that why Mother would never go up there?
I waited a moment before pressing on and entering the ground floor of the ruined building. I slipped into what remained of the original cafe, then moved through and out the back side. Entering the courtyard, I paused, looked and saw no one, then headed for the door that led down to the bar. Nailed to the heavy oak wood was a piece of cardboard announcing that our establishment was closed. I glanced about one more time, reached for the handle.
Suddenly the door was hurled outward, exploding in my face. I stumbled back, certain that Heinrich and his men had caught me, would push me into a bloody death. I screamed, turned to flee. Just as quickly, a large arm reached out of the darkness.
“Willi!”
I swung around, ready to battle any soldier, but instead saw a large, familiar figure.
“Tante Lore!” I gasped.
“Mein Gott” she said, flushed with worry, “where's your mother?”
How much should I say? “There… there was some trouble.”
“Oh, Gott, what? What?”
“The Gestapo and—”
Her face blanched. “What happened? Is she all right?”
“I don't know.” I knew it now. Of course I shouldn't have left her. “There were gunshots.”
“Oh!” Loremarie's eyes darted around. “Come on, we shouldn't be out here.”
She pulled me in, locking the hefty door behind her with a big iron key. Rushing down the stone stairs, we were greeted by one of Dieter's tunes. A truce of sorts had been declared, and Dieter was at the piano, cigarette in mouth, brown bottle of beer on a ledge. Joe sat off to the side, sipping a cup of coffee. At the sight of me his face blushed simultaneously with relief and worry.
“Where's your mother?” he asked, rising to his feet.
Clicking her tongue, rubbing her head, Loremarie then said, “The Gestapo has her.”
At that, Dieter shrunk from the keyboard. “What happened?”
I told them everything, how I'd followed Mother to that building and
waited in the bakery, how the two of us were later discovered and I'd been shot at and forced to run.
Dieter asked, “You say it was a blond man? Sharp features?”
“Ja, ja.” With punch, I said, “Heinrich's his name.”
Dieter flinched, then shook his head and offered a disgusted groan. “Oh, Eva… you've brought us real trouble now.”
“That's right,” said Joe, “because this guy's the type who won't stop at anything.”
I stared up at Joe. How did he know what Heinrich would or wouldn't do?
“Oh, Gott, mein Gott!” gasped Loremarie. She bit her lip, looked down at me with that big face of hers. “Willi, are you sure he heard about the passes? And Anton's name? He heard that?”
I muttered a faint, “Ja. Everything.”
“Scheisse!” cursed Dieter, banging the piano with his fist.
I understood now. I looked from Loremarie to Dieter, and from the sickened expressions on their faces it was all clear. Immediately Loremarie was turning, charging out of our subterranean chambers, muttering and crying, both cursing the heavens and praying to God.
“Where are you going?” Joe called.
Dieter took a swig of beer, and said, “Back to her house. If it's not already too late, she has to warn Anton and get him out of there. Heinrich won't let that tip drop. He'll squeeze Eva until he finds out everything.” Rubbing his face, he added, “I imagine that means we'll all have to abandon this place. For a while, at least.”
“Loremarie, wait!” said Joe, grabbing his coat.
“We're dead. All of us,” proclaimed Dieter. “Once Heinrich and his crew find Anton and his forgeries, we'll all be done in. You know, hiding a Jew, false identification and ration cards.” A cloud of beer belched out of his body and he laughed. “I'm sure they'll come after me at least. Hell, Eva's probably already told Heinrich all about my exploits.”
I stared at Dieter, fearing that he might be right. Closing my eyes for a moment, I had that vision again, the bloody, drippy one in which one of us was killed in a most awful way, and at once I was bounding across the stone floor, up the stairs, and after Loremarie and Joe.
Chapter 21
The three of us didn't speak as we rushed down the block, fear driving us along. And we didn't check for a Streife—a patrol—either. No. We couldn't be slowed by caution. We had to reach Loremarie's house as quickly as possible. If only we could make it there before Heinrich, then we could warn Anton, perhaps even destroy his hidden den. Running down the street, I fantasized about a huge fire, one that would totally gut Loremarie's house. That's what we needed to do. Set Anton on the run, then light a fire in the basement of her house, which would destroy all the evidence.
But would Anton even be there? My mind whirled. We'd buried Erich just this morning. With any luck, Anton would still be in hiding near the cemetery. He'd said he'd take it slowly, perhaps not return to Loremarie's until dark. Now it was late afternoon. Would Anton's life be saved by a stroke of good fortune? I prayed that he'd been forced to hole up somewhere. If he'd found the streets empty, however, he would have proceeded on. Which meant he could already be back.
“Oh, Gott, mein Gott” Loremarie mumbled over and over, again and again.
Leading the way, she half-walked, half-ran, as she steered Joe and me up one nearly untouched street, then around a corner. And here everything was gone, huge buildings bombed and burned into piles of rubble. We headed north, directly from the Schöneberg district toward the Tiergarten. Rushing, running, our hearts beating, lungs puffing, images torturing us, we circled Wittenbergplatz, cut across the road and through a human train of refugees. Loremarie plowed right through, using her weight and force like a bulldozer to run over this string of weakened people. I glanced back, spotted the monolithic KaDeWe department store, a charred block of Swiss-cheesy openings for windows.
We pressed on, block after block, across Kurfürstenstrasse, into another once-elegant district. I looked up into the sky, saw that it was pristine, a soft late-winter blue. But, unfortunately, no silvery triangles. What we needed right now, I thought, was tonight's forecast: clear skies, massive raid. Absolutely. A thousand British and American planes that would come and shit death right down on Heinrich. Something at least that would slow him down, keep him from reaching Loremarie's first.
