Forever Fleeting Read online

  Forever Fleeting

  Forever Fleeting

  Bret Kissinger

  This is a work of fiction. With the exception of historical figures, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Bret Kissinger

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  ISBN-13: 9781728792033

  Book Cover Design by 8 Little Pages.

  Edited by PaperTrue

  This book is dedicated to the millions of casualties of the most destructive event in human history—a true number that will never be known. They were soldiers and civilians, men and women, young and old, gay and straight, black and white—they were human beings. Lives were lost, souls were torn, cities destroyed, and the world, forever changed.

  Special Thanks

  To my family, for everything.

  To Brandi, for allowing me to steal enough of your confidence to publish this book.

  To Dayna, for allowing me to bounce around wording in sentences an annoying number of times.

  SS Rank Equivalents

  SS Rank

  Western Equivalent

  Reichsführer

  General of the Army

  Oberst-Gruppenführer

  General

  Obergruppenführer

  Lieutenant General

  Gruppenführer

  Major General

  Brigadeführer

  Brigadier General

  Oberführer

  N/A

  Standartenführer

  Colonel

  Sturmbannführer

  Major

  Hauptsturmführer

  Captain

  Obersturmführer

  First Lieutenant

  Untersturmführer

  Second Lieutenant

  Sturmscharführer

  Master Sergeant

  Hauptscharführer

  First Sergeant

  Oberscharführer

  Staff Sergeant

  Scharführer

  Sergeant

  Unterscharführer

  Corporal

  Rottenführer

  Lance Corporal

  Schütze

  Private

  Table of Contents

  Chapter List

  First Glance

  Ich Bin Ein Berliner

  Dance of Lights

  Building the Reich

  Italy in Berlin

  Lena Hauser

  The Night of Broken Glass

  Falling

  Secret Wedding

  Conscripted

  Round-Up

  Fall of France

  Lost & Found

  When Your Number Is Up

  Arbeit Macht Freit

  Paris

  Kanada

  The Battle of Stalingrad

  Fleeing

  Unexpected Friend

  Back into the Fray

  Josephine Moreau

  Radley Durand

  Red Army Victory

  The Offer

  The Decision

  Prisoner of War

  D-Day

  New Deal

  Land of Liberty

  V-E Day in the Red Square

  New York

  Freedom

  Days Gone By

  Russell Kelly

  The Blue Rose

  Final Dance

  First Glance

  Even at a young age, Wilhelm knew there were a handful of moments that shaped—that defined—a person’s life. But at that point in his life, he had only one. Things had finally turned around. Wilhelm could feel the resurgence in Germany. Unemployment dropped, food was plenty, and nationalism soared. It had begun five years earlier in 1933 when the Führer ascended to power and raised Germany from the ashes of the Great War. But there was no telling that to Wilhelm’s father, Petyr—they still rationed their rations. He would never forget the hardships the end of the Great War had brought or how quickly things could descend back to that level.

  Wilhelm had just turned eighteen and, though he hadn’t told his father, he was planning to leave their small hometown of Schönfeld behind and move to Berlin with his best friend, Erich Brinkerhoff. Wilhelm was a confident young man with an inviting smile. He knew life had much to offer him and none of it could be found in the “Rote Blumen”—“Red Flowers,” the flower shop his father had started with Wilhelm’s mother. It seemed to be the only thing that brought his father any peace or comfort.

  Petyr was a stern man and only spoke when he had a tirade of swear words to deliver. At six feet four, he was a few inches taller than Wilhelm and had giant hands that were somehow gentle enough to arrange bouquets.

  He was a veteran of the Great War. He was also a victim. His hands shook, only staying still when he was working with “weeds,” as Wilhelm called them. Wilhelm had absolutely no interest in flowers and could not believe the amount of money people were willing to pay for them. It was also hard to enjoy something that was so minutely scrutinized. His father was obsessed with creating the perfect bouquets and was prone to yelling when one of them was deemed unsatisfactory.

  Unfortunately, Wilhelm had a tell-tale sign for when he was bored—running his hand through his wavy black hair. His father hated that. Sometimes, he did it unintentionally, but at other times, he knew exactly what he was doing. And if a verbal warning went unheeded, his father would slam his fist on the table. Wilhelm knew to stop. Otherwise, his face ran the risk of becoming the next “table” that bore his anger. He would then escape into his imagination and the places he’d rather be. That angered his father even more, but it kept his mind from curling its legs up and dying.

