Daisies Are Forever (13 page)

These were Allies. He should celebrate the sound.

But these pilots shot at innocent men and women. Little children like Renate and Annelies.

War no longer held appeal. The luster had worn off.

And it ripped a hole in his heart. The tear he shed froze on his cheek.

Heads poked out of the windows, peering toward the sky. The crowd pushed outward now and Mitch lost his grip and his footing. He fell to the hard ground, the breath knocked out of him. He rolled out of the way to avoid being trampled by the women and children rushing from the train. They sprinted, fanning over the countryside.

He scrambled to his feet, but instead of running away from the train, he jogged the length of it. His stiff, cold muscles protested
the movement. He urged himself forward. Had Gisela and the girls managed to climb aboard?

“Gisela, Annelies, Renate.” Over and over he screamed their names. No one answered.

“Please, God, please, help me.”

His continued shouts met with no response. His voice grew hoarse.

He tripped over his own tired, aching, frozen feet, stumbling along the uneven ground. He slid on the icy gravel and fell, rocks stabbing his frozen fingers.

The plane made a wide arc and flew directly over the train. In one brilliant, deafening explosion of ammunition, the engine took a direct hit. Mitch caught the sinister grin of the Soviet pilot in the plane’s cockpit.

If he could, Mitch would shoot that pilot out of the air.

Once again the Russian turned and this time strafed the passengers lying on the ground.

Mitch dove to the earth, dirt and bullets spraying around him.

The jerking halt of the train slammed Gisela out of her light doze. Why were they stopping? Had they arrived at their destination? With all the bodies between her and the window, she couldn’t tell if they had entered a city.

“A tiefflieger! A Russian plane is firing on us!”

The cry and the accompanying screams cleared her head. A single plane after them. She had to get off now. Had to find the girls. If the plane struck the engine, they would be consumed by the fireball. If they were in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by farm fields, they were ripe for the picking.

The boy at her side whimpered even as he sucked his fingers. She reached down and took him in her arms. Then she grabbed
the soldier’s crutches from under the seat and threw them at him.

Minutes and more minutes ticked by as they inched their way toward the exit. The
rat-a-tat-tat
of the airplane’s guns punctuated the air. Women screamed and children cried. The little boy in her arms buried his head in her shoulder. The wounded veteran tromped after her, his single footfall heavy.

At last they reached daylight and fresh air. As soon as her sole hit the ground, she began to limp-run, her heel burning in pain, looking back for the soldier.

He hobbled along. “Go on without me. Stay safe.”

“But . . .”

“Go, go.”

She didn’t want to leave him. She had to help him.

A blinding flash was followed by a thunderous boom. The engine had been bombed. Like Lot’s wife, she couldn’t help but turn around. The iron horse had been destroyed.

The child in her arms screamed as the whine of the plane’s engines faded, then roared back to life.

“Annelies! Renate!”

Her words died on the air as the Russian pilot turned his plane and began to fire on the crowd. Bloodcurdling cries raced across the fields. Bodies thumped to the ground.

“Get down! Get down!”

In an instant, not caring who issued the command, Gisela obeyed. She belly flopped to the frozen ground on top of the boy, his arms squeezing her neck. She lifted as much of her weight from him as she could while continuing to shield him.

The past blended with the present. The screams of the women could have been those of Tante Sonje. The cries of the children could have been those of Heide and Lotta.

Not again, Lord, not again. Wasn’t once enough? Why can’t we shake these Soviets?

Bullets zinged from the metal monster less than a hundred meters from them. Feet rushed past her, most of the shoes worn, some rags replacing proper footwear. One set of heavy boots entered her line of vision, then stopped.

The body of the wearer fell on top of her.

Her stomach rose to her chest and threatened to empty its meager contents. Gisela’s elbows collapsed and she pressed her weight on the boy. With all of her might, she straightened her arms and managed to roll the woman off of her.

The strafing continued for several more minutes, though it could have been a lifetime. Even after the plane departed and the air grew still, Gisela held her breath. If she moved, the plane might return and mow her down. For all she knew, she was the lone survivor.

