Daisies Are Forever (3 page)

Xavier applied the flame to the sticks while Mitch blew a light breath over the brushwood. His Boy Scout skills did not fail him, and within minutes they were melting snow in their dixies, adding a little powdered milk from their almost-exhausted care packages to make a hot drink.

Mitch sipped the beverage, careful not to burn his tongue. “One thing I will miss when the war is over is the powdered milk, eggs, cheese, meat, everything.”

Xavier laughed. “It’s a sight better than the sauerkraut the German farm woman smothered everything in when the work detail sent me to her.”

“Now you’re making me hungry. Stay here and man the fire. I’ll see what I can find to go with the last of that Spam.”

Xavier stared at Mitch with his green eyes. Mitch had seen that look five years ago during the retreat through Belgium and France toward the coast of the English Channel. Mitch pulled his stolen German greatcoat around himself and clapped his hands together, bringing him back to their present reality.

The dark figures of hunched women dotted the open field. Though six inches of snow lay on top of the furrows, he hoped to find a potato or two that hadn’t rotted. He pushed away the snow with his boot’s toe. Nothing but bare dirt. A shout went up from the far corner of the field. Some lucky bloke would have a feast tonight.

Fifteen futile minutes passed before Mitch struck gold. In his gleaning, he uncovered two small potatoes. If they hadn’t been frozen, they would have been mushy, but the hunger gnawing at his insides refused to let him pass over these prizes. He bent and picked them up, then stuffed them into his coat pocket before making his way back to Xavier and their small fire.

He held up the prized potatoes.

“We’re blessed tonight.” Xavier took them and placed them among the glowing embers.

“Hey, you.” A woman’s voice came from behind them.

Mitch turned to spot her hurrying toward them. “Ja?”

The slender, beak-nosed woman crouched beside their fire. Her long, jagged fingernails reminded him of eagle’s talons. “You and you.” She pointed at each of them. “Why are you here and not fighting for the Fatherland?”

They had both learned German during their five years of
captivity, but they had definite British accents. The guards would often laugh at their clumsy attempts to speak the language.

Xavier answered for them. “Separated from our unit.”

“Where are your rifles?”

“Lost.” Their captors had confiscated them.

She harrumphed before getting up and walking away. How many others questioned why he and Xavier were among this group?

His friend scooted forward, clutching his tin cup with the warm, thin milk. “A close shave, that. What a nosy bird, that woman.”

Mitch nodded. “You get us into trouble. I get us out.”

“Life wouldn’t be fun without a bit a trouble.”

Off in the distance, a train whistle blew. Mitch wondered where it might be going. “Like the time we nearly burned down your pop’s barn when we threw the chicken on the fire without plucking it?”

“My mum laid into me so hard for that one, I had a tough time sitting in the pew the next morning.”

“No surprise that you’d get me to join the army with you on a dare.” Mitch shook his head.

“That’s what friends do. And you’ve yet to thank me.”

“Father will tar and feather you if he ever sees you again.”

Xavier laughed, then sat back and finished his milk. After a while, he rolled the potatoes from the fire with his cup. “Supper’s ready, mate. Eat up.”

Though the skins burned, the potatoes inside were half raw and half rotten. Xavier nibbled at his. Much too impatient to savor his supper, Mitch scarfed down his meager meal, then took a bite of his Spam.

He had just set his cup on the ground and sat back with a satisfied sigh when they heard the rumbling of a motor. A jeep sped into the farmyard, scattering refugees like a flock of birds.

A pair of Wehrmacht officers jumped from the vehicle, guns
cocked. They appeared nearly identical—tall, muscular, Aryan perfection. “We’re looking for two escaped prisoners. Brits.”

Mitch clenched his fists. He recognized these soldiers. SS guards watching the men they drove from the stalag ahead of the Russians. Xavier jabbed him in the ribs.

The group melted back. A voice sounded from near the barn. “If we found them, we would have shot them.”

A cheer rose from the assembly.

Mitch was surprised the guards had come this far. Surprised they were out searching for them at all, they were in such a hurry to stay ahead of the Soviets. He held his breath.

“They might be impersonating German soldiers.”