  Schönfeld, south of Berlin, was a hushed city, and inside the “Rote Blumen,” it was dead silent. It was a city with a large collection of homes and businesses, surrounded by fields, forests, and farmlands. Wilhelm had always imagined the city to be surrounded by living fences—there was nowhere to go. His father did not allow him to play the radio, and each afternoon after-school working at the shop felt like an eternity. He loathed it. But even if he lacked passion, he still deemed his work satisfactory. But he and his father had different definitions of the word. Wilhelm did everything he could to prevent his father from critiquing (criticizing) his work.

  But his father had shown him how to arrange bouquets and dry flowers. His father had been somewhat of a mad scientist of flowers, often using dyes and pigments to create artificial colors.

  He never understood how his father could be so patient with flowers yet so short with him. For most parents, children are the flower, not the weed.

  “Have you completed your chores?” Petyr would ask.

  “Yes, Father,” Wilhelm would reply.

  “Lock up when you are done,” Petyr would instruct.

  Petyr would then close the door behind him before Wilhelm could even say goodbye. And sometimes, these were the only words the two would share all night.

  Even in the mild spring weather, the house was cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Wilhelm had lost his mother to fever when he was nine years old, and his once hypothermic father had frozen into ice. Wilhelm was an only child, but he had vague memories of his mother crying over the loss of a baby. He had found out that she had had three miscarriages from the letters and sympathy cards he discovered in her dresser and, judging by the looks his father gave him, Wilhelm assumed that his father wished there had been four.

  It was April, and the weather would soon turn pleasant. Pleasant weather meant a busy season at the “
Rote Blumen.” But Wilhelm would only give his father until the end of August before he would leave for Berlin. He would have to sacrifice both Saturdays and Sundays and after-school hours during the week to help his father out.

  On one such Saturday, Wilhelm finished ringing up an elderly lady who had bought yet another dozen daffodils. She had made it a weekly habit, and Wilhelm felt inclined to remind her to water her flowers. But it was also good business, and his father would surely smack his knuckles with a ruler for doing such a thing. But Wilhelm knew there was no right answer. If he told her to start watering her flowers more, his father would chew his ear off for losing a weekly customer. However, if he said nothing at all, his father would be ashamed at how ungentlemanly he was.

  The elderly woman smiled and walked toward the door at a tortoise pace. Nearly a minute later, the entrance bell rang, telling Wilhelm she had found the exit. He began wiping down the counter while reading his favorite comic book underneath the glass when the bell atop the entrance door rang once again.

  “Good afternoon,” Wilhelm said, nodding politely.

  But he choked on his spit when he saw the young woman who had just entered the shop. He had never seen anything or anyone so beautiful as her in the shop, in the city or in the world. He may not have seen much of the world, but he still felt this declaration would hold true even if he had explored every last inch of it. She had the most striking blue eyes he had ever seen. The color was far more vibrant than any flower in the shop.

  Even with the space between them, the attraction was magnetic, and he could not look away. Her nearly white blonde hair fell just short of her shoulders and radiated a feeling of summer. She wore a blue ribbon in it and was dressed in a gray flannel suit like the woman beside her. Wilhelm had not noticed her at first. She had the same eyes as the younger woman, only her hair was almost black. He could only guess it was the young woman’s mother.

  Wilhelm did not break his stare, even though he knew he should. But he could not. The young girl looked at him nervously. He was unaware that his innocent stare was making her uncomfortable. But to him, time had frozen. Those blue eyes had cast a spell on him. The older woman looked around the shop, keeping her white glove-covered hands away from anything that could stain them.

  Wilhelm finally looked away, but only for a moment. The comic book that had captivated him before had transformed into a bouquet manual. The young girl twirled a dyed blue rose in her hand. His stare was powerful and obvious. She turned, her electric blue eyes meeting his warm brown ones. Her stare was like out of the pages of his superhero comic book. It made his knees weak. His stomach turned into a sea, churning nervous energy, and his smile drooped. Yet, the stare gave him strength and blind arrogance. He felt if he were to jump off the roof now, he would fly. He wanted to say something—anything. But he could only smile. She smiled back nervously.

  “Come along, Hannah,” the older woman called out.

  Hannah. He now had a name for the beautiful young woman. Hannah set the blue rose back and took one final glance at Wilhelm before leaving the store. There were a handful of moments that shaped—that defined—a person’s life, and such a moment had just walked into his father’s shop—a moment named Hannah. Wilhelm knew nothing about her, but he wanted to know everything. But a temporary state of paralysis had taken hold of him. After staring at the door for nearly a minute, he snapped out of his comatose state, hopped over the cash register, and sprinted out of the shop. His heart raced and threatened to burst out of his chest. The nervous energy in his stomach rose to his throat. Dozens of cars zipped past him on the street, and even more pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. Even the sun was cruel in masking the enchanting young woman’s location. Wilhelm had to cover his eyes from its blinding glow. He thought of dashing across the street, taking his chances of being hit, in the hope of finding her. But Hannah was gone.

