A Bitter Rain Read online

  ALSO BY JAMES D. SHIPMAN

  Constantinopolis

  Going Home: A Novel of the Civil War

  It Is Well

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 by James D. Shipman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477819807

  ISBN-10: 1477819800

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  I dedicate A Bitter Rain to all the victims of World War II. As the world again trends toward nationalism and even fascism, may we never forget the consequences of modern dictatorship.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  HISTORICAL INFORMATION

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Königsberg, East Prussia, Nazi Germany

  August 1939

  Greta giggled as her fingers slid down the razor-sharp blade.

  “Careful,” warned her father. “That has a bite to it.”

  She ignored him, brows furrowed, concentrating as she traced designs on the mirrored steel.

  He grasped the hilt and drew the blade swiftly to her hair, plunging his thumb downward and slicing through a yellow lock.

  “Daddy, stop it!” she protested.

  He returned the knife to the nightstand, glancing to see if his wife had noticed. She hadn’t. He tucked the lock in his pocket, his eyes never leaving his daughter.

  “Erik, get that thing away,” ordered Corina, peering up from her ironing in irritation. “Honestly, I don’t know who’s the bigger child.”

  He reached out tenderly and wrapped both hands around Greta’s. She resisted for a moment, laughing again before she let go. His daughter sprang from the bed and out of the room as if the dagger would hunt her, a lace and platinum blur.

  “You indulge her too much,” complained Corina. “She won’t behave herself if you let her do whatever she wants.”

  “Don’t worry, Corina, soon enough you will have all the time there is to correct her bad habits.”

  A cloud blocked the sunshine of their morning. “Did they say how long you’ll be gone?” his wife asked.

  He moved behind her and answered her only with his arms, lifting her in the air to twirl around. She batted at his wrought-iron limbs, but he wouldn’t let go. She jerked her whole body and drew herself back to the floor, her glare flickering molten fire.

  “I have to finish the ironing, Erik!”

  He flinched and released her. She adjusted a scarlet scarf at her neck and smoothed her sweater before resuming her task. She roamed critically over the fabric with her iron. “You didn’t answer.”

  “There’s no way to know. It depends on many things. Have you heard from Karl?”

  “Not a word. It’s likely too late now. I didn’t expect all this so soon, or I would have called him earlier.”

  “There may be time still. Who knows?”

  He tried again to swallow the fear resting leaden in his throat. I’ll think of other things. He stood over her, watching her labor. He admired her skill as she pressed out each wrinkle, drawing the scorching metal along the cloth as she traced a razor edge in the creases. Soon she was finished, and she drew the warm fabric over him. He let her dress him. Silence choked the room.

  He tucked the shirt into his trousers and tightened his belt. Erik wandered to the aged wardrobe standing guard in their bedroom to remove a gray tunic. After he worked his arms into the material, he buttoned the front. He drew himself up, laboring to look the part. Corina materialized behind him, her fingers tugging and smoothing the fabric until she was satisfied. She placed the cap on his head, making fractional adjustments. “There,” she announced at last.

  He examined himself again in the mirror and shook his head. “I look like a fool.”

  “You look like a man.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t want this.”

  “You needed it—we all did.”

  “Maybe we’ll hear from Karl,” he said.

  “We still might, but you have to be prepared for the alternative. He’s very busy.”

  “Too busy for you?”

  “Perhaps even that.”

  Greta reappeared and squealed when she saw her father fully dressed. She flew into his arms still giggling. He twirled her around. She weighed no more than a feather. He held her tightly, closing his eyes for a moment, fighting back the tears.

  “Where will you go?” Corina asked.

  “Wherever they tell me, but to the barracks to start.”

  “Will you be able to come back before your first assignment?” She moved past him, lifting the collapsible ironing board and placing it on a nearby hook. She eyed it for a moment and then straightened the board slightly.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, pausing a little at the thought. “I hope so. It depends on how rapidly we move.”

  Greta was still squirming and laughing, and he tossed her on the bed, willing a smile down at her. She jumped up and demanded that he throw her again. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I have no more time today for games, even for my little princess.”

  “Where you going, Daddy?” she asked, a serious expression crowding her face.

  “You already know the answer,” he said sadly. “Remember what we talked about last night? I must go away—but just for a very little while.” He looked at her with mock sternness. “You must obey your mother. She will not put up with your antics as I have.”

  “Don’t say that,” snapped Corina. “She already sees me as a tyrant.” His wife shooed Greta off the bed and whisked over to smooth out the wrinkles in the fabric.

  Greta ran to him again. She held him tightly with her tiny arms. “I don’t want you to go. Why can’t you stay here with us?” She disengaged and picked up the dagger, dropping down on the bed with the weapon on her lap.