The woman with the long nose stepped forward. Mitch grabbed Xavier by the upper arm. Crouched low, they inched their way from the fire—and the mob. With everyone’s attention focused on the stalag guards, they took the chance to get away. Once they cleared the farmyard, they broke into a full-out run.

Footsteps pounded behind them. “
Halten sie!
Halten sie!” Gunshots punctuated the soldiers’ orders for them to stop. In the gathering darkness, their aim was poor. The field was uneven, the furrows impeding the men’s progress. Xavier stumbled. Mitch grabbed his mate and dragged him along.

His lungs burned with each frigid breath, though sweat poured down the back of his stolen uniform. His cramped legs cried out for him to stop, but he couldn’t. They couldn’t. To do so would be to die.

The Germans continued calling for them. At first, their voices came from right behind. Now they sounded a little farther to the side. Could they have lost them?

Mitch didn’t stop to think, just kept sprinting.
Lord, don’t let me run in circles this time. Help us.

They reached the edge of the field where pines and oaks grew along the property line and dove for cover in the underbrush.

THREE

T
he weight of exhaustion bore down on Gisela’s shoulders. Her legs burned from the effort of pedaling the bicycle while her toes burned with the cold. Her eyes refused her command to stay open, her eyelids fluttering like flags in the breeze. Annelies and Renate had cried themselves to sleep around dawn. At first Gisela had been glad for the quiet, but now their screaming would help keep her awake and alert.

Herr Holtzmann pedaled behind her, his handcart trailing him. Each time she glanced back, he had fallen a little farther behind. Bettina and Katya trudged alongside. The older of the two sisters, Bettina, drew her blue wool coat around her bony frame. Even with the distance between them, Gisela caught Bettina’s remarks.

“Brother, why are we out strolling at this time of night? This is not sensible. I have never heard the likes of such things, have you, Sister?” Her words whistled between the gap in her front teeth.

Herr Holtzmann sighed. He must grow weary of the bizarre questions his senile sisters barraged him with.

All throughout the night, Gisela’s thoughts returned to the
little house in Heiligenbeil. What must be happening to Ella? She glanced at the children asleep in the cart. Both of them had inherited their mother’s button nose, and both had their mother’s freckles spattered across their faces.

With half-frozen fingers, Gisela gripped the bicycle’s handlebars tighter. How would she explain their mother’s choices to the children? They had lost so much already.

And what about Opa? Every time she thought about him, her throat ached. He was an old man. Would the Soviets take pity on him?

Nein. She knew the answer. She bit back her tears.

She slowed her pedaling and rode to the side of the congested street to allow Herr Holtzmann to catch up to her. Wagons, carts, and people so clogged the road that he almost drove past. She waved and he pushed his way toward them.

She dismounted. “Your cart is too heavy for you. Let me see what I can take and what we might be able to leave.” She rummaged through his belongings, pulling a few cast-iron pots and pans from in between the bedding and setting them alongside the road.

Katya unloaded a box spilling over with picture albums and books and transferred it to Gisela’s cart. Bettina joined in, grabbing a load of stuff in her scrawny arms and plopping it on Annelies.

Herr Holtzmann hurried to pull the pile from on top of the giggling girl. “Sisters, that is enough. We can’t let Gisela carry all of our belongings.”

Still digging in the Holtzmanns’ quilts, Gisela pulled out a mantel clock, painted blue with yellow flowers scrolled across the case. She held it high. “Do you need this?”

He swallowed hard and pulled his cap farther over his balding head. “Ursula loved that clock. It has been in her family for a long time.”

Gisela tried to ignore the wistfulness in the man’s voice. It was
impractical. Better they leave his late wife’s clock than the pots. You couldn’t warm food in a timepiece. His pleading blue eyes begged her not to dispose of this treasure. Then she thought of her Bible and her treasure tucked in its pages. Never would she want to leave it. She placed the clock among the blankets and pillows once more.

Herr Holtzmann kissed her cheek with his chapped lips. “
Danke
. You understand. It is all I have left of her. Sixty years and that is all that remains.” His eyes watered with unshed tears. Gisela turned away, not wanting to give way to her own grief.

A moment later, he touched her shoulder. “It is nearly noon. My friend and his wife own a farm along this road. Let’s find him and see if he has a place for us to rest and a room for us to spend the night. You look like you need a decent sleep.”

