He looked now at the books and the shirts and sweaters and underpants he had folded on his bed. At the long pants. No short pants, not on this trip. That, he guessed, was the one consolation to leaving home in the winter. He hated short pants. When he was wearing them, it reminded everyone that he was a boy and his legs were thin. Pathetically thin. So thin that the other children invariably made fun of them--as if they needed one more reason to tease him or hurt his feelings. Still, even without the short pants he had no idea how he could possibly bring everything with him that Mutti had said he must pack. Just no idea at all.
when anna had finished packing and she knew that her parents and her brothers were in their rooms for the night, she crept silently to the maid's room where Callum slept. The house's front door had been open so often during the day and evening as they had traipsed back and forth to the wagons that the downstairs was frigid, far colder than the bedrooms upstairs--especially her room, which had had a small blaze burning in the fireplace for the last couple of hours. The air was far from arctic, but she found herself pulling her robe tightly around her.
"Is my family trying to freeze you to death?" she asked him, kicking off her slippers and crawling beside him beneath the quilt on the slim bed as quickly as she could. He was still awake, too, since he was expecting her. Normally the room was warmed slightly by the stove in the kitchen, but they had been so busy organizing and packing that evening that Mutti had instructed Basha simply to create a buffet from whatever was left in the icebox. Apparently, there had been nothing worth heating up, and Basha had never lit the stove.
"Don't tell me a little ice on the windows is too much for a Daughter of the Reich," he murmured, teasing her and pulling her against him. He was wearing Werner's woolen long underwear, and even in the dark she could tell that it was far too small for him. She ran her toe along his leg and realized that the ankle of the underwear was stretched tightly around his shin. Reflexively she ran her fingers down his sleeve and discovered that the wrist of the long underwear was at least two inches up his forearm.
"How can you breathe in this outfit?" she asked him.
"Oh, I'm fine. I was actually wearing considerably more layers until a few moments ago."
"Well, if you think you have any chance of convincing me to remove one single article of clothing, you are mistaken."
"You've already taken off your slippers."
"And that's going to be all, I assure you." She curled her hands into small balls and pressed them between their chests. She heard a mouse racing along inside the exterior wall, and couldn't imagine how a creature that tiny could survive in cold this severe.
"Ah, but you're here," he whispered, and she thought about this--how her entire world was starting to collapse, and that she had chosen here, this thin mattress, on which to take solace. They didn't even know where they would be sleeping tomorrow night. After a moment she nodded. "Are you warm enough?" she asked him. "I was kidding a minute ago when I mentioned my family. But maybe you should be sleeping upstairs."
"I'm all right. Really, my sweet, I am. But you don't need to stay here. I'm flattered you've come to the icebox to join me, but I think you should savor a few hours of sleep in your bed. Tomorrow will be here before you know it."
She hadn't considered how long she was going to stay. There was no question that she would be in her own room when Mutti would come for her at dawn. But she hadn't decided whether she had come downstairs to hold him briefly and kiss him good night, or whether she might stay longer. Before her father and Helmut had returned, she had come here with some frequency. Now? It was a considerably more risky endeavor.
"Of course, I never slept the night before a jump," he went on. "Even the practice jumps."
"It must be terrifying to jump from a plane. I've never even flown."
"It wasn't the fear of getting killed that kept me awake. After all, on the practice runs there was no one shooting at you. It was the fear of botching the jump in some fashion--in some fashion that would be embarrassing or might complicate the whole affair for your mates. And I worried about how I would respond during the actual fight."
"From what you've told me, you responded just fine," she said, though the truth was that he had told her almost nothing. Like Werner, he shared with her only the most basic, unembellished de- tails--and not particularly many of them, at that. It wasn't that she was the enemy and he had secrets to protect; it was merely that he was a soldier and soldiers, even young ones such as Werner and Callum, didn't seem to want to discuss what they had seen and done. And so all she really knew was that he hadn't shot anyone-- at least that's what he had said. And that he had spent most of his time on the ground the night of the jump in a swamp, while the woods around him were on fire because another plane had crashed there. Whenever she envisioned that Allied plane, she thought of the Luftwaffe fighter that had been shot down over Kaminheim, and the dead pilot in the wreckage in the hunting park. Nevertheless, she hoped that someday she would get to see the world from an airplane, and she told him that now.
"It's overrated," he said.
"Really?"
"Well, it is if you're a paratrooper. No windows. Bad seating. Most blokes spend a good part of the ride either vomiting or trying not to vomit. Airsickness and terror: a mighty bad combination."
"Maybe if you had a comfortable seat and a window."
He rose up on his elbow now and looked down at her. She could see his face in the light from the candle on the windowsill, and he was smiling at her. "Maybe," he said, the two syllables oddly wistful. Except that he was smiling.
"Your face doesn't match your words," she said.
"What?"
"You sound sad. But you look happy."
