Robert Conroy - Red Inferno

She’d considered herself lucky until the food began to run out. She’d joined others in picking through garbage and in the ruins of bombed-out buildings looking for something to put in her stomach. She’d eaten things that were half-rotten and sometimes defied identification. But first, she knew her responsibility was to feed Pauli. He got the best parts of what she scrounged.

To the best of her knowledge, he was the only living relative that she had in Germany. She’d seen women of all ages, from the very young to the very old, prostituting themselves for food. There were hoarders in Berlin who took advantage of them and there were some soldiers who always seemed to have rations to trade. She thought she would rather die than stoop to that. A quiet voice told her that she might rather do anything than die.

Von Schumann had saved her and she felt she was on the way to recovery. When he said he’d seen American tanks approaching them, everyone had been elated. But the Russians and the Americans had fought and the Yanks had been driven off. All her hopes had been dashed. The barbarians, the Russians, had defeated the Americans. She’d watched with growing dismay as long columns of American soldiers made their way into Potsdam. Von Schumann said that the Americans had been defeated but not destroyed. He’d explained that they had brought their wounded and their equipment, withdrawing into Potsdam in what he referred to as “good order.”

She understood when she saw them immediately begin to dig in. They were calm and determined, and she continued to watch as the day wore on. Her emotions were like a roller coaster. The Americans were real soldiers, not the old men and boys the German army was reduced to conscripting. Perhaps there was some hope.

“A penny for your thoughts,” von Schumann said as he sat down beside her.

She smiled. “I think they’re worth more than that. How are your conversations with the American general going?”

“Miller will feed us what he can and protect us as well as he is able. We will work for our keep. You might be of use doing some translating for them.”

“Good. It will help pass the time.” Pauli had found a couple of young friends and was playing in a basement.

Von Schumann smiled knowingly. “Would it be better than watching well-muscled young men doing heavy labor? You’re a year or two older than my daughter, but you and she are so very similar.”

Lis actually giggled and missed the look of sadness on his face. She’d been staring at one heavily muscled young man in a T-shirt who had a shock of short-cut red hair. He was clearly in charge of a group and she thought he must be a sergeant. He was about fifty yards away and she could hear laughter. Were the Americans so confident they could laugh in the middle of a war that had turned bad for them?

Suddenly, a screeching sound filled the air. “Get down!” yelled von Schumann. “Everyone down!”

Lis hurled herself to the ground and all around others did as well. A second later, explosions ripped through the area, shocking and deafening her. They seemed to go on forever. They didn’t, of course. In a moment, they were over.

Lis stared at von Schumann. “What in God’s name was that?”

“It’s a multiple-rocket launcher called a Katyusha by the Soviets and a Stalin Organ by us. I heard it many, many times when I had two legs and was fighting them.”

She picked herself up, wondering when the rocket assault would begin again. Von Schumann answered her unspoken question. “Unless they have a lot of them, they take a while to reload. Also, they aren’t very accurate. I don’t think this volley caused many casualties. However, they do make a horrible noise and terrify inexperienced soldiers.”

“And civilians,” she said.

With that, she looked to where the red-haired soldier had been working. It didn’t look like any of the Yanks in the area had been hit, and a couple were coming out of their foxholes and trenches. They were looking around and laughing nervously. There. She saw him and was relieved. She laughed at herself for worrying about someone she didn’t even know.

She smiled to herself. “I think I should go and see how Pauli is doing.”

• • •

After nearly two solid days of sleepless work, Steven Burke was finally allowed time to go back to his apartment and get some rest. There was real concern on the part of the higher-ups that some of the staff were being worked to exhaustion. However, instead of returning to his home, he called Natalie and she told him to come right over to her place, that she wanted to sit down and talk with him. When she said that, he wasn’t so tired anymore.

Natalie lived in an extremely large apartment in a Victorian-style building. Because of Burke’s position in the Pentagon, he was not really affected by gas rationing and wasn’t concerned about the extra driving, although his head was bobbing drowsily by the time he arrived.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. “You look awful,” she said with a smile that softened it. “Have you slept in that uniform?”

“If I did, I wasn’t aware of it. I’m not certain I’ve slept at all in a long time.” He checked his watch and suddenly realized it was eight in the evening and not in the morning. He had lost that much track of time.

Natalie made them some strong, hot tea, and as he sipped the scalding brew he could feel a minimal amount of life returning to him.

“Can you talk about what you’ve been up to?” she asked. Each knew the other was cleared for sensitive information. “I’m certain you’ve been trying to figure out what the Russians will do next.”

Burke savored the tea, enjoying its warmth. “That is precisely what we talked about, but with no definitive conclusions. Some think the crisis is over, although it will take a lot of work to resolve it, while others think it is just beginning. I fall into that latter group. I don’t think it’s over by a long shot. I think there’s the strong possibility that a lot more blood will be spilled before we’re done.”

Natalie nodded, shaking her long dark hair. “I agree with you. God knows where we will be a year from now. Perhaps this will result in the downfall of the Communists. I hate them,” she concluded with a sudden vehemence that surprised Steve. “Do you know why?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “They killed your father and others in your family and took your property.”

“But do you know how they died? Of course not. But I will remember it forever. My father’s name was Nikolai Siminov. I changed mine to Holt when my mother remarried and my new father-a wonderful, loving man who cared for us until he died a couple of years ago-adopted me. One day, a couple of years after the Revolution, the Bolshevik secret police came for innocent Nikolai Siminov, and dragged him outside screaming. They kicked and punched him while my mother and I watched through a window. When that bored them, they threw him in a car and came back in and raped my mother while I hid in a closet listening to it all. Then, days later and just when we thought we’d never see him again, they dumped him on the doorstep of the house we were sharing with a couple of dozen others like ourselves.”

Natalie paused, and Steve saw it was difficult for her. Her hands were shaking and her eyes were tearing up. “You don’t have to do this to yourself,” he said gently. He reached over and took her hand.

She ignored him. “My mother dragged him inside. No one else would help her and I was too small. He was a ruined man and I barely recognized him. All the bones in his face were broken. His teeth had been pulled out and there were burns and cuts all over his body. His fingernails had been ripped out and a couple of his fingers were infected stumps. Years later, my mother told me they had used red-hot pliers on his testicles. He was alive but almost totally mad with pain and fear. My mother treated him for a couple more weeks until the secret police, what is now the NKVD, came again. It seems he was released because of a bureaucratic mistake. They took him outside the building and shot him in the back of the head.” She shook slightly. “They left him there.”