Dark circles rimmed his eyes. She imagined she looked much the same. “You too. But are we far enough ahead of the Soviets? What if they catch up to us?” What if they were overtaken while they slept? Gisela’s stomach flipped.

In the cart Renate stirred. She scanned her surroundings, her eyes large. Tears gathered and threatened to spill. “Where is Mutti? I want Mutti to come.”

Annelies squared her shoulders. Gisela sensed she fought the urge to break into tears herself. Gisela longed for her own mutti as much as Renate wanted hers. Family. Most of these people were going anywhere as long as it was west. She needed to get to Berlin, to take care of her mutti. From there they could travel to Munich.

Renate continued to cry for her mother. How could Ella have abandoned them? At least when Gisela’s parents sent her east, she was an adult.

She pulled the girls from the cart and gathered them close. “Your mutti will be along very, very soon. She had to finish some work and take care of Opa, and then she is going to join us. Remember, we are
having a great adventure. We will make new friends and see new things. You have to be big girls.” They didn’t understand their loss.

Annelies blinked away her tears. “I can be a big girl.”

“Me too. I be a big girl.” Renate refused to let her sister get the last word.

“Very good. I’m proud of you.”

“Tante Gisela, would you sing the wagon song for us again?”

“Ja, wagon song.”

“You walk and follow Herr Holtzmann, and we can sing the song.”

Herr Holtzmann mounted his bicycle and the group rolled down the streets of the sleepy village, the girls in all their clothing waddling along like two penguins.

High on the yellow coach

I sit in front with the coachman.

The white horses start trotting,

Merrily peals the horn.

Meadows, pastures, and marshes,

Ripening grain shimmering gold.

How I would like to stay,

But the coach rolls on.

The group sang the refrain several times—the Holtzmann sisters the loudest—before they arrived at a squat stone farmhouse, brightly lit windows staring at them. A huge barn overshadowed the cheery, inviting home, the once-vivid green exterior in need of a new coat of paint.

An older woman met them at the entrance when they knocked. Her mouth dropped into an
O
. “Oy, Dietrich, is it good to see you and your sisters. And this.” She scanned the bedraggled band and a smile curved her lips. “Who is this you have brought us?”

“Let me introduce Gisela Cramer and her cousin’s children, Renate and Annelies Reinhardt. Ladies, this is
Frau
Becker.”

Annelies went to shake the woman’s hand, polite as her mother had taught her. Instead, the woman, a heavy crown of braids ringing her head, pulled the child into a grandmotherly hug. “Little girls. So long it has been since we had little girls.”

Renate flung herself into the old woman’s embrace. “Me too.”

Frau Becker laughed. “Of course. We should not forget you.”

For the millionth time that day, Gisela’s heart tugged with thoughts of her grandfather. He loved the girls so much. They should have had more years together.

God, please take care of him.

Frau Becker ushered the group into the house, already overflowing with refugees. Bedding covered the parlor floor and the couches and chairs. Farther into the home, women jostled for position at the stove. Frau Becker patted her hand. “You see, we don’t have much room. What we have, though, you are welcome to.”

The noise and heat and confusion started a pounding behind Gisela’s left eye. “That is very kind of you.” If they stayed here, they would have to sleep standing up.

Herr Holtzmann cleared his throat. “Your husband, is he around?”

All at once, the joy left the older woman’s eyes. “Heinz had a stroke this fall. He cannot move his left side, and his speech isn’t so good anymore. That is why we stay. We cannot leave with him like this.”

Herr Holtzmann nodded and rubbed the spot between his nose and lips. “I would like to see him.”

Their hostess pushed her way through the crowd and down the hall to the last of two doors on the left. “You visit with him for a while. We have some room in the attic. There is no heat, but you are welcome to stay there. Or the barn, but I fear those conditions
are worse. That is all I have. Come, girls, let me help you settle.” Herr Holtzmann slipped inside and shut the door.

Frau Becker never stayed still, her hands moving even when the rest of her body didn’t, and she reached the top attic step before Gisela had willed herself to reach the third. When Gisela was a child, Mutti had always wished for a tenth of Gisela’s energy. She now understood the feeling. She had to drag her feet up the flight of stairs.