He seemed to think about this, but only briefly. And then, instead of answering her, he bent toward her and kissed her, his lips soft and his tongue tasting slightly of candy cane--probably from one of the very last treats they had remaining from Christmas. His fingers started to inch under her robe and against her nightgown, and then they were grazing her collarbone and her neck. They were oddly, surprisingly warm, and suddenly the layers of flannel separating their bodies seemed a barrier that was at once considerable and frustrating: She loved him and who could say when they would ever get to lie together like this again. She wanted to feel his skin against her skin, the cold be damned, and she wanted to feel him running his fingers over her nipples and holding her breasts in the palms of his hands. She wanted to feel him inside her. And so she sat up and pulled her nightgown over her head, and he followed her lead and climbed from her brother's long underwear. She had planned on leading his fingers to her breasts, but already his hands were there, and she felt a shiver as they started to brush in circles over her nipples. She allowed herself a soft purr, aware that outside the wind was blowing the fallen snow against the windows and somewhere nearby there was a mouse, but that didn't matter, that didn't matter at all. His erection was pressing against her, she could feel it against her hips, and she grasped it in the dark beneath their quilt. Stroked it gently, felt the moistness at the tip.
"I'm beside you," he whispered, a slight pant in his voice because, she could tell, of the way she was massaging his penis. "How could I be anything but happy?" And then he kissed her again, this time on her forehead, her eyes, her nose. But he surprised her by scooting over her mouth. An image crossed her mind: Her hand was replicating her vagina, and it made her want to lick her palm for him. But he raised himself up once again and pulled away so she could no longer fondle his cock. Already he was retreating under the tent of their quilt, slipping down toward her waist and her knees so that she could no longer see him. She knew what he was going to do because they had done this before, and at first she had been shocked. She had been shocked that he would even have such an idea. But then she realized this was just one more way that he had experiences far beyond her ken, and she had given herself over to him and to what he was doing and, yes, to the sensations. He had used his tongue on h
er in much the same way that she would touch herself when she was alone, only this felt so much better: the orgasms so intense, especially that first time when the feelings had coiled inside her, building until she had come so powerfully that she had feared she was going to pee on the rug at the edge of the ballroom.
Now his hands were massaging her thighs and his head was between her legs, his mouth moist and warm and insistent. In a moment, she knew, he would gently part her pubic hair and stiffen his tongue, and he would be brushing it against her so rapidly that the sensations would swell till she came, and then, when her legs might still be shaking, almost abruptly he would be holding his body up on his arms and sliding inside her--which, now, gave her a pang of apprehension. They had always used the condoms she had found in Werner's bedroom, and she wondered if they had one left. She had given him the box soon after she had discovered it, because she didn't think it was right that such things should reside in her bedroom. What if Mutti discovered them there? But she didn't know if they had any remaining. Still, it seemed impossible at first to open her mouth and ask him. To stop him. She couldn't get pregnant, however, she simply couldn't--not by him, not now. Perhaps not ever. And so she found the resolve within her to reach down for his head, to get his attention. At first he thought she was merely urging him on, massaging his scalp as he lapped at her vagina. But then she asked him, put the question out there. He stopped what he was doing and rose up from beneath her, and he smiled. "Oh, I wish we'd had the time to be such bunnies that we'd gone through Werner's whole stash."
"We've one left?"
"Actually, I believe we have two," he reassured her, and then he disappeared once more between her thighs, and she gave herself over to the feelings there, closing her eyes to the ice and the snow and the death: to the reality that somewhere, not very far away, their army was trying desperately to slow a juggernaut of Russian barbarians. For the moment, all that mattered was that she was with Callum, her Callum, and their bodies were warm and electric and very much alive.
it was still dark when Helmut awoke, and even in the midst of the spring planting or the autumn harvest no one would have been up for another hour and a half. Even today, the morning of their departure, he knew his mother and father wouldn't be rising for a short while. They'd done most of their packing yesterday, and the house was now without power and there was only so much more they could do in the cold and the dark. And so he considered going back to sleep, but once more he saw in his mind the fear in the eyes of his cousin Jutta. The oblivious, happy smile on her son. His uncle's irresponsible complacency in the face of the Bolsheviks.
But mostly he saw Jutta's eyes.
He knew his father was right: Karl and his family had to evacuate, and they had to leave now. If Karl refused, then at the very least he should allow his daughter, his daughter-in-law, and his grandson to join the exodus working its way west. And so Helmut rose and dressed as quickly as he could by the light of a candle, climbing into his new winter uniform and his snow boots, and wrapping his wide belt around him with its weighty, holstered Luger. Then he scribbled a short note for his parents. He didn't believe the roads would be crowded at this hour of the night--it couldn't possibly be as bad as it was yesterday morning--and so he guessed he would be at his uncle's by sunrise. And either he would convince his uncle to gather his family and join him, or he would simply take the two women and the boy.