Then the child stirred under her. Like Renate had on the ice. Other children cried and women screamed. At least she wasn’t alone in the world.

Alone. Annelies and Renate. Were they even alive?

She sat and brushed the snow from her torn black coat. The living around her rose as well. She picked up the child and brushed him off. His right cheek was scraped and he cried all the harder when she swept her hand across it. She had hurt him when she’d lain on top of him. He tore away a tiny part of her heart.

Balancing the boy on her hip, she rose to her feet and scanned the crowd. Dazed women walked in circles, crying for their children. The bodies of little ones, old ones, women littered the ground, the snow tinged red.

This field that had once nurtured wheat or oats or maybe even daisies—the flower of innocence—had become a place of carnage.

She directed her attention to the deceased woman lying prostrate beside her. Her dark brown coat was old but in good repair. The heavy boots that encased her feet showed no scuffs or scrapes or wear on the soles.

Gisela glanced to her right and to her left. She winced at her next thought. Would anyone notice if she took the coat and the shoes and anything else of value the woman had on her person? And she, who had reprimanded Mitch for stealing, was stealing herself.

Mitch lifted his head from the ground as silence roared in his ears. He searched the sky but found no trace of the plane. As he sat, so did a multitude of people. But not all of them.

Panicked women clutched wee ones to their breasts. Was Gisela one of them? Had she even been on this train? Even if they didn’t continue on together, he wanted to know whether she lived or died.

He had to find out. This was his chance. And if they weren’t to be found? He didn’t know. Hiking back to Danzig would be suicide. As if he would even run into them there.

Not to mention he would be going in the opposite direction he wanted to.

He walked a few steps one way, then spun and marched a few steps in the other. Where should he begin to look?

The long train wound like an injured snake against the snowy-white background. The hulking engine flamed and smoked and a few other cars burned. He blew his warm breath across his hands and rubbed his fingers together. They didn’t tingle, didn’t hurt.

He slapped both thighs, hoping for feeling to return to them.

Moving would help. He decided to make a complete circuit of the train. Gisela’s green scarf should be easy to spot.
Please, Lord, don’t let them be dead. Help me in my search . . .

He set off at a slow jog, screaming their names at the top of his lungs. Still no one answered his cries. Some began to file back into the train and the relative warmth of the cars. A few dark figures
crossed toward what looked like a church steeple. Perhaps a town was there.

What if they now headed in that direction? His chances of locating them among these seemingly thousands of passengers were small.

His heart rate ratcheted up two notches. He ran faster, called louder. “Gisela! Annelies! Renate!”

He scanned the crowd as thoroughly and as quickly as possible. No woman with amber hair and eyes to match. No little blond girls with freckles.

Upon reaching the caboose without spotting any of the three, he stopped to catch his breath, his hands on his knees. If they were even on the train, he had to keep moving. He rounded the back and started down the other side, his eyes flicking right and left and right again.

His throat burned, but he continued to yell their names. A few cars from the end, not far from the train, he saw it. A green scarf. Perhaps he was hallucinating. It seemed too good to be true. But this woman wore a brown coat, not black, and carried a child that, though she sported bright white hair, was too small to be either of the girls.

And there was but one child.

But it looked like Gisela.

He took a deep breath, fighting to stay calm.

Not trusting his eyes, he tramped toward the woman who now stood. She picked up the child and placed a kiss on his forehead.

The way Gisela kissed Renate. His heart hitched. He hurried in her direction. “Gisela?”

The woman focused her attention on him. “Mitch? Oh, Mitch.”

She lumbered toward him through the snow, the child on her hip. He rushed to meet her in the middle.

She fell into his arms, her chest heaving. He patted her back
until her breathing returned to normal. His breathing grew more erratic.

She stepped back. “The girls. Have you found them? Do you know where they are?”

“I haven’t any idea. Did they make the train? I didn’t know for sure if you did.”

“We did. Kurt handed them through a window, but the train started moving before the women who pulled them in could grab me. I managed to get on a few cars later. I haven’t seen them since. Not Kurt nor Audra nor the Holtzmann sisters either.”

