Daisies Are Forever

by Liz Tolsma

  Split sacks of flour coated the concrete floor. Mitch slipped and slid and grabbed a bag.

  A group of soldiers—maybe half a dozen or so—entered the warehouse. “Out! Everyone out!”

  Bullets ricocheted off the metal sides of the building. One zinged by Mitch’s ear. He ignored it, intent on reaching the sticks of sausages a few meters in front of him.

  In no time, his bags were full and his arms laden with more than he could carry. He headed toward the exit, having difficulty seeing through the one eye. If he got past the guards, he would be able to deliver this abundance to Gisela.

  “Halten sie. You there.”

  Even before he reached the exits, Mitch’s arms and shoulders burned with the load.

  “Halten sie.”

  Mitch didn’t think the Nazi spoke to him.

  Not until the soldier jabbed his rifle into Mitch’s side. He froze, shivering as the cold metal dug into him. Another scene from another day flashed in front of his eyes. He and his chums being marched off by the Germans. The enemy.

  This soldier was not interested in taking prisoners.

  Around him, starving people plundered the foodstuffs. No one cared about him. They had a difficult enough job keeping themselves alive. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

  “Drop what is in your hands.”

  He didn’t want to. Didn’t want that precious bag of flour to split open. He hesitated.

  He winced as the soldier jabbed the barrel of the gun deeper into his flesh. “I said to drop it.”

  Mitch obeyed. The white powder flew into a cloud in the air.

  “Deserter. Plunderer. Common criminal.” The Nazi spit at his feet.

  “Nein.” His knees knocked. How could he defend himself? If he spoke, they would know he was British. If not, he’d swing from a lamppost on the Unter den Linden in less than an hour.

  Death either way.

  The heavy shelling continued, often rocking the little house and disturbing the peace of the eight people huddled in the cellar. Gisela attempted to interest Annelies and Renate in a game of pat-a-cake, but they didn’t want to play.

  Renate sucked her thumb with vigor. Annelies crawled onto Gisela’s lap. “When will Mutti come?”

  She looked at the child’s precious face, gray eyes big against her sallow skin. “When the fighting is over, then she will come.” Father, may it be so.

  “When will that be?”

  “You must give her a little time. She hasn’t forgotten about you.” Gisela stroked Annelies’s tangled golden hair.

  “And Opa too.”

  The chances of Ella making her way here were tiny. Almost nonexistent. And even less for Opa. But Gisela didn’t want to tell the girl.

  Bettina scooted over on the hard wood bench, closer to the child. “Is your mutti away on holiday, dearie? Rome, I imagine. The Trevi Fountain. Perhaps she will bring you a trinket. Would you like that?”

  Annelies scrunched her little nose. “What is a trinket?”

  “A small gift.” Bettina smiled her gap-toothed grin.

  “Ja, ja, I would like that.”

  Renate leaned forward. “I want one too.”

  “It’s mine.” Annelies pulled her sister’s hair.

  Gisela slapped her hand away. “No one will get any presents if they are mean and selfish. Or pull hair. Do you understand?”

  Two heads bobbed in agreement.

  Audra kneeled beside Annelies. “You didn’t mean to be a bad girl, did you?”

  “Nein. I want the present.”

  Audra presented Gisela with a triumphant look and a single nod. “Leave them be. They are tired and hungry and bored.”

  “It doesn’t excuse Annelies’s behavior.”

  “We are all short with each other now. That is what comes from spending endless days huddled in a shelter.”

  “There was no reason for Annelies to do what she did. Fighting will not solve problems. If we have learned any lesson from this war, that should be it.”

  Jorgen left his chair, grabbed a stick from the woodpile they had stacked in case they ran out of coal, and sat on the bench between Annelies and Renate. He pulled out a pocketknife. “Would you like to see what I am going to carve for both of you?”

  The girls gave him their full attention and the gift was forgotten.