  Absently he took the knife away. He might never see her again. The idea choked him, and he jerked his head back to study the ceiling. He drew a sharp breath before the words stumbled out. “I don’t have a choice. You must be my brave girl while I’m gone.”

  “Don’t worry her so,” said Corina, busying herself with the pillows, turned away from him. She finished and moved close, taking his hands, her gaze
softening. “You must be careful. Promise me?” He drew her near, kissing her. Her smell of starch and soap, and an underlying sweetness, intoxicated him. He relished this moment of closeness. She withdrew, staring out the window.

  He nodded and steadied himself, his mind assembling hasty barricades to the encroaching grief. He glanced again in the mirror, trying to gather his courage, but the reflection mocked him. What did he know about being a soldier? He’d had a sniff of training. He must stay strong. Karl might still intervene. He raised his hand and fingered the lightning-shaped SS on his collar. He was out of time. He had to go.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Königsberg, East Prussia, Nazi Germany

  August 1939

  Erik leaped down from the train to the crowded platform, his gaze a lighthouse sweeping the sea of bodies swirling past him in the twilight. He waded through the human current, ceaselessly scanning the crowd. In the distance he spotted a diminutive white fairy darting in and out among the jostling figures. He quickened his step. There she was—his angel! She saw him, too, and he heard Greta’s musical laughter as she sprang up in his arms. He spun her around. She giggled and her flaxen curls danced.

  “That wasn’t long.” The voice froze him. Erik set Greta gently down.

  Erik faced Corina. She swam under a flowered dress, a white lace scarf cutting into her neck. He smiled and moved methodically toward her, reaching an arm out to cup her waist. He could have wrapped it around her thrice. She’d never regained her weight after the illness, he realized. She pecked his cheek briefly, but he pulled her closer, kissing her firmly on the lips.

  “Erik! Stop now! There’s too many people around us.” She smiled briefly and looked him over. Her forehead furrowed. “Where’s your uniform?”

  “I took it off on the train,” he stammered.

  She frowned. “You shouldn’t have. Be proud of who you are.” She gestured at the mass of bodies. “If you had it on, we wouldn’t be treated like this by the mob.” As if the press of people was too much for her, she glanced around sternly. “Look at these people. This is no place for a reunion. Pick up Greta and let’s go.” She spun abruptly and pressed through the throng.

  Erik lifted Greta, swinging her around as they followed. Her legs flailed wildly as he spun her, nearly toppling an elderly man who scampered out of the way with a grumbling complaint. Erik didn’t care. He was home.

  “Daddy, I knew you would come back soon!”

  “I will always return to you.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “I do.” Should I deceive her like this? No matter. If I don’t return, a broken promise will be a drop in an ocean of grief.

  They arrived home shortly at their town house, crowded among the unending rows along the Yorckstrasse, in the northern portion of the Sackheim District. Erik was greeted with warm embraces by his Mutter und Vater. Anna, Erik’s mother, pinched his cheek and smiled through her cracks and creases before tromping back inside to resume her post in the kitchen. He watched her fondly from the hallway. She stood a gray-haired pillar amid a whipping wind of delicious aromas and clanging dishes.

  Corina rushed Greta up the stairs to change clothes, and Erik’s father motioned him into the narrow sitting area. Mementos huddled on a mantel beneath framed family pictures too small for the dark breadth of paneling. The walnut flooring was immaculately scrubbed but worn and peeling. Peter Mueller eased himself into the folds of a high-backed chair that engulfed him. His frown was buried in a peppered moustache that matched the thatched forest above his eyes. He watched his son for a moment, scrutinizing Erik as if searching for the proper words.

  “So, it didn’t begin.”

  “Not yet at least,” said Erik.

  Peter took a deep breath. “Maybe we have nothing to worry about then.”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt it; they aren’t backing down.”

  “They will. Who are these Poles but a whole nation of Untermenschen? The Führer thinks they’ll give in, and he’s been right about all the rest.”

  Erik chuckled, surprised. “Praising our glorious leader, now are you? That’s not something I thought I’d ever hear from you.”

  Peter crossed his arms, his hand forming a thoughtful crutch beneath his chin. “Perhaps I’ve been wrong about him. I’ve been wrong before.” His face seemed to darken.

  “Now, Vater, let’s not talk about that.”

  “You’re right, no point in stirring up the embers of the past. There’s trouble enough right now.”

  “You were saying? About the Führer?”

  “Maybe he’s right after all. Nobody took him seriously when he came to power, with promises to restore Germany’s place in the world,” Peter said.

  “He’s done that.”

  “He’s achieved military greatness at least,” observed Peter. “At the cost of our social programs, the opposition parties, and the press.”

  “We still have a legislature, and the courts,” said Erik.

