Beehive (Of Shadows & Secrets #4)

4. Heinrich

4

Heinrich

I tried to relax, but even with the windows closed, the clatter of rifles and pounding of artillery kept my heart racing as though I was still running across rooftops.

“What are they shelling?” I wondered.

Voivodeship was barely a stain on the map. There shouldn’t be troops—or artillery— here. There was nothing worth bombarding.

Apparently, no one had explained that to Uncle Joe.

They fired round after round as though determined to shatter the thickest of city walls.

Each explosion made me wince—not from any sympathy for the locals, who were mostly dead already, but for fear that Soviet guns might point in my direction.

Then the building shook, and plaster fell from the ceiling.

I had to move.

Shoving the camera inside my coat pocket, I grabbed a rifle we’d left in the apartment and stepped out the door.

Another explosion nearly knocked me off my feet.

“Jesus!” I shouted, quickly checking to see if anyone was around to hear my sudden outburst.

I ran down the hallway, took the stairs in twos and threes, then hesitated at the door that led to the alley between the building and its neighbor. Where the hell was I going? The Russians were everywhere and shooting at anything that moved.

A door creaked as I cracked it open and peered outside.

Five Soviets walked alongside a tank as it rolled past. Their heads moved on a lazy swivel, half searching, half exploring. None looked my way.

Once the team passed, I ducked down the alley, crossed the street, then hid in the alley opposite. Pregnant clouds obscured the sun, a foreboding mask that told of another storm to come.

“Bastards brought the Russian winter with them,” I grumbled.

A pair of rifles fired down the street I’d just crossed. I ducked behind a garbage bin, not daring to look to see who might pass. Polish resistance or Russian, it didn’t matter. Either would want a lone Nazi dead.

Where the fuck could I go?

Where would the Pols and Soviets look last?

“The synagogue.” Of course .

There were few enough Jews left in the town. My unit had shipped most to either labor for the Reich or to extermination camps, but the Russians wouldn’t know that yet. They would see the house of worship as a landmark, a place of safety for their newly freed people.

There weren’t many buildings still standing in the town, fewer since the tank rolled in. The troops would seek the last of our units, those left to report on enemy advancement. They would search stores and farmhouses, homes and shops. They would never expect Nazis to hole up in a Jewish temple.

Artillery blasted something down the street, shaking the building on which I leaned, fraying the last of my nerves.

Abandoning my hiding place, I crept down the alley, crossed another street, slipped past yet another Soviet team, and ran along the storefronts. When the street ended, I stood on one end of a cobbled plaza, another frozen fountain holding court at its center. Gilded doors adorned with the Star of David etched deeply in their wood caught my eye.

My heart lurched.

Sudden relief warred with anger and guilt. No Nazi should look upon that star and crave its embrace. We detested the thing and all it represented.

And yet, in that moment, it did not represent a god or a people. It held no beliefs or tenets of faith. It held only safety from bullets and shells—and that was enough.

Sucking in a deep, frigid breath, I bolted across the plaza and slammed into the doors, throwing one wide as my shoulder struck, then quickly banging it shut behind me.

My back pressed against wood. My chest heaved.

I’d made too much noise.

They had to have heard me.

My eyes darted about, wondering at the pews and their orderly rows, an odd contradiction to the disarray of the outside world.

“How has this place survived?” I thought aloud. “We should have burned it to the ground already.”

There was no time for questions or recriminations.

I raised my rifle and scanned the chamber.

Nothing stirred.

One step. Then another.

Before I knew it, I’d spanned the building’s length to stand at the front of the hall. An elegant yet simple banister carved with vines and leaves parted for a set of four stairs that led to the upper level. Against the wall, climbing nearly to the twenty-foot roof, rose a beautifully formed arch supported by double pillars on either side. It bore etchings of stone tablets. At the crown, another Star of David shimmered, its golden inlay catching on slivers of light that streamed through dingy windows. Intricate needlepoint covered ancient chairs whose backs rose far above anyone who might sit in them, and crimson curtains were held back by golden cords with neat tassels.

The whole thing reminded me of a playhouse.

My fingers trailed along the vines of the handrail.

None of the symbols or embroidery held meaning for me. I felt no stirring of my spirit.

Jews were the enemy of the Reich. They were impure.

The Führer said it, so it was true.

What was it about their beliefs that gave them such strength, such will to survive in the face of the overwhelming might of the German state? Surely, they knew we could not allow their poison to spread.

I should have turned, fled from the place, ignored its trappings and gilding, shunned its tapestries and welcoming embrace. Why did I linger? What held me there?

I was curious. It was that simple.

One step became two, then four.

Before I could think, I stood with my back to the altar, staring at the needlepoint that hung from the inner arch of the wooden backdrop. Another pair of stone tablets stared back, these with squiggles I was sure meant something to others but were lost on me. A pair of laurel leaves reminiscent of those one might find in an offering of peace floated across the sheer fabric below the tablets.

I ran a finger over the thread. The craftmanship was stunning and appeared many decades old, possibly older.

