Daisies Are Forever (32 page)

Mitch uncrossed his arms and tented his fingers even as she continued to pace. “Like you are listening to me.”

She had never met such an exasperating man. “I left them. I left Ella. And Opa. And Mutti. How many more people I love will die when I leave them? And Margot left me.” She covered her face and bit back the sting of tears.

“God saved you. And the girls and the Holtzmann sisters. All of us. It was nothing we did. On our own, we are unable. It is His hand that plucked us out of our situations and that has sustained us.”

“This far.”

“Yes, this far. Perhaps further. Perhaps not. But it’s not up to us.”

“I didn’t fail them?”

Mitch gathered her to himself, his arms warm, his chest firm. “No, you didn’t fail them. You can’t save the world. That is God’s job.”

Gisela laid on the bed from upstairs. Audra snored softly beside her. Bettina’s snore was a little more raucous. Kurt dozed on the davenport, Mitch wrapped in blankets on the hard floor. Everyone
slept but her. The howl in the street had calmed a bit. German soldiers patrolled their neighborhood, not yet under Soviet occupation. But sleep remained as elusive as a butterfly.

She mulled over her memories and what Mitch had said. “I didn’t fail them.” The words snuck past her lips.

She had been trying to save the world in her own way. All along, she wanted to be the one to rescue these people. They would hail her for saving their lives. Like she couldn’t save Heide or Lotta. Like she couldn’t save her sister.

She thought of the scene playing in front of them. Today or tomorrow or the next day, the Russians would take their street and wouldn’t relinquish control. This was what it was like to be in the midst of battle. If only Hitler would surrender.

And where was Mutti? If she still lived, had the Russians discovered her? What horrors was she surviving? Had she survived?

Lord, watch over her. Protect her. Bring her back to me.

She climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb the others. After tiptoeing to her rucksack, she rummaged through the few contents, discovering her Bible in the folds of her sweater.

She opened to the page with the daisy. Memories of Oma and Opa flooded her. Of good times. Of peaceful times. Times that ended, as surely as daisies faded.

She went to close the cover when the words of Isaiah 43 caught her eye.

But now thus saith the L
ORD
that created thee, O Jacob, and he that formed thee, O Israel, Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the L
ORD
thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Savior.

She sat on the cold floor, her Bible in her lap. The screeching, the shooting, the anguished cries faded.

The words from her Lord seeped into her like the balmy California sun. Warmth spread through her and she could almost feel the soft grass between her toes. She fingered the flower tucked in the pages.

Opa had given it to Oma. And now to Gisela. And this was the passage he wanted her to remember. He quoted from it when she saw him last.
“ ‘When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee.’ ”

That was why he had asked her to put it in this passage. She remembered his words, like he wanted.

“ ‘Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by name; thou art mine.’ ”

She bit her lower lip to stem the tide of tears welling in her eyes. God had redeemed her from her wrongs. Getting the girls out of East Prussia hadn’t accomplished that feat. Keeping the Holtzmann sisters together body and soul hadn’t done it. Even if Gisela could locate Mutti, the redemption would not be complete.

Because it took Jesus to pay the ransom price on the cross.

April 27

From the cellar, Mitch and the other residents listened to the rounds of gunfire outside the window. Across the room, Frau Mueller’s lips moved in silent petition. Gisela sat next to him on the bench. He squeezed her hand.

He hadn’t been this frightened in Belgium or France. Perhaps wanting a future with this woman changed his outlook. Or being responsible for nine others, all of them helpless.

Yes, helpless. God would have to save them.

More Stalinorgels. Only God could save them.

They picked at their food, though they now had a few supplies. No one spoke much. Hour after hour, they sat in the dank semidarkness of the lower level, wondering if they would die in the next instant.

Renate had never sucked her thumb so vigorously.

The day wore on. Gisela dozed on his shoulder. He stared out of the window.

A wild screech, almost like the American Indian calls Mitch had seen in the motion pictures, pierced the air. The style of boots remained the same, though now the pants were greener. A few feet were wrapped in nothing but rags.