“Whose lad is this?” Mitch rubbed the small boy’s back.

“He stood next to me. No one claimed him, so when the plane came, I grabbed him. But I hurt him when I fell on top of him.”

Mitch stroked the toddler’s cheek. “A little scrape is nothing. You may well have saved his life.”

Filled with unshed tears, her eyes glistened bronze.

A man on crutches, one pant leg pinned up, hobbled toward them. “Gisela.”

“Ja, Rolf.”

“You found your husband, then?”

A blush crept up her neck. “Ja. This is Mit . . . um, Josep.”

“Not the little girls?”

She shook her head.

“That is too bad.” The soldier leaned on his crutches and stuck out his right hand, examining Mitch. “SS, is that so?”

Mitch nodded. “Ja.” He shook the man’s hand, though the soldier’s perusal made him uncomfortable. “Any needs? We have to find the kinder.”

“Go, look for them. I will keep my eyes open.”

Gisela stomped her feet and hugged the child to her. Her forehead furrowed and indecision crossed her face. When she was little, she must have brought home all kinds of lost animals. Mitch
didn’t want this German soldier joining their group. One was more than enough. The time had come to move on.

Mitch nudged Gisela with his shoulder. “Then let’s go.” Not waiting for an answer, he trudged off. In a moment, he heard light footsteps squeaking in the snow behind him.

Both of them raised their voices, hoping for the girls to answer them. He checked around them for a little red hat and a little blue one.

The boy began to cry, his wail building with each passing minute. If the girls did answer them, they would never hear. Mitch stopped, took the baby and slung him over his shoulder. His arms ached from hanging on to the side of the train, but he galloped in a semi-horse-like fashion and the child quieted.

They had almost reached the end of the passenger cars. “You said Kurt handed the girls through a window?”

“Ja. I don’t remember which one.”

“So they wouldn’t have been in a boxcar?”

“Nein, he would never do that.” Her words were sharp.

“I’m only trying to glean any information that will help us find them.”

Her shoulders slumped.

They marched along. She was young and fit but fell behind him, even though he carried the boy. The boy who smelled like his nappy needed to be changed. She looked more deliberately, more carefully than he did. He scanned the crowds faster.

“Annelies! Renate!”

Their cries met nothing but silence.

Gisela and Mitch had almost reached the end of the crowd. They dared go no farther, no closer to the train. There might be more ammunition that would explode. Her heart beat with a wild rhythm
for a moment, then stopped altogether for a few more before resuming its untamed ride.

Where could the girls be? Were they even alive?
Please, God, let them have had a kind soul to help them. May they be safe. May they be alive.

Mitch marched on, not looking hard enough. A quick scan of the area satisfied him. But not her. They needed to make a thorough search of each and every person that had been on that train. Two girls didn’t disappear into thin air, no matter how small they were.

She left Mitch’s side, the boy crying again, and picked her way over and around people, refusing to let herself think of them as the dead bodies they were. “Annelies! Renate! Where are you?”

A hand tugged at the coat she wore—the dead woman’s much warmer coat.

She spun to find an older man. “Can I help you?” She had nothing to offer him.

“Fritz? Oh, that is my Fritz. My grandson.”

The little one wiggled and held his hands out to the older man. “Opa. Opa.”

“God bless you, fräulein. I don’t know where his mother, my daughter-in-law, is, but I found him.” The man buried his head in the little boy’s neck.

Gisela couldn’t wipe the smile from her face if she wanted to. “He was alone on the train.”

“Danke, danke. My sweet boy. How can I ever repay you?”

“Only if you help me find my nieces.” Since they called her tante, she might as well claim them as such, not just as cousins.

“Ja?”

She gave him a description of the girls.

“One you say is Renate?”

“Ja. Do you know where they are?”

“I remember Renate because that is my daughter-in-law’s name.” He swallowed a few times.

She crossed her arms and hugged herself. Was he preparing her for what he had to say? She squeezed herself hard.