Remembering Dresden (Jack Turner Suspense Series Book 2) (6 page)

But they had come down here for a reason, to find Ernst. If he could be found. Luther’s eyes immediately focused on the bridge, which was still intact. People were still walking across, though in lesser numbers than last night. The Old Town area was still on fire. Thick billows of smoke still rose high into the air, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as before. And the sucking wind was gone. Just a regular wind now, carrying with it the thick smell of smoke and other smells that Luther didn’t like or recognize.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” his mother said. “There are too many horrible things to see, everywhere I look. I feel like I’m going to be sick. And the smoke, I can hardly breathe.”

“We have to do this, Mother,” Luther said. “We have to find Ernst. You said we would do this together. We have to try and find him. If he’s alive, he’s somewhere over there, across the bridge.”

Eva pointed to an area across the river, near a block of burned-out buildings. They were still smoldering, but it appeared the fire there had burned itself out. “We could start looking near those buildings. See the groups of people walking around it? Maybe Ernst is with them. And see over there?” She pointed in a different direction. “Someone brought a wagon full of food. See all those people standing around eating. We could check there, too. C’mon, Mother.” She gently tugged on their mother’s arms. “We’ll just take it slow.”

Luther knew Eva was trying to snap their mother out of the gloom she had fallen into. They needed to get her moving, get her mind off the destruction. He took her other arm and nudged her forward. Soon she was walking in step with them.

“Try not to look at anything too long,” Luther said. “That’s what I do.”

They made their way across the bridge, which was usually wide enough to allow two full lanes of traffic plus ample sidewalks on either side. It was so cluttered with junk and debris left by people fleeing the firestorm that they had to step carefully. As they neared the other side, the stench of the smoke grew more thick and foul. So did the visual horrors. The streets were littered with hundreds of charred bodies, limbs sticking out in strange angles. Workers had already created a pile that was over Luther’s head. Every minute or so, more bodies were added.

He tried to focus on the faces of those doing the work, hoping to recognize his brother. No one even came close. He looked back at his mother. Her eyes were clearly irritated by the smoke, and she had covered her nose and mouth with her shawl.

“Why don’t we walk toward the cathedral?” Eva said. “I see a lot more people over there. Maybe Ernst is working with them.”

So they did.

Once they got there, Luther saw just more of the same, lots of people dragging dead bodies from the rubble. But none of the workers looked young enough to be Hitler Youth. His mother and Eva walked back and forth hoping to find some sign of Ernst. Luther was beginning to feel this was a hopeless task but then he saw a group of young men walking in single file down by the river, carrying pick axes and shovels.

He watched them a few moments. They were too far away to see their faces, but some seemed the right size and height. He turned to tell Eva and saw they had continued walking closer to the bombed out church. “Eva, Mother,” he yelled. “See that group walking down by the river?” He pointed. “I’ll be right back. Ernst might be with them.” He started to run.

“Wait, Luther,” Eva called out. “We need to stay together.”

“I won’t be long,” he yelled. “You stay there. I’ll be right back.”

He ran as fast as he could. When he had cleared half the distance, he began to hear the most dreadful sound. At first, he wasn’t sure. Then, there could be no doubt. He stopped in his tracks. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing and looked up toward the west, toward the sound.

Bombers. Hundreds of them. Coming this way.

Again.

“How could they do this? How could they come here again?” A woman next to Luther yelled. “Haven’t we suffered enough?”

People began to scream and run in different directions, but mostly toward the riverbank. It appeared to be the only area that wasn’t bombed the first two times. The sound of the planes grew louder.

Luther tried to locate his mother and Eva, but there were too many people running between them. He headed back in the direction where he’d last seen them, looking up at the sky as he ran, trying to spot the planes. He collided with a man carrying a small boy and was knocked flat on his back. His head banged hard against the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry,” the man yelled. But he didn’t stop.

Luther sat up rubbing the back of his head. Another crowd of people were running this way, straight for him. He needed to get back to Eva and his mom, but he couldn’t get through all the people. Seeing an abandoned wagon off to his left, he made a dash for it, hoping to hide there until this surge of people passed. The sound of planes filled the sky now. Luther remembered from last night…when they got this loud, bombs started to fall.

“Look,” a man shouted right in front of him. “There they are.” Luther’s eyes followed where he pointed. “Good God, they are Americans. Those are B-17s. Now the Americans are bombing us, too?”

Luther remembered something Ernst had told him, once when they’d talked about the war. He’d said the British commanders were all devils, bombing German cities and towns without mercy, even going after civilians on purpose. The Americans, Ernst said, only bombed military targets, not civilians. At least not on purpose.

Luther stood and looked up. Through the patches of smoke and haze he could clearly see row after row of bombers, stacked high in the sky. Brilliant white vapor trails streamed off their wingtips. But then he saw something else. He could actually see little black dots falling from the planes. That had to be the bombs coming. Others had seen the same thing. Now they were starting to scream even louder.

Coming out from around the wagon, he scanned the area in front of the cathedral, desperate to find Eva and his mom. Enough people had cleared the space between them. He saw them standing a few hundred yards away. They were looking in this general direction, scanning the crowd from one side to the other. But they didn’t see him. He waved his arms frantically and jumped up and down.

He wanted to run to them, but he knew they’d be safer if they came this way. Then they could all take shelter by the river. Suddenly, the first bombs began to explode. They seemed quite a distance away, but the ground began to shake and rumble with each one.

Now the bombs were falling all around.

Luther hit the deck then crawled underneath the wagon. He saw his mom and Eva still in the same place, though now crouching to their knees. They had to get out of there. Why weren’t they running this way? Everyone else was running away from the buildings toward the river. Then he realized…they were staying put
because of him
. They were afraid if they moved away and he came back, he wouldn’t be able to find them.

He crawled out from under the wagon, fixed his gaze on them and had just started running when a huge explosion hit right where they were standing. A brilliant flash of fire and smoke. A second later, a massive shockwave knocked him to the ground.

Again, his head hit the pavement.

This time, it knocked him out cold.

When Luther awoke, he was still lying flat on his back. He didn’t know where he was. The sky above was gray and cloudy, the smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air. He wasn’t on the pavement; he felt the earth beneath him, even some grass under his hands. His head hurt. When he sat up, he was aware something was wrapped around it. It felt like bandages.

He was near the riverbank but far from the river, on the other side of the bridge. The side where he lived. How did he get here? Who had brought him? All around him in neat rows, other people were laying down also. Many looked badly burned. Some were unconscious. Or were they dead?

A man and woman were tending them. The man wore a soiled white coat. Was he a doctor? Luther tried to stand. He could but felt wobbly, like he might pass out if he wasn’t careful. His head started to pound. Slowly, he turned to take in his surroundings.

Everything looked the same. The city, totally destroyed. Not a single building intact. Fire and smoke still rose into the sky in several places. Other buildings smoldered. On the fringes of the burned-out areas, several crews of workers dragged debris and bodies from the buildings, just as before.

Where were Eva and his—

He remembered.

The explosion, the flash. The invisible force smacking into him, knocking him to the ground. The moment just before that surfaced and froze in his mind, like a photograph only in color. His mother and Eva were standing near the rubble of the cathedral, searching the crowd for him. He had started to run toward them.

Then they just…disappeared in the explosion.

“Momma,” he cried. “Eva.” He fell to his knees, then curled up in a ball on the grass and cried some more. They were gone. And so was Ernst. Luther was all alone now. What