  The boots of several German soldiers passed by the cellar window. Their feet shuffled up the steps and they pounded on the door. Demanding. Insistent. “Open up. Schnell. Schnell.”

  Frau Mueller went to answer their call and Gisela followed, curious as to what they might want. From her position behind the older woman, she saw three weary, dirty Wehrmacht soldiers, their gray-green uniforms tattered, hanging on their thin frames, their battered helmets askance on their heads.

  “What is it you want?” Frau Mueller met them, hands on her hips. Her flowered dress contrasted with their drab clothing.

  The apparent leader of the group, a towering young man whose pants legs ended above his ankles, answered. “Water. We have come from the front lines and have had nothing to drink all day. Give us a drink.”

  “Nein. We have no water.”

  They stepped over the threshold, and the tall one narrowed his eyes and glared at Frau Mueller. “You must have some. What else would you drink?”

  Gisela stepped forward. “You’d be the one to tell us what we should drink, because we have nothing. We can’t bathe or manage to keep sanitary conditions. There are two little girls here and two old women. How can we take care of them without water? It’s dangerous to go to the pump to get any and no more flows from our faucets.”

  Annelies chose that moment to clamber up the steps, Audra right behind her. “I’m sorry. I told her to stay put, but she wanted to see where you had gone.”

  Gisela hugged the little one’s shoulder, then peered at the ringleader. “We have no water. Even if we did, we wouldn’t give it to you.”

  Frau Mueller shot her a warning look. Like she might have gone too far and provoked these men. Gisela didn’t care. There was no way she would hand over their single bucket of that precious resource to them.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Kurt watched from several paces behind Josep and the soldier. Josep dropped the bag of flour and it split open on the ground.

  Even with his one hand, he had matched Josep punch for punch. His chin pained him and his midsection ached. But he would fight for Gisela. Never, ever would he let the music slip away from him.

  And here lay his chance to win. To triumph. To take what belonged to him.

  “Nein, nein.” Josep pled for his life in that ridiculous, broken German. How the SS officer didn’t notice the accent, he would never know.

  He stood, watching the scene like a motion picture on the screen.

  Gisela would be brokenhearted when he returned and gave her the news. But he would be there to comfort her. She would grow close to him as he stood by her side. Held her up. Ja, she would forget about Josep in time. They hadn’t known each other that long. Their bond couldn’t be that strong.

  So he didn’t move. He could go and defend Josep, tell the man with the rifle a story of how they fought together at Stalingrad. Earn the Brit’s freedom.

  Yet he didn’t.

  He narrowed his eyes and continued as a disinterested spectator. The soldier jammed his rifle deeper into Josep’s ribs.

  Kurt waited for the officer to pull the trigger. Why did he hesitate?

  From the corner of his eye, Mitch spied Kurt.

  Mitch took a breath and held it. Waiting for the bullet. Waiting until his life ended.

  He thought about Gisela. Kurt would win her. He hoped she would be happy.

  He thought about his father. He’d never get the chance to tell him he loved him. Understood him now. How he only wanted the best for him. Wanted to spare him from the horror of war. Wanted him to live.

  All of this took a split second.

  Then the door came into focus. If he could
get there, he might have a chance.

  Why not try? Even if he failed, he’d be no worse off than if he didn’t give it a go.

  Still clutching the rations, he shot off like a fox in front of the hounds. A bullet whizzed past his neck. It dinged around him. The crowd screamed and scattered. A path opened in front of him.

  Jackboots pounded behind him.

  Already his legs and lungs burned from the effort. Each step, one closer to freedom. To life.

  A searing pain ripped through his arm.

  He blocked it out.

  Steps from the door.

  Lord, help me. Help me. Help me.

  Daylight.

  Shots.

  “Get that man. He’s a deserter.”

  Just keep running. Lord, help me. Help me.

  Any second now, it would be over.

  He pushed through the crowd. Surely the SS wouldn’t shoot into the mob.

  The crack of a rifle split the air.

  Women shrieked.

  Forward, ever forward.

