Page 11 of Beehive

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, Idoubted 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 ifKonrad 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.

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