Women Of Courage: Daisies Are Forever Part 40

And suddenly, the guns and Stalinorgels fell quiet. For the first time in weeks, the air was still. Not a soul stirred.

It was not like the church-quiet from his childhood-holy and serene. It was a fragile quiet. At any moment, it might shatter and the bone-rattling noise would start once more.

For a while, the momentary peace held. No one in the cellar spoke. To do so would bring the war cras.h.i.+ng around them.

A truck pa.s.sed down the street, its engine the only sound in the neighborhood.

A blaring message pierced the air. "General Wilding has surrendered Berlin. Cease all fighting immediately. Berlin has fallen."

The message repeated several times before Mitch understood its full implication.

Berlin had come under complete Red Army control.

With Hitler dead and the German capital in enemy hands, it would be a matter of days before the most horrific war in European history would end.

Mitch couldn't help it. He whooped and his feet moved of their own volition and he danced a jig. Annelies and Renate laughed and joined in the festivities. They were the only celebrants.

Gisela frowned. "This isn't a time to rejoice. Look how many hundreds of thousands, even millions, have died. Life will never be the same. Under Stalin, nothing will change." She pinched her nose and swallowed hard.

His momentary joy evaporated.

Gisela crushed the bread crust in her hand. "The nightmare has only begun."

THIRTY-SIX.

May 4 Wild Soviet troops patrolled the streets. They screeched, "Germanski kaput, Berlin kaput," and looted whatever they touched.

From her perch on the shelter's wood bench, Gisela listened as the Russians entered the houses around them. How many times had the women in them been raped? Frau Mueller's sign was a blessing.

And the only thing keeping her from the same fate.

But what about Mutti? Had G.o.d spared her?

That this carnage continued was insanity. The world had gone mad. Hitler had taken everything. Stalin demanded more.

She couldn't sit still. She walked a circuit around the cramped room several times. This must be what it was like in prison. Like it was for Mitch in the camp. She was a caged bird, beating her wings against the bars.

She couldn't breathe anymore. With ten people down here, the place was cramped. They ate together, slept together, fought together. The stench from the overflowing toilet upstairs permeated even to the cellar. The odor of all of those unwashed bodies was almost too much to bear.

Mitch teased her about going crackers, but she believed she might be on the verge of insanity if she stayed put one more minute.

After a while, the street in front of them quieted. The Soviets must have satiated themselves for the time being.

Good. She had to get outside.

Without a word to anyone, she slipped out of the room. While this usually meant a hurried trip to the bathroom, she went to the back door. The men had slid a desk in front of it. She moved the piece of furniture, unbolted the door, and slipped through.

Her hand froze on the door frame. The destruction of Vater's beloved city was complete. Not a single building remained unscathed. Berlin had become a burned-out ghost town. She half expected tumbleweeds to blow down the street.

She inhaled, hoping for a lungful of fresh air. But even out here, it was not meant to be. The smells of death and destruction were too strong. Instead, she covered her nose with her handkerchief so she wouldn't gag.

A quick look to the left and then to the right a.s.sured her no Soviet troops patrolled the area at the moment. With haste, she made her way to their bombed-out apartment building. The notice for Mutti had disappeared. Perhaps a vagabond had scoured the area for any useful item. Perhaps a Red Army soldier had removed it on purpose.

Mutti would never find them. Neither would Vater.

Gisela climbed over the rubble, searching for the brick with the message. She slid on the unstable pile and sc.r.a.ped her knee. She couldn't find it.

For as long as she could, she sifted through the debris, not knowing what she was searching for. Some clue about Mutti's whereabouts? Some sign that she was alive? Or dead?

Whatever her search, it proved fruitless. Once more, she climbed over the pile. Her left foot slid in between two bricks at a strange angle and pain ripped up her leg. She bit back a whimper and fell on top of the debris, the sharp edges of bricks digging into her backside.

Oh Lord, please take me home. End this misery for me.

Mitch played horsey with the girls until his bony knees ached from the hard concrete floor. He sat back on his haunches. "Everybody off. The horse is tired."

Annelies turned her sad gray eyes to him. "Bitte, Onkel Josep, just one more ride?"

Her expression almost did him in. He hated to disappoint her.

Renate clapped her hands. "Me too."

"Later. I promise. The horse has to rest. Play with Tante Gisela."

Annelies stomped her little foot. "She isn't here."

Mitch surveyed the room. She was right. Gisela had left to use the loo awhile ago and hadn't returned. He hopped to his feet, his knees protesting. Had she gotten sick?

"You stay with Tante Audra while I look for her." He nodded in her direction and she nodded back, some expression in her green eyes he couldn't read.

He took the steps two at a time, the upstairs cold and dark. The door to the loo stood ajar. "Gisela? Are you in there? Are you sick?"

No answer. He dared to take a peek. The room was empty.

He searched the other rooms. No sign of her. In her state, there was no telling where she might have gone. Doubting she had left the building, he conducted a thorough search, up and down and underneath and behind.