Gisela sat up straight at the yelling.

A tank rolled past the window, down the narrow street.

Mitch pushed to his feet and gazed out the small, dirty pane of glass. The faces of the men in the tank were not German. Their greasy hair was black and stuck straight out of their fur ushanka hats. Their dark, slanted eyes gave away their ethnic origin.

He had difficulty drawing a breath. He clenched his jaw.

Gisela stepped behind him. “Mongols,” she whispered, shuddering.

They watched the foreign troops process down the road. For the people on this street, the war had ended. They were now in Russian-occupied territory.

When he could watch no longer, he turned to her, stroking her upper arm, trying to warm her. “Now might be a good time for that coal and powder.”

“What about you and Kurt and Jorgen? They’ll shoot you on the spot.”

“Kurt and Jorgen, maybe, but not me. I’ll explain to them that I’m British.”

“And how will you do that when you don’t speak Russian and I doubt any of them speak English? What are we going to do?”

Then he would fight them. Fight them for taking away Xavier. Fight them for what they did to women and children. Fight them to show he wouldn’t surrender this time.

THIRTY-FOUR

April 28

K
urt watched as Gisela grasped the lump of coal and rubbed it over Audra’s face, then massaged precious flour into the other woman’s hair. With its light color, it didn’t take much to turn Audra gray. She did appear to be quite a bit older than her twenty or so years. And much uglier. Not good if she was out to impress Josep. He clenched and relaxed his sore fist.

Then again, Josep only had one good eye.

Not a word passed between the two of them since that day. They remained across the room from each other. His anger had cooled into determination. Josep and Gisela spent more time together than ever. But he would have her. She would be his. Even if he had to fight Josep again.

Audra kneaded the white powder into Gisela’s hair. “When we get to America, we can dye our hair any color we want to.” She worked in more. “Yours, being darker, isn’t as easy as mine. We’ll use up every bit of flour we have left.”

The music faded. He hated witnessing Gisela’s beauty being hidden.

“Don’t do that.” She held a mirror up to inspect herself, then turned to Audra. He didn’t recognize her face. Nein, she couldn’t disappear.

She tipped her head to the side. “Deepen the crease marks around my mouth and eyes and that will have to be sufficient.”

The demanding foreign voices with their harsh-sounding language approached ever closer. His palms sweated and he managed a breath every ten seconds or so. Gisela huddled in the corner of the basement beside Mitch. Audra slid into the empty spot beside Kurt.

He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “You can’t let them get this close. Not at a time like this. You should rely on him; she should be here with me.”

“I’m watching. Trust me.”

Kurt wiped his damp hands on his rather tight khaki pants, borrowed from Frau Mueller’s much smaller husband. They had at last convinced him to burn his German officer’s uniform. He shouldn’t have to be ashamed of who he was.

“You’d better work fast. This war is almost over. And then what? They will run away to the west and leave us alone here. We can’t let that happen.” He didn’t know if he was more afraid of the Red Army or of losing his muse.

Bettina sat at the edge of her seat. “Moscow, Sister, can you imagine? Remember being here years ago? Let’s go see the colorful roofs of St. Basil’s.”

Frau Mueller grasped Bettina’s arm. “Later, ja? Soon it will be supper time.”

Jorgen sat dazed between the Holtzmann sisters and listened to them argue about what they would order in the Moscow restaurant tonight.

A higher-pitched scream broke out, cutting off the sisters’ banter. Frost formed on the inside of Kurt’s blood vessels. Gisela rose and snuck to the narrow window.

“Women. Large-boned Russian women high on the tanks, shooting their guns in the air and hollering like cornered rabbits. The Mongols weren’t as bad as them.”

“These are your allies, Josep. The people you have teamed up with to defeat Germany. What do you think of them now?”

Josep didn’t answer, but fire smoldered behind his eyes.

While her back had been turned, Audra had snuck into Gisela’s vacated seat next to Mitch. She clung to his elbow, her head on his shoulder. “I can’t take much more of this. All of this yelling and shooting is frightful. How will any of us survive?”