He grabbed an apple as he passed through the kitchen and found himself glowering at the door to the maid's room. He wasn't sure what he thought of his parents' decision to bring the Scot with them when they went west. He liked the idea of another man on the trek--especially a man as large and physically intimidating as Callum. But, in truth, how helpful would this particular fellow be? Half the time he'd probably be hidden beneath bags of grain and apples and sugar. And when he wasn't? He was a soldier who'd never even fired his gun at the enemy before surrendering. Besides, the last thing his family should do was encourage whatever inappropriate feelings already existed between the prisoner and his twin sister. His parents already gave the man far too many liberties and extended to him far too many kindnesses.
When he reached the barn, he saw there was just enough petrol in the BMW to reach his uncle's estate; he would refill the tank there to get home. His family wouldn't approve of this excursion, but if he brought Mutti's brother and the rest of the clan back, he would be a hero. And right now the Reich needed heroes. It needed them desperately. He had yet to see any fighting--he'd only finished his training last week--and a part of him longed for the respect that his older brother received when he was on leave. To accomplish the things his brother had on the battlefield. To be taken seriously as a soldier.
He didn't expect he would actually see any Russians, and that gave him confidence; at the same time, it diminished in his opinion the scope of the task before him. How heroic was he really if the most difficult parts of his endeavor were battling a river of refugees moving in the opposite direction, and then cajoling his fat, stubborn uncle to come with him?
Then, however, he remembered the shells that were already falling on his uncle's estate, and he stood a little straighter. Yes, the Reich needed heroes, even if they were only eighteen and their mission was to rescue their families.
uri drove the two women and the three children as far as the Vistula, and then he gave them the Russian jeep. They'd spoken little as they had driven through the night, partly because the women were so shaken and partly because the children actually slept in the back of the vehicle. But he learned the women were sisters, and the three children all belonged to the older of the siblings. The younger sister hadn't married yet. They both insisted they had never joined the party, though these days, Uri knew, anyone who bragged about being a party member was either an idiot or a fanatic. Still, he found it revealing how many people were so quick to tell strangers they'd never been Nazis.
"I wasn't in the party either," he informed them, appreciating the irony. "I don't think they would have had a lot of use for a person like me."
The pair implored him to stay with them when they reached the frozen river, to continue to protect them as they went west. But he told them that wasn't possible. He said that he needed to return to his unit. The truth was, of course, that he didn't have a unit, and among the critical lessons he had learned in his different guises in the Wehrmacht was that no one was going to question him so long as he was near the front. It was only when he was in the theoretic safety of the rear that he was in danger of being found out or-- and this would have been a bizarre turn of events--shot as a deserter. Yes, he would get west: He had to. But he would have to move judiciously.
In the headlights from another vehicle parked now along the bank of the river, he saw a couple of green Volkssturm teens and a captain with one arm attempting to manage the horde trying to cross this stretch of ice. He climbed from the jeep and started toward them. As he walked a little closer, he recognized that the fellow was, much to his surprise, Captain Hanke--his commanding officer as recently as October. Then the man had gone home to Dortmund on leave and there, Uri had heard, been wounded in an air raid. Apparently he had lost an arm.
Uri had liked Hanke, and Hanke had seemed to like him. The Hanke men had been soldiers for generations--long before there had been a Nazi regime and a world war to compel them into the service.
Already Uri saw that an old couple with a wheelbarrow were descending upon the Russian jeep, begging to put their bags of clothing in the back with the children. Begging to somehow squeeze onto the vehicle themselves. One of the young women looked back at Uri, pleading with him with her eyes to try to solve this problem, too. Rescue them as he had at the castle. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. There wasn't anything he could do. There wasn't anything anyone could do. There really wasn't room for the old couple and the meager remnants of their lives, but you really couldn't leave them behind either. Still, this man was persistent and loud, and he beseeched them tha
t if nothing else the family had to find room in the vehicle for his wife. They had to. He said she had a bad heart and she desperately needed to sit. And so, finally, Uri strolled back to them, rested his hand on the warm hood of the jeep, and suggested to the woman in the front passenger seat that she climb into the back and allow the old lady into the vehicle. He reminded her that this was where she had been when he had been driving.
Then he turned away and called out to Captain Hanke, jogging over to the man. Suddenly he had to be away from these refugees. From all refugees. From this whole whining and scared and despairingly sad parade. The officer recognized him instantly, and Uri was pleased. Hanke even had a small smile for him.
"You need some help here?" he asked the captain. "It looks like it's going to get ugly."
"Oh, it's actually been very civilized so far," he told Uri. "It won't get ugly till later."
"When the sun comes up and the real crowds arrive?"
He craned his neck and looked to the south. "When the engineers get here. Then we're going to blow up this ice bridge to slow the Russians. That's when things will get nasty--and that's when I will indeed need your help."