Fruitless. All of it fruitless.

With trembling legs, he climbed to the attic. Suicides were rampant in the city. Before they had been confined to the bas.e.m.e.nt, they had heard reports of hundreds of women taking their own lives, either because they had been raped or so the Soviets wouldn't touch them.

The attic stairs creaked under his weight and he held his breath.

No Gisela. He released the air from his lungs and relaxed against the wall.

But if she wasn't here, where was she?

Gisela sat amid the rubble of what had been her home. Amid the rubble of her life, a light mist fell.

Her heart ached for Mutti and Vater. Where were they? Were they alive? And what about Ella and Opa? Gisela might never get the answers to those questions.

The war had torn so much apart that it could never be repaired.

She lifted her face to the heavens. This is not fair, G.o.d. Not fair. I shouldn't be here.

Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. Her bloodied hands ached. Her heart could hold no more.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she spied a splash of green against white concrete. Instead of limping on her sore ankle, she crawled to the spot.

Her daisy scarf had survived. She pushed aside the rubble to free it. It had unraveled in one spot, but nothing that couldn't be fixed. The day was cool and damp enough that she didn't feel funny about wrapping it around her neck.

She recalled Mutti draping it over her shoulders as she stood on the train platform two years ago, bound for the east. "I won't be there to comfort you, my darling, but this will keep you warm."

Three months ago, Ella had handed it to her on her way out the door, reminding her to keep bundled.

She fingered the edge of it. The daisies had remained intact. She swiped away her remaining tears.

"Remember, my Gisela, daisies are forever."

"O Israel, Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by name; thou art mine."

She had to cling to that hope-that one day, all would be restored. If not in this life, then in the next.

Her heartache eased a little. Lord, please let my family survive. Reunite us.

The Russian-imposed curfew would go into effect at four o'clock and she had no idea of the time. A s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed through her with the deepening chill.

And the raucous voices of the Russians.

Putting weight on her ankle proved to be painful. She winced as she stepped on her right foot, which then twisted slightly on the uneven ground. How would she ever get off of this rubble heap?

A block away, a group of four Russian soldiers turned the corner and began walking down the street.

In her direction.

Mitch resigned himself to the fact that Gisela wasn't in the house. Though he had a difficult time believing it, she must have gone out.

The question remained-where? Seeing the desk pulled away from the back door confirmed his fears.

He stepped from the house, half afraid of another encounter with a Red Army soldier. Gisela wasn't by his side this time.

He had to find her. Fast.

His first thought was to go to the apartment building ruins. She could well have gone there, hoping for a message from her mum. Before he could turn in that direction, though, the neighbor across the street appeared on her front stoop.

She greeted him with enthusiasm. "The baker has bread. A pound for everyone with the new stamp on the old coupon book." She bounced down the step and set off in the opposite direction.

Gisela must have heard the news and struck out for the bakery. He followed the neighbor several blocks through the destruction. He couldn't compare it to anything he had ever seen or heard. He closed his mind to the sights of the bloated bodies lining the street. Many of them were women, blood covering their lower torsos.

He fisted his hands and tried not to gag.

A group of nervous women queued in front of the small shop. They never stopped scanning the area for their brutal occupiers, despite being dressed in rags, hair unkempt, faces smeared with coal.

An officer appeared from the back of the bakery, followed by a thin woman with large blue eyes, her arms loaded with bread. To a person, they knew how this girl had come away with such riches.

Though he felt like a coward, he scooted behind a woman with a long black coat and crouched to avoid the Russian's roving eye. Easier than being shot on the spot, mistaken for a German soldier.

"Frau, kommen." The Soviet motioned to Gisela's neighbor. She hesitated.

Mitch didn't.

Gisela sat as still as a rabbit in the crosshairs. Every instinct screamed at her to run. But doing so would draw unwanted attention to herself. She kept her breath as shallow as possible so her chest wouldn't rise and fall.

Sweat broke out over her entire body despite the coolness of the day. Her heart galloped faster than a wild mustang.

The troops moved ever closer, each step nearer to where she cowered. Time ceased. The world narrowed to a tunnel, her fate awaiting at the far end.

Their heavy footfalls echoed down the street, their feet now encased in SS boots stripped from dead Germans.

Dear G.o.d, don't let them see me.

Perhaps she would pa.s.s out from fright. They would think she was dead.

Play dead. Of course.

She sat upright, though, and that complicated matters. Moving might cause them to notice her.

Her mind rushed between her two options-sit here perfectly still or slump over and fake her own pa.s.sing.

Each second brought them another step closer.

They spoke, loud and drunk with their own successes and exploits.

Her stomach twisted. Thoughts of their hands on her tightened the vise on her lungs.

From the corner of her eye, she watched them stumble down the road, weaving around the rubble. Three were about the same height and build, much larger than she, the other slighter. The Mongol was dark, the Russians fairer.

One of the tall, fair ones pointed in her direction.

They had spotted her.