No doubt about it, she batted her eyelashes at him. She practiced her English on him. “Please, tell me about England. I go to your house.”

Mitch shot Gisela a glance, one dark eyebrow raised. She shrugged.

Kurt patted the empty spot next to him on the bench. “Come sit here, Gisela.”

Mitch raised his other eyebrow. Good, raising doubts in his mind.

She moved like a wooden toy and took the seat beside him.

“There is nothing to worry about.” He patted her knee.

“I wasn’t worrying.”

“Those communists won’t harm me. If Josep can pretend to be German, I can pretend to be English. I will say I lost my papers and identification in the POW camp.” Kurt reached for her hand, which she pulled away to scratch an itch on her nose. This wasn’t what he wanted. Had Josep told her what happened at the warehouse?

“You sound rather confident.”

“I am. When this is over, I will take you to my parents’ home in Bavaria. You can rest and enjoy the quiet of the forest and the mountains. The air is fresh and clean, the countryside beautiful. Perhaps Oktoberfest will begin again in Munich. I want to show you the sights.” If she saw his home, she would want to stay.

“That is a gracious offer, but I have to find Mutti. Ella will come for the girls, I will take the Holtzmann sisters to their niece, Vater will return, and then I will leave for home.”

“This is your home.”

“America.”

Kurt shook his head. “Nein, you are German through and through. What little bit of American you had in you is gone.”

A shadow passed over her heart-shaped face. The music in his head turned soft and slow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Please understand.” She turned to him, her gaze holding his. “Germany hasn’t been kind to me. I lost my sister here. We were closer than most. America is where my happy memories are. Where I want to be. Away from the war and death this place brought.”

She couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t allow it. “You have awhile to decide. I will help you situate both sets of sisters and locate your parents. By then, Germany will have healed.” If he could convince her to stay . . .

“You need to return to your home and your family, and I need to go to mine.”

He grabbed her hand and pressed her fingers into his palm. “You must come with me, for the music.”

Her forehead scrunched. “The music?”

“When I am near you, I hear the dancing of the notes. The music I thought I had lost along with my arm.”

“I don’t give you the music.”

He sat straight. “But you do.”

“Music comes from the heart.” She touched his chest. His lungs expanded. “When you hear it, your heart is speaking to you. Not me. At home, the place you love, the music will come back. And I will be in the front row of your first concert.”

“Don’t you see? There will be no more concerts. A one-armed man will never play the piano. The melodies in my head are all I have left.”

“God will give you the music. You could direct. Or teach.”

“I could never do it. I was born to play.”

“With God’s help, you can do anything. Look at what we have survived.”

She was slipping away from him, though he squeezed her hand. “I love you, Gisela.”

She yanked her hand from his. Kurt’s mouth went dry. “It’s not me you love; it’s the idea of me. You love the music you think is only with you when I’m nearby. But you don’t love me. And I don’t love you, Kurt.”

He stared at the gray concrete floor, clenching his jaw. Without her, without the music, his life would be empty.

“God will give you the music. Trust Him. Love Him. It will come.”

Kurt first fell in love with music in his hometown church. The swelling of the organ filled his soul. Once he had joined the Nazi party and entangled himself with them, that music failed to stir him. Could the Lord give back that gift?

She touched his shoulder. “When you go home to Munich, one day a woman will come along and you will love her. All of her. Not just the idea of her.”

A requiem played in his head. Yet he heard the organ chords, and a spark lit deep inside. Perhaps, just perhaps, he needed to pray for the return of his beloved music.

Across the room, Audra touched Josep’s stubbly cheek.

And the Mongol-Russians arrived at the door.

“Uri, uri, uri,” the Soviet conquerors screamed as they clattered up the stairs. They wanted watches. And they would get them any way they could. These present-day yells mixed with the past ones in Gisela’s memories. Goose bumps covered her arms. Each breath she drew was jerking and halting.