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Lang Residence
Berlin, Nazi Germany
January 30, 1945

 

Erika Lang polished the kitchen counter for the umpteenth time today. She had to do something, anything, to occupy her time. Unfortunately, keeping house wasn’t distracting enough, and she constantly found herself in mid-wipe, frozen in place, shaking.

Her husband was missing.

Though was he?

He was late. Two days late. He was supposed to have returned home on a four-day pass, yet hadn’t. And there had been no word. She had phoned his supervisor, but had been given the runaround, then cut off. She would go in person tomorrow, though expected little more. Two years ago, German efficiency would have told her exactly where he was and why.

But now, in a nearly defeated Germany?

She was lucky to still have a roof over her head.

The bombing by the enemy was too frequent now, even residential areas sometimes targeted. Fortunately, her neighborhood hadn’t been touched yet, though everyone was feeling the effects. When it had first started, she had run for the shelters like everyone else, and cowered in fear.

But no longer.

If she heard the sirens, she would prepare to flee while waiting for the sound of the bombs. If they sounded close, she’d head for the air raid shelter, though if they remained in the distance, as they usually did, she wouldn’t bother.

And if a stray bomb killed her, then so be it.

If only Hermann knew!

He’d be furious if he knew she wasn’t going to the shelter every time the siren sounded, but he didn’t know what it was like. They had seen each other only twice in six months, and the last time he had been here, the bombings hadn’t been as frequent. To head to the shelter every night would mean she’d never get any sleep, and she’d be useless.

But none of that mattered now. He wasn’t home, and she didn’t know what to do.

Every sound in the hallway had her running for the door, an ear pressed against the wood in hopes that it would be him, terrified it would be a telegram informing her of his glorious death in the service to the Reich.

Though she had loved the Führer and what he had accomplished for her great nation, that faith had wavered over the past couple of years, and she did not want to sacrifice her husband to the cause, nor their daughter. Hitler had failed. He had promised to restore Germany to greatness, then peace.

Instead, he had restored the Fatherland to its former prominence, then squandered it with over-ambitious plans of ruling the entire continent, including Russia.

If only we hadn’t made an enemy of them.

If she had been in charge—a laughable notion—she would have left the Russians alone, and thrown everything they had at England. Eliminate that thorn, and the Allies would have nowhere to amass their troops. And once secured, the focus could turn to Africa and its untapped resources, then finally, when ready, the Soviet Union.

But it was all the musings of wives with too much time on their hands, coffee and the occasional schnapps leading to idle speculation of what they would have done differently should the men not be in charge.

In some circles, it might have even been considered treasonous.

The very thought sent a shiver up and down her spine, speaking out against the Führer or the Reich certain to get one shot, but not before a healthy bout of torture to force out the names of any others who might share similar views.

She paused as a thought occurred to her.

What about Michaella?

Michaella Maier was one of her best friends, and her husband was due back yesterday. He worked with Hermann, and might at least be able to tell her something. Even just knowing he was alive would be a relief.

She scribbled a note, just in case Hermann arrived while she was out, then grabbed her coat and hat, bundling up for the chill outside. She stepped out into the hallway and locked the door, then rushed toward the stairwell and down the stairs, emerging onto the street. She looked in both directions before crossing to the other side, the stop for the streetcar a block away.

She made a point to go behind an idling black car with a dented rear fender, just in case the driver got underway, the waste of gas unheard of these days. She noticed a pile of cigarettes by the driver’s window, and her heart pounded at the sight of the man’s shoulder—a shoulder clad in leather.

Gestapo?

She shuddered at the thought, resisting the urge to look back at the vehicle. One never wanted to draw the attention of the Gestapo. Her recent activities replayed themselves in her mind as she rushed for the streetcar, its screeching sounds bringing her comfort, reminding her of Hermann and the times he had brought her to the rail yard to see the massive equipment he operated.

An engineer.

She had been so proud of him when he got his first job after training. They had been holding off having a baby until he had steady work, and the day he was officially hired, they had made love repeatedly, and she swore their daughter had been conceived that night.

The thought made her warm all over.

She spotted the streetcar and picked up her pace, reaching it just in time. She found a seat near the back and caught her breath, smiling at her seatmate.

“Chilly one today.”

The old woman grunted. “With nothing to heat the apartment, I sometimes wonder if there’s a difference anymore between inside and out.”

Erika was about to reply with something supportive, when she noticed the same black car that had been parked across from her building, pulling in behind them.

I wonder who they’re following.

She stared at the others on the streetcar with her, watching for anyone who appeared nervous, instead finding too many blank, defeated expressions. Everyone knew that the end was near, and everyone knew it would be the Russians who conquered Berlin.

A terrifying prospect, best not thought about.

They had sent their daughter to stay with relatives outside of the city, but they were still in the path of the vengeful Russians. There was no hope now to get them to the west, where Americans or British might conquer them.

Should Germany be conquered, Berlin would be under Soviet control, and though she wasn’t much of a fascist anymore, she had no desire to be a communist.

Life under Hitler would be far better than under Stalin.

She glanced behind her, the black car still visible, her search for a suspect among those on board a failure.

Herr Vogel would have spotted the criminal in a heartbeat.

Vogel was a good man, and she always felt safe when she heard him return home. He was a Kriminalinspektor, a Detective Inspector, and lived directly across from her. His wife was a terrific woman, plenty of fun, but Erika hadn’t seen her or their children in months.

Vogel had sent them away when things began to look hopeless.

She had no idea where they had gone, though she knew they had family in the southwest.

I hope the Americans get there first.

She felt envious, sometimes a little angry, that they were so safe compared to her daughter, though they could hardly be blamed for where their relatives lived.

They were lucky, and she was happy for them.

Sort of.

She spotted her stop and hopped off a little early, saving her half a block’s walk. She quickly made her way to the Maiers’ building and stepped into the lobby, shaking the snow off her jacket, and removing her hat and gloves while giving her feet a few good stomps. She headed for the stairs, winding up several flights, then paused as she glanced out the window.

The black car, the same one with the dented rear fender, was now parked across the street.

She stopped and listened for someone else in the stairwell with her, but heard nothing. Whoever they were following wasn’t here with her.

Then her heart slammed and she gripped the railing hard.

They’re following you!

She forced herself to continue forward, up the final two flights of stairs, just in case she was wrong. Or right.

Looking suspicious either way could mean her doom.

Out of sight of any windows, she pressed her back against the wall and steadied her breathing. Why would the Gestapo follow her? She had done nothing wrong.

Your idle gossip!

So many people she knew had either fled the city or were dead, that she would have no idea if any had actually been arrested and forced to name names. And under torture, perhaps someone had named her as having said something against the Führer or the Reich.

She knew if she were tortured, she would tell them anything they wanted to hear, even if it weren’t true, just to make it stop. Could one of her friends that she had presumed left the city, instead been arrested and forced into confessing to crimes they hadn’t committed?

The thought terrified her.

Then her jaw dropped.

Maybe they’ve already arrested Hermann, and that’s why he’s late!

She collapsed in a heap.