  Pain in his legs. Pain in his arm. Pain in his eye.

  He couldn’t see. He just ran.

  With one surge, he came out on the other side. The street ahead was clear.

  But he didn’t stop sprinting. Eric Liddell would be proud.

  He turned left at one street, right at the next, until the shouts faded and all he could hear was the blood whooshing in his ears.

  At last he stopped, his legs unable to carry him any farther. He sucked in air like a baby would suck a bottle.

  Once the world stopped spinning, he pivoted and looked around. No one followed him. The soldier was gone. Kurt hadn’t struck out to find him.

  The front of a building had been sheared away so Mitch could see inside. A couple sat at their kitchen table eating. They went about their business as if it were normal to have your flat exposed to the world.

  Allied bombs had reduced several other buildings in the neighborhood into rubble. Nothing looked familiar. Where was he?

  He walked to the intersection. Had he run in the opposite direction from home?

  He wandered for a while. The sugar and sausages he carried grew heavy. Dusk fell. He walked until he had blisters on his heels. Until he despaired of ever finding home again. Across the city, an air-raid siren screeched. He ignored it.

  When he felt like he couldn’t walk any farther, he stumbled on the street they had come down a few days earlier: Unter den Linden.

  Thank You, Lord.

  He made his way home.

  Kurt sat next to Audra at the kitchen table, now relocated to the center of the cramped, dirty shelter, and stirred his coffee. The aroma alone was enough of a treat. To have half a cup was more than he could have hoped for. He determined to savor every last drop.

  Gisela sat across from him, her spoon clinking against the mug as she stirred her steaming brew, the note pure, rhythmic. Her gorgeous eyes, always tinged with sadness, shone like a child’s on Christmas morning. She sipped a bit of the liquid from her spoon. “Whatever you did to get this, it was worth it.”

  “Ja, it was worth it.” A Mozart piano concerto played in his head. “Punched in the stomach and the side of my head by others trying to stop me, but it was worth it.” Never would he reveal the true reason for his injuries.

  “Are you sure you aren’t hurt? Should we have Dr. Liebenstraum look at you?”

  Did he want tender concern from Gisela or admiration for his courage? “I’m fine.”

  She blew across the cup, then set it down. “Should we have waited for Josep?”

  “Nein. Because we got separated, there is no telling how long it will be until he gets home.”

  “What if he got lost? Or stopped?” She rose from her chair and clasped her hands together. “Maybe we should go look for him.”

  “Nein, nein.” She couldn’t leave. He couldn’t let her. “The sirens will sound again soon. It’s too dangerous to be out there at this time of night. He’s probably in a shelter somewhere. We would never find him.”

  She sat, a little of the sadness returning to her eyes. He rubbed her hand. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon.”

  How could the SS have let him get away? Kurt should be rid of him by now.

  Audra sipped her coffee. “I agree with Gisela. He won’t be able to find his way in the dark.”

  What was she saying? Josep couldn’t return.

  “Tomorrow. If he doesn’t return by daylight, I’ll go look for him then.” He had no intention of ever finding him.

  Gisela smiled, sunshine filling the room. “Danke. I hope he’ll be safe tonight.”

  The music in his brain crescendoed.

  For a while, they sat in silence. No sirens sounded, no bombs fell.

  The peace was broken by a knock on the door.

  Gisela ran to answer it. Nein, nein. It couldn’t be. Don’t let it be.

  He followed.

  She turned the knob. Josep fell across the threshold. She caught him, her arms tight around him. “Thank God, thank God, you’re back.” She kissed his forehead.

  He held out the bag of sugar and the stick of sausage. She smiled and laughed and tears trickled down her cheek.

  Like a needle scratching a record, the music stopped.

  Gisela sat beside Mitch on the green couch, holding a cool cloth to his eye, careful not to cause him more pain. He was home. Safe. Now, if only Mutti would come. And Vater, Opa, and Ella. “What happened?”