  He stepped back inside the “Rote Blumen” and grabbed the blue rose Hannah had held in her hand. At that moment, an idea struck him. He took the rose and began the long process of drying it. Drying flowers meant doing just what the title implied. It gave the flower a longer life, and if stored properly, it could last for eternity. He would carry the rose on his person, and if he ever saw Hannah again, he would give her the exact rose she had twirled in her fingers.

  The next three months, he thought of her less and less, but her face would flash in his mind every night before bed. He made up conversations in his head of what he would say to her if he ever did see her again. Each conversation ranged from the bold declaration of his love for her to a simple question of how her day had been. He put many hours into the shop during the summer, and only on occasions was he able to meet with Erich.

  The August heat dwindled, and September soon approached. Wilhelm had to tell his father he was leaving. He had planned on telling him in July, but the thought of his father’s reaction had made him put it off till then. But he could wait no longer.

  On the last Friday in August, while eating yet another silent meal, Wilhelm decided to tell his father. While his father read the newspaper—“Völksicher Beobachter” (National Observer)—Wilhelm played with the peas and carrots on his plate with his fork—the universal sign of having something on your mind. But Wilhelm could have changed skin colors and his father wouldn’t have noticed. It was up to him to start the conversation.

  “I am moving to Berlin,” he blurted out.

  His father looked up from his newspaper and removed his glasses.

  “And what will you do there?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. But there is much work,” Wilhelm said.

  Wilhelm waited for the outburst. The last eighteen years of swearing and disappointment had led to this one moment. He had often wondered if his father’s head would burst into flames if he unleashed his full anger. But Petyr did not yell. He simply slid his hand over Wilhelm’s and squeezed it.

  When the time had finally come to leave, Wilhelm did not expect to feel as sad as he did while packing his suitcase. It seemed silly, but even though his mother was dead, her spirit was in that house. And the moment he would leave, her spirit would too. Some fathers and sons only grew close when the son turned into a man. Wilhelm vowed to return when he was older in the hope his relationship with his father would take the same course. He had taken all that his suitcase could fit and had the dried blue rose neatly folded in a white handkerchief in his pocket. Wilhelm was on his way to Berlin.

  Ich Bin Ein Berliner

  The Brandenburg Gate with its six rectangular columns and four horse-drawn carriage, called the quadriga, atop the gate was one of the most recognizable sights in Berlin. In between each of the columns were six flags with a red background and a white disk enveloping a black swastika—the flag of the Nazi empire. Wilhelm smiled as the gates welcomed him to his new life—a life of endless possibilities and void of trimming flowers.

  He carried a faded gray duffel bag and a pale blue suitcase and gingerly held a letter from Erich with his fingertips. His arm was tired after repeatedly lifting the suitcase and letter to read the address. Erich had moved to the city three weeks earlier and had found a place at a reasonable rent. Although the sun faded behind the gate, many hours would pass before Wilhelm went to bed, as a beer or two needed to be shared with Erich upon his arrival.

  Wilhelm regretted not staying on the bus for a few more blocks. He traded the suitcase from hand to hand while the duffel bag, draped around his neck, nearly choked him. When he finally approached the tan-colored apartment building he was to live in, it certainly didn’t sparkle with opulence, but somewhere up on the fourth floor was his new home. Wilhelm shouted Erich’s name, stepped back, nearly onto the road, and gazed up toward the fourth floor. Seconds later, Erich’s head popped out of the window and flashed a smile.

  “Wilhelm!” he yelled, hitting his head on the window.

  Erich disappeared back into the room, and Wilhelm waited for Erich to descend the four flights of steps. The door opened, a
nd Erich rushed out, spreading his arms and drawing Wilhelm into a hug.

  “Welcome to your new home!” Erich said.

  His dark oak-colored hair was slightly longer than when Wilhelm had last seen him.

  Wilhelm lugged his suitcase up the stairs, and it bounced with each step. Though the apartment was modest, Wilhelm could not help but smile. It had a sofa in the living room, a small kitchen in the left-hand corner, one bathroom, and two bedrooms. It appeared that Erich had taken the liberty of taking the larger bedroom.

  “It’s perfect,” Wilhelm said with a beaming smile.

  “We’ll unpack later. Time for a beer,” Erich said, slapping Wilhelm on the back.