Page 12 of Beehive

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.”

5

Heinrich

Berlin, September 1944 (six months later)

Coming home had felt right.

I doubted I would ever make another mistake as monumental as that decision.

The whole of Germany was under assault.

Berlin was the epicenter of an impending cataclysm.

Of course, our forces had driven others to their knees, bombing capitals and razing villages. Those who resisted our liberation deserved whatever they received, but now the world had turned its ire on the Fatherland, and not even the wisdom and power of the Führer could withstand their combined might.

Berlin was a city gasping for its last breath.

Once vibrant and proud, my birthplace had transformed into a shell of desperation and quiet terror. Everywhere, the city bore the deep scars of war. The air was filled with the scent of charred buildings and cold stone—a mixture of smoke and crumbling mortar.

In the handful of neighborhoods that remained standing, civilians clung to the last remnants of their old lives.

Food was scarce.

Fuel for heating dwindled.

Even the black market had become too risky for most.

Bread, meat, and vegetables had long ago become luxuries. People rationed whatever scraps they had, queuing in silence, turning lines into silent funerals.

Hope, once as brilliant as the noonday sun, was more scarce than any commodity or supply.

Each day, Berliners awoke to fresh sounds of destruction.

Bombing raids were as pervasive as the falling rain—on the few days we saw rain in September. Each detonation that rattled the city’s bones loosened the last bits of confidence and resilience from our people.

Those with cellars cowered beneath the ground, sheltering in claustrophobic quarters. Whispers about the approaching Russians, stories of unimaginable horrors passed from neighbor to neighbor in low voices, painted the Red Army with brushstrokes of retribution and annihilation.

Rumors of what the Americans and Brits would do when they crossed our borders from the east carried their own notes of terror.

At night, the city was steeped in darkness.

The Reich’s elders rationed electricity to preserve what little resources remained and guard against the aim of Allied bombardiers.

The quiet held an edge sharper than any bayonet. It filled everyone with apprehension. Neighbors feared betrayal or punishment for showing the slightest weakness or dissent. The propaganda machine still churned, ordering them to be brave, to remain true, to hold on for Germany and for the Führer.

Most Berliners’ loyalties had already faded into exhaustion.

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