They were after him, that he was sure of. The message of her death clearly addressed to him.
“Bastards,” he said aloud, his rage increasing. He thought they had a deal. It was an unspoken deal—but still a deal!
He grabbed the window’s wood frame to steady himself. “I would give anything to see her beautiful face again,” he murmured.
A slight smile now graced his face at the thought of his wife looking down upon him, telling him to hush, that it wasn’t his fault.
“Everything I own for just one more minute of her singing off key, or the spontaneous slow dancing that would break out in our living room,” he said silently—the bedroom about him still empty. “Just provide me mere seconds of her breathing softly on my chest in a restful sleep after making love.”
Gold had killed his wife, millions of dollars worth of gold. He used to think it was cursed. After his wife’s murder—he was sure of it. The memory of her as she lay helpless in his arms, gasping for her last breath, her eyes lovingly searching his as if he could make the pain go away as the blood continued to ebb from the corner of her mouth.
Her beloved Hans would save her. He always knew what to do.
The frustration of not being able to help her haunted him to this day. He never meant to place her in jeopardy—not her.
He lovingly closed her eyes after she had silently slipped away, pulling her lifeless body tight to his chest, holding her for what seemed like hours, rocking her back and forth until the paramedics gingerly separated them.
From that day forward he vowed to seek revenge. He swore it. He knew who they were. For years they had tormented him—hounded him.
His day for revenge was close—very close. They had stolen something very dear from him and he was about to do the same to them.
But his revenge would rock the foundation of their empire.
AFTERNOON THUNDERSTORMS rumbled in from the west. Dark clouds followed. Raindrops began to pelt the open window where Hans stood. A clap of thunder snapped him out of a drug–induced haze in time to view two expensive cars slowly approach from the estate’s main drive.
For the first time in a week Hans felt the genuine will to rise from the safety of his bed, seeking one last glimpse of his estate before his death, which he felt would be soon. Eyeing his Rolex he was shocked to see that thirty minutes had elapsed, having stood at the window longer than anticipated.
FATHER DAN FLAHERTY quietly entered the bedroom brushing water droplets from his coat. He had expected to see his friend bedridden. A look of surprise spread across his face when he saw Hans holding onto the windows frame. “Hans get your ass in bed before you collapse were you stand,” he said in a sarcastic, heavy Irish brogue. “Don’t rush your death. We all know the Lord can’t wait to meet you.”
Hans smiled at seeing his old friend and confidant.
Father Dan was tall and slim; his face aged from years of hard-drinking. He was also the principal of the local high school, plying the dead language of ancient Greek to the children of well-heeled parents.
“All right you Irish Mick,” Hans replied. “Keep your tongue and save your words for my eulogy. For a so-called man of the cloth you’re the best damn liar I know.”
Father Dan laughed heartily in reply.
Swallowing his pride Hans allowed Father Dan to take his arm, assisting him back to his bed. “All right, all right, don’t make me laugh. I have enough morphine running through my veins to keep me laughing for two days once I start.”
Hans leaned back against the bed’s metal headboard rubbing his legs in the hope of increasing his circulation. “Dan, I’m obliged that you could show up here today on such short notice and listen to a story of my youth,” Hans said, his voice trailing off.
Father Dan simply nodded to his friend, well aware that the doctor’s prognosis gave him a week tops. “It’s not one of your nasty Nazi war stories where you are once again the big war hero is it?” he replied in jest. “Because if it is, I would rather go listen to old Mrs. Perkins speak about the ghosts’ that reside in her bedroom.”
Hans leaned over to open a drawer on his nightstand, producing a twenty-four-year- old bottle of Irish whiskey, holding it up for Father Dan to admire. “The old witch couldn’t supply you with this, could she now?”
Father Dan eyed the bottle appreciatively. “You old codger. You are the devil in disguise. Where did you get the bottle? Or is that considered some type of miracle drug the doctor has discovered?”
“The cleaning lady brings it to me the lovely charmer that she is.”
Hans picked up the cordless phone beside his bed and dialed a two-digit number to reach his duty nurse stationed just outside his door, a recently converted anteroom. ”Sissy, I know he’s out there. Could you please send him in?”
Hans beamed with pride upon seeing his only child enter the room. “Jim, my boy, I’m glad to see you again. Please come in and greet Father Dan for you two are about to become partners in a little venture of mine.”
At 6’2’, 210 pounds, Jim proudly maintained his physique from his Naval Academy days. This combined with his rugged features were enough to keep many a night occupied. He had recently chosen to take his retirement from the Navy due to the unfortunate circumstances surrounding his father’s ill health. Still single, he recently ended his third engagement in as many years. Unfortunately for Hans, grandchildren would not to be in the picture before his death.
Jim grabbed his father’s extended hand in greeting before deciding a hug would be best. “What’s this all about, Dad? You and Father Dan haven’t been drinking already have you?” Jim chided.
“No, I haven’t been drinking and no, I’m not delusional,” Hans spat out in reply, waiting for yet another sarcastic response to follow. Satisfied they were indeed done, he chose to continue. “I just want you gentlemen to sit back and listen to a little story I have. That wouldn’t be asking too much now would it? Humor an old man whose time has come.” Looking to Jim, he points to a chair occupying the corner of his room. “It’s a story about a time some sixty plus years ago, so I would advise you to get comfortable, son.”