“My house is just around this corner,” said Loremarie, quickening.
Her body was puffing for air, her face beaded with sweaty worry. She broke into a trot.
“No,” said Joe, catching her by the arm and pulling her back. “Just in case.”
“But—!”
“Joe's right,” I said. “If Heinrich's already there, we can't let him see us.”
That made sense to her, and she let Joe cautiously lead the way up to the edge of a corner house. He made his way past a wrought iron fence that was only half standing, past a wall with all its stucco blasted off. And froze.
“Nein!” came a distant scream, a hoarse cry that scratched its way quickly down the deserted street.
I knew that voice of course. It was Mother, giving us our answer, broadcasting that Heinrich had indeed dragged out the truth and perhaps even Anton. Everything horrible I'd ever heard or seen rushed to the front of my mind.
Something charged past me, a large desperate figure, a bundle of fur about to get herself killed. I lunged but missed her. Joe turned around, though, spread out his arms, caught her head-on.
She begged, “Let me—”
Just as quickly Joe plastered his hand over her mouth and threw her to the ground. As strong as she was determined, Loremarie bucked and twisted as everything she'd feared came rushing to reality.
“Quiet!” hushed Joe.
“But Anton!”
I knelt by her, whispered, “He might not even be there, Tante Lore! He might not even be back yet!”
Joe's face flushed red with nervousness. He said, “And if you go out there, you're dead for sure!”
She quieted herself, eyes looking up, down, as she realized there might still be hope.
Joe added, “The only way you can help Anton, now or later, is if you're alive and free. You can't let them see you, right?”
Defeated, she gasped, “Ja…”
No sooner had she spoken than my mother's voice came curling down the street, at first laughing, then crying. In response I was on my feet, rushing back down toward a hole in this corner house. What must have once been a servants’ entrance was now a cavelike gap, and I darted in. Clambering into the burned-out guts of this place, I was shaking. Mother. I feared what Heinrich had done to her. Would do. And suddenly my mother was innocent again. Absolved of any wrongdoing. Guilty of only wanted to stay alive. On my hands and knees I crawled up a half-flight of something that must have once been stairs, around a pile of fallen ceiling and wood, over burned floors. I feared for my mother's life, and I wondered if a friend—perhaps even a good friend—of Loremarie's had once lived here. Maybe Loremarie herself had spent hours in this house, drinking port wine and laughing.
Heeding a grand hole in the floor of what was once the main salon, I made my way up to the shattered front window. Slipping close, I spied out the now crude rectangular opening and nearly screamed at what I saw. Past a spindly, stubbly bush, beyond a small yard of bricks and clutter, and sitting in the blasted road was a vehicle, an army one of some sort, pulled right up in front of Loremarie's house. Two soldiers held my mother, pinning her arms behind, and she hung from them as if from a crucifix, coat ripped wide open, her little fur-trimmed hat slipping off her head. Heinrich was the wild card, pacing back and forth, and brandishing his pistol like a real American cowboy.
“Mama…” I moaned.
A hand clenched my shoulder, kept me hidden behind the wall. Loremarie. She and Joe were behind me. And it was only her tight grasp that kept me from leaping out the window and across the rubble yard.
Heinrich commanded, “Give her more! She always talks when she's drunk!”
On
e of the soldiers, a boy-man in helmet and drab feldgrau uniform, lifted up a bottle. Brandy. I could tell by the smooth shapes of the brown glass. Mother twisted away, but the other soldier grabbed her by the chin, then reached back and squeezed her jaw. He must have been from the country because he was doing it all as if Mother were a calf and he needed to force down some medication. And sure enough, she grimaced and her mouth dropped open. Immediately, the first soldier began pouring a stream of golden colored booze into her mouth. Mother gagged and sobbed and spit out a large plume of liquid.
Heinrich stepped up to her, held his pistol to her head, and said, “Drink, Liebchen!”
As soon as the bottle was back at her lips, she was indeed like a calf, an orphan one, sucking at the bottle, guzzling down the booze. But she could only drink so fast, and the brandy came bubbling up and over, and she twisted away and began hacking.
“Now, Evchen, be good and tell me about this Anton,” said Heinrich, his voice syrupy sweet. “Evchen? Evchen, is this the house where we can find him?”
Waves of coughs hammered her body; obviously the two soldiers were all that kept her upright. But this seemed to only further encourage Heinrich, and he gave the signal and the bottle was crammed back into her mouth. She swallowed, I could see that through my tearing eyes, but after just a few gulps the brandy came shooting back out like petrol from an overfilled tank.
Heinrich grabbed my mother by the hair, lifted up her face. Clenching the pistol in a metal-hard fist, he struck her chin.
“Tell me!”
She mumbled something, her words all garbled. He struck her again, and she swirled and teetered on the edge of passing out. Heinrich cursed and ordered the soldiers to release her. My very own mother dropped like a sack to the ground, and I watched as Heinrich stood above her, aimed his pistol at her head, readied himself to execute her on the spot.
I opened my mouth to scream, flexed my muscles to charge out there. No! No! I wanted to explode from this hiding spot, fly across the yard, and tell Heinrich I knew where to find Anton! Yes, and I'd take him and his soldiers there if only they'd leave my mother alone! This I'd do, and I jabbed my foot in the wall, took hold, and—
Deadfall in Berlin Page 18