The veil fluttered at a sharp breeze from a nearby window whose panes had been shot out. It was quick, only shifting slightly, but was enough for me to glimpse something curious. I reached up and pushed the fabric aside.

Sitting atop a single pillar was a work of art unlike anything I had ever seen.

About a foot tall, the statue was carved from rich, dark wood and depicted an old man—a rabbi, no doubt—sitting solemnly with an open book in his lap. His face was etched with intricate detail, deep emotions that wafted from the wood like tendrils of the man’s age and experience. A long beard, deep-set eyes that seemed lost in contemplation, and furrowed brows gave him a look of immense wisdom and gravity. The man’s heavy cloak draped over his shoulders was edged with delicate, ancient symbols, carved with meticulous care. Even the folds had been rendered with such lifelike precision they might shift in a breeze.

A brass plate affixed to the top of the pedestal bore illegible characters. Below, in neat Polish script, it read, “The Keeper of Wisdom.”

When I reached out to grip the statue, I was surprised to find it was not bolted to the pillar and, while heavier than I expected, lifted easily. Turning it in my hands, the piece appeared carved out of a single piece of wood. There were no seams or breaks, making it even more remarkable as a work of art. It felt strange, almost unnerving—not just the wood, but its sense of history, of something sacred.

“Ridiculous,” I chided myself, shaking off the odd sensation.

There was nothing holy or sacred about Jews or their trinkets.

The statue only held value inasmuch as it would line my pockets once sold.

A boom outside snapped my head up.

The Soviets had made it past the center of town and were shelling who-knew-what outside. Whether they saw enemies around every corner or were shelling out of sheer boredom, I couldn’t guess. There was no resistance left in the town; but, based on how they had dealt with the locals in the square, I doubted they would flinch at shooting up a Jewish house of worship if they thought a Nazi hid inside.

It was time to move.

It took nearly an hour to travel the quarter mile beyond the western edge of the town where an abandoned farmhouse served as our final base of operations in the region. I stopped on the wooden porch before entering and beat the snow off my shoulders and arms, then stomped it off my boots. Midway through my escape, angry skies had opened. The land—and I—were now cloaked in wintry wetness. I shivered in the deepest parts of my soul, and was desperate for something—anything—hot to drink.

The door creaking open was the only sound that greeted me.

A week earlier, when our men fled the field, our leaders had left three teams of six men tasked with monitoring radio transmissions and relaying troop movements. We were to fall back at the first sign of trouble, repeating the process until the enemy drove us all the way back to Berlin. We were, in essence, reverse scouts left to monitor the progress of the Soviet advance.

I expected sixteen curious gazes to greet me when I entered the house.

Only silence and emptiness stared back.

Our radios were gone. Rifles, previously lined up against one wall for easy access, were now missing. A smattering of shattered transistors and clipped wires lay strewn about, telling a tale of a rapid retreat.

They’d left me behind.

Part of me wanted to be angry, but the logical half of my brain knew they’d made the smart call. There was no way to know if Konrad and I had survived first contact with the enemy. Most didn’t.

Rifles and artillery fired at random intervals in the distance.

When the Soviets first entered the town, while we lay only a hundred yards from their men and weapons, it made sense to conclude some of those bullets might find their mark. Salvaging our equipment and mission was more important than any one man—or any two, in our case.

In truth, I wasn’t bothered by the missing rifles, but the empty space in the kitchen where large cans of coffee normally sat brought a flare to my chest. It was bitterly cold. I’d just escaped with my life. The thought of cradling a hot mug had kept me focused in my flight to safety.

Alas, my daydream of caffeine and warmth drifted as snow on the breeze.

I sighed.

“Time for a plan.”

I searched the kitchen, finding cabinets and drawers picked clean. Only a few useless cooking instruments remained. The pantry likewise stood empty. A glint from a skinny three-legged table that stood by the door caught my eye.

Keys.

Stepping across the room, I grabbed the keys and looked out the back window. Our men had left an old truck. It looked like some relic from another time and place; still, hope bloomed in my chest. On foot, I could hide and skulk, try to evade the enemy as I made my way west. Odds were decent I could survive, but the trek would be miserable and cold. Winter might do me in before the Russians had the chance to put a bullet in my back.

With a truck, however, I had options.

With a truck, I could outpace the Soviets and make my way . . . make my way where?

“Fall back and search for the teams or head back home?”

God, the thought of Berlin made my heart ache. It didn’t ache for the snapping crimson banners heralding the Reich’s greatness or the majesty of German artisans and builders, though memories of those things lightened my spirit. No, it ached for the familiarity—and the ever-fading mirage of the safety of home.

It had been two years since I’d seen my house on the edge of Berlin, its wooden walls surrounded by rolling fields of gold and green.

Two years since I smelled bread baking in the shop three doors down from where my father sold books.

Two years since I raised a stein in the pub on the corner of the closest square.

It felt much longer since I tasted a properly spiced sausage or tangy sauerkraut.

My stomach growled at that thought.

A chuckle wrestled against sudden longing.

“Berlin it is,” I said, nodding to myself, as though I’d just settled some matter of national importance. “It is time to go home.”