  He looked up at Kurt with his one eye. Why? Kurt scowled. What were they hiding?

  Mitch winced. She lightened her touch. “We had to fight for what we wanted.”

  “What were you doing out there? What took you so long to get home?”

  “They shot at me.” He held up his right arm. A red streak ran the length of it.

  He’d been grazed by a bullet. “You never should have gone. I told you not to.” She couldn’t hide the tremor in her voice. She found an old roll of gauze in their first-aid kit, and after cleaning out his wound, she wrapped it around his arm.

  She leaned over and whispered, “Now tell me what really happened. I haven’t heard the truth.”

  He tipped his head, gave a wry smile, and exposed one dimple. “Why would you say that?”

  She wasn’t in the mood for his joking. “You didn’t get separated from Kurt.”

  He sobered, his dark eyes clouding. “No, I didn’t. But I don’t want to get into the ghastly details now. Keep him away from me. If he gets close, I haven’t a clue how I’ll react. Or how he will.”

  “He gave you this black eye.”

  Mitch didn’t answer. What had happened between the two of them?

  A shiver ran down her spine.

  April 25

  The howling keen of the Stalinorgel—“Stalin’s organ”—pierced Gisela’s ears. The Holtzmann sisters covered theirs and whimpered. The multiple rockets from the launcher mounted on the backs of the Red Army’s trucks found their targets not far from where ten frightened people cowered in the cellar.

  Gisela’s heart bounced around in her chest, no rhythm whatsoever to its beat.

  The rising and falling wail from the powerful and deadly weapons continued around them. Like a baby crying but magnified ten-thousand-fold.

  Annelies and Renate screamed at the sound. With shaking hands, Gisela sat beside them on the bed in the corner, gathered them close, and whispered to them. A loud whisper, to be heard over the screeching weapons. “This is the end, girls. Soon, one day very soon, it will be over. The air will be quiet again.”

  Another group of yowls rent the skies and shells landed in the garden. The hair on her arms bristled. “Oh God, bitte, bitte. Don’t let them set off that bomb.”

  They didn’t. A few bricks fell from the little house, splintering as they hit the pockmarked street within a meter or two from the cellar window. Glass rained down from the panes above, shattering upon impact. Light reflected off of their ragged edges, a prism shooting rainbows ov
er the pavement.

  Stone by stone, their shelter was being reduced to rubble.

  Jorgen slid across the bench on the wall, closer to her. Gisela motioned him over with a flick of her hand. He came to the bed and nestled against her. If she had left him standing on that street corner with the rifle in his hand . . .

  Another loud explosion rocked the building. Gisela shielded the children with her body as limestone dust showered them from the arched ceiling above.

  As the ground stilled, she looked Mitch’s way. He sat on the second bed beside the Holtzmann sisters, holding their hands, reassuring them that this was not the end of the world.

  Or was it?

  “Oh, dearie, dearie,” Bettina chanted.

  Katya gave her own plaintive wail. “Sister, my sister.”

  For a moment, the fighting subsided. Mitch slipped to Gisela’s side. Kurt narrowed his eyes. He had been sullen and angry the past couple of days.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” She nodded and smiled for the kinder’s sake. They were frightened enough.

  “You’re as white as my mum’s roses.”

  “That sound.”

  “The music of Stalin’s army.”

  Exhausted after countless nights of little sleep, she rested her head on his shoulder. “What will happen to us when they arrive?”

  “We won’t worry about that now. God will take care of us.”

  “Shouldn’t we be prepared? I heard some of the women in the bread queue talking the other day. If you are dirty and old, the Russians won’t want you.”

  He gave a quiet little laugh. “You are neither dirty nor old.”

  “They said to put coal on your face and flour in your hair. Don’t comb it or bathe.”

  “Not now. When the time comes.”

  His presence warmed her and the quiet lulled her to sleep.

  She had just nodded off when the terrible screech of the Stalinorgel let loose once more.

  Oh God, why not one quiet day? Why not one peaceful night?