  “Hah!” His father laughed, slapping his knee. “And you call yourself a historian. Rome kept their senate right through the empire. That didn’t make it a republic. The forms don’t make the substance.”

  “You might be right, Vater, but here we are.”

  His father grunted in agreement and changed the subject. “Enough of the past. Tell me, honest son, do you think the Poles will fight?”

  Erik hesitated, turning the thought over. “I don’t know. I would have said no, but England and France have steeled their resolve.”

  Peter scowled and took a violent puff on his pipe, coughing and sputtering through the smoke. “That band of robbers,” he stammered. “We’re in this fix in the first place because of them. If they’d treated us decently after the last war, there’d be no Hitler.”

  Erik shifted in his seat. He ached from days of drilling. He wanted to go upstairs and sleep, but his father needed to talk.

  “A lot of good it did them. Only twenty years and Germany is back where it should be. Strange that they sat back and watched us do it. Gott knows why they want to interfere now—when it’s too late. They had a dozen chances to stop us, but they did nothing,” Erik posited.

  “Don’t underestimate them, especially the French. Wild animals in war. They froze us for four years on the western front.”

  “That was then. They’ve no fire now, even if they’d really help the Poles.”

  Peter leaned forward. “You have a little time now. Are you going to meet with Karl again?”

  “This is a day of surprises. First the Führer and now Karl.”

  Peter spat into a garbage bin near his chair. “I don’t like Karl a bit, and I trust him less. Still, if there’s a way he could maneuver a transfer . . .”

  Erik bristled, shocked at his father’s words. “You don’t want me to serve? You were in the army. The whole war.”

  “That’s different. That was a long time ago. We didn’t have a choice. Besides, it’s a miracle I survived.”

  “You’re afraid you’ll lose me?”

  “What father wants his son to die?”

  “I suppose being a coward would be better?” Erik answered defiantly, or was it with fear?

  Peter removed his pipe from his lips. “Not a coward. You’d still be serving, but you’d be on a staff, away from all the blood and death.” He shook his head. “Bah. Just answer me: Are you meeting with him?”

  Erik shrugged. “Corina made an appointment for next week. There’s no guarantee he has anything, you know.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to try.”

  Corina stepped into the room, carrying a porcelain tea set she placed on a table between them, removing a cloth from her pocket to swiftly dust beneath the tray before she set it down. Erik noticed she’d changed clothes.

  “I see you’ve won over a convert,” he said, addressing his wife.

  “What do you mean?” asked Corina, looking up sharply.

  “Your Karl plan now meets with Father’s approval as well.”

/>   She handed him his tea with a stiff gesture, the hot liquid sloshing over the brim to flood the saucer. She frowned, swiping quickly with the cloth until the saucer gleamed again.

  “I’m sure you meant to say our plan, not just mine,” she corrected. “I knew Peter would come around just like you did. What could possibly be wrong with a promotion, and a station right here in Königsberg?” She straightened up, anchoring her fists against her hips as if preparing for a battle.

  “I don’t understand what you want from me,” he said. “You pushed me to join the military. Now a war is coming, and you want me to desert my men?”

  Her cheeks kissed scarlet, and she fixed him with a steely glare. “I didn’t push you into anything. You didn’t have a job. We can’t eat your history degree. After your father lost the store and they moved in here, we were on the verge of starving. I had to do something.”

  He felt hot humiliation bubble up, but he choked back his retort. “Many people have lost their livelihoods, not just Father. This damned depression—”

  “Which is why you joined up. Karl helped us then, and he wants to help you again now. That way you can avoid the fighting.”

  “Fighting indeed,” snorted Peter. “You’re not even in the real army. What is this SS-Verfügungstruppe? The damned party playing at war.”

  “The SS is every bit as capable as the Heer!” snapped Corina.

  “Would you two stop your squabbling? I’m exhausted and I need to think,” Erik said, massaging his temples.

  “Of course, dear, how forgetful of me,” said Corina, her voice tinged with iron.

  “Always the little martyr, aren’t you, Corina?” observed Peter.

  She fixed her father-in-law with a venomous stare, fangs set to strike. “What do you want to say to me?” she hissed.

  “Dinner!” The call from Anna in the kitchen was a clamoring bell that disrupted the moment. Peter and Corina glared at each other, coiled to pounce. Sighing, Erik stepped between them, his expression a pleading prayer. She stared at him for an instant before storming down the hallway.

  “A fine woman you have there,” said Peter.

  “Quiet, Father. You’ve said enough already.”

  A smothering silence engulfed the meal. Even Greta seemed to sense the tension and was quiet. Erik tried to catch Corina’s gaze, but she refused to acknowledge him. He knew he had a long evening ahead. He shook his head. All he had wanted was to get home, to see his family again.