Hans pauses for a moment as if already reliving his past, before pointing to the bottle that occupied a space next to his medications spread out on the table. “Would you both join me in the consumption of a good Irish whiskey?”
The crystal glasses clinked as Jim passed them one by one to Hans, him pouring generous glasses of the Irish.
Hans raised its amber contents waiting until Jim and Dan followed suit. “Prost,” he said, drinking the whiskey with one long savoring gulp before banging his empty glass clumsily down on a table filled with his medications.
“Good. On to more important matters,” he began with an air of seriousness. “This is going to be a short but lucrative tale for you both. I must swear you both to an oath of secrecy. Only Jim’s mother—God rest her soul—and myself know the full story. So this must never be spoken of again.”
Both nodded to Hans’s simple demand.
“Good. Now it begins,” he said. “And remember, only when my story ends, will your real adventure begin.”
Hans leaned back once more.
“It was April 1945, Berlin. The war was in its final hours………”
CHAPTER FOUR
APRIL 1945 - BERLIN, GERMANY
It was difficult to separate the soft glow of daylight from the reflections of the fires that blazed in bomb-battered Berlin.
As the smoke drifted slowly across the ruins, Germany’s most bombed city stood out in stark, macabre splendor. It was blackened buy soot, pockmarked by thousands of craters and laced by the twisted girders of ruined buildings. Whole blocks of apartment buildings were gone and in the very heart of the capital entire neighborhoods had vanished. In these wastelands what had once been broad roads and streets were pitted trails that snaked through mountains of rubble. Everywhere, covering acre after acre, gutted, windowless, roofless buildings lay open to the sky.
/> In the center of the city, heavy rain showers drifted through Berlin’s largest park, the Tiergarten, leaving nothing more than a muddy stew in its wake. At one time royalty and their courts once consorted about its 630-acre exquisitely manicured grounds, strolling through its famous Dutch tulip beds or choosing to take in its world famous Equestrian Rink.
Now it lay in utter ruin.
Allied bomb blasts had cruelly upended centuries-old oak trees tossing them about as if they were match sticks, in turn leaving gaping holes in the landscape where they once stood. The park’s magnificent lakes once used by lovers in rowboats and children for sailboat races now lay drained of its precious water, the water used for fighting Berlin’s numerous fires. Even the equestrian stables had been converted into soldiers’ barracks.
The oddity of the landscape seemed even more bizarre due to dozens of Luftwaffe 88-mm anti-aircraft guns that were positioned about the area, their telephone-pole sized barrels busily hurtling their response at the American B-24 bombers that passed 8,000 meters overhead.
A close look at the soldiers manning the guns revealed they were mere boys—teenagers at best—in uniforms much too large for their young bodies.
The madness was truly in its last days…….
“SERGEANT, I AM going to say this but once. Drop your weapon,” Captain Hans Dieter yelled above the deafening blasts of the Tiergartens’antiaircraft guns—his machine pistol pointed directly at the sergeant. He had just witnessed the sergeant shooting one of his young charges at point blank range.
The sergeant was quite drunk as he turned to face his new adversary, gun raised.
“Screw yourself, Captain,” he spat out, his words slurred. “I don’t have to take your orders. Shoot me if you have the guts. These little boys were my gun crew before you came.” His free hand swept across the park where the youngsters manned the anti-aircraft guns. “I trained them. They answer to me. Go back to your nice clean hospital bed with your pretty little nurses, and wait for the Russians to come so you can raise your hands in surrender.”
A lopsided grin creased the sergeant’s face as he squeezed his weapon’s angled trigger. Nothing happened. Squeezing it once more—again, nothing happened. The grin suddenly disappeared. Realizing his predicament he continued to keep his weapon pointed at Dieter trying to maintain the ruse.
Dieter watched as the sergeant frantically reached for additional bullets, using his sense of touch to extract bullets from an ammo pouch on his waist, his ferret-like eyes never leaving the captains.
Dieter allowed the sergeant to load the first bullet before tiring of the charade, firing his weapon on full automatic.
The sergeant was dead by the time the third and fourth bullets entered his skull.
Dieter walked over to where the now headless torso lay, kicking the pistol from the sergeant’s lifeless hand. “I do believe you were being insubordinate, sergeant, and I found you guilty—hence my summary execution,” he said, mockingly saluting him.
One by one the anti-aircraft guns in the Tiergarten fell silent, its charges leaving their posts to gather by the dead bodies of the young boy and the sergeant.
Captain Dieter turned to those who had witnessed the carnage, holding his weapon above his head for all to see before slowly laying it on the ground.
“Boys,” he started, swallowing hard, pausing, looking to each, wondering how he would be viewed for his actions. “This sergeant did not deserve to wear the uniform of the Wermacht and for his summary offense of killing the boy and his open disregard for my direct order, was himself executed. Anyone who disagrees with this act can take it up with the commanding officer. I will not stand in your way if you wish to press charges.”
The boys eyed one another until one of them, tall and thin, a shade over thirteen, wearing a black woolen uniform of an anti-aircraft gunner three sizes too large, spoke up.
“Sir,” Axel Schmitz began, his teenaged voice cracking. “We witnessed the entire event and you were right in executing him. The man was a worthless pig who needed butchering. He treated us horribly since our first day we reported here over two months ago. I guess I speak for everyone when I say thank you.”
In the eyes of the young boys the captain was right in his distribution of battlefield justice. At least he wouldn’t be facing a firing squad anytime soon.
Dieter surveyed his young charges by walking up and down the ragged line they formed, none taller than 5’5” or older than thirteen years of age. Suddenly he felt sick to his stomach. Pure exhaustion stared back at him. He saw mere boys who should be in school playing sporting games and learning history—not making it.
Dieter had been wounded fighting on the eastern front and sent to Berlin for surgery and recuperation. With manpower at an acute shortage in Berlin, the hospital discharged him two weeks early and assigned him to command one of the Tiergarten 88mm anti-aircraft batteries. The posting marked a brief respite from the constant hit-and- run skirmishes he had experienced first in France, then Russia, Poland, and now in Germany itself.
After five long years of war, he was physically and emotionally spent. He had finally reached his breaking point. The child’s senseless death was the final straw.
Dieter pointed over to the sergeant’s lifeless body. “You were a witness to the type of people left in this city.” He looked at the youngest boy then up the line to the oldest. “It might be best to escape back to your homes and families. You must see that your obligation to the German army is, from this point on, over. If there were ever a good time to abandon something it is here and now. Please get out of Berlin. Save yourselves.”
In effect, Dieter dismissed them from any further service.
The youngest of the group, not knowing what to say or do, looked from side to side in obvious panic. The rest of the boys had a look of confusion upon their faces. What was left of their small world had been thoroughly turned upside down.
“Captain,” Private Schmitz began, obviously the unspoken leader of the group, “we have no one to return to. We are a special unit composed of orphans whose families were killed in the Dresden and Berlin air raids. The Army thought it would be best to place us all together in one unit.” He looked to his small group for support. All nodded in response. “I think I can speak for the rest of the group when I request we stay together as a unit with you in command, sir.”
Dieter felt ashamed for the way he had just spoken. “I’m….. sorry,” he stammered. “I wasn’t aware of the unique situation with your families.”
To their left, no more than a hundred meters away, chaos was breaking out at the Brandenburg Gate. Rioters had just overturned an Army field kitchen—stealing what little food was available. This is just the start. The city is panicking. He couldn’t leave these children to fend for themselves. He had a responsibility to uphold.
Dieter straightened his cap, pausing before he proudly declared. “I accept your request to remain as your captain, and I thank you for your vote of confidence.” He championed his responsibility by patting the closest boy on the head and smiling.
For Captain Hans Dieter, it had been a long time since someone had afforded him the opportunity to smile.
“All right everyone gather around for a look at our objective.” He pulled a Berlin transit map out of his rucksack, one that sold before the war for five pfennige, spreading it on the ground for all to see. The boys eagerly looked to him for guidance as they formed a circle around the map.
They would have to escape to the West—or at least die trying.
CHAPTER FIVE
From a position two hundred meters south of the Zehlendoffer Damm Bridge, and one of the last escape routes out of Berlin, Dieter watched as German troops defended the centuries old stone bridge from the advancing Russian Army. The bridge resembled nothing of its former self. Regal marble lions that originally had stood guard for over two hundred years lay destroyed, its statues tossed about as if children’s toys, their pieces scattered about amongst burning tanks fr
om both sides armies.
For Dieter and his troops, the bridge was thought to be their last hope for escape to the West. With its destruction, Dieter chose to reposition the boys in a defensive line along the sloping dirt banks of the 50-meter-wide canal, taking cover behind anything that seemed solid: heavy wooden boxes, stone walls, brick sections. No need for them to be caught out in the open by Russian snipers.
On an earthen bank above their position Dieter adjusted his binoculars, watching as wave after wave of Russian troops charged across the bridge running into a murderous German cross-fire courtesy of two Tiger tanks dug in on the eastern side of the bridge.
After viewing the debacle unfolding in front of him, Dieter realized the bridge was no longer an option. The situation was deteriorating at a faster rate than he had expected.
“Boys,” Dieter began, pausing for a few seconds, looking back at the bridge then to the boys. “If we attempt to cross that bridge with this kind of fighting going on, the odds are that most, if not all of us will not make it. I can think of only one other way to escape this nightmare. We should take our chances floating on the canal to where it intersects with another canal by the city of Potsdam. The Russians already occupy the opposite bank of the canal, so floating directly across is not an option. If you all agree let’s get cracking because we have no time to waste. A quick show of hands will be sufficient.”
Private Schmitz looked to the others then to Dieter before speaking: “Captain, just give the order and we’ll follow your lead. If it wasn’t for you we would all be dead by now.”
The boys all nodded in agreement.
Dieter smiled. “You have provided a boost to my ego young man. All right then, I want you to search for items like large pieces of wood or barrels. Anything that you think will float. We need to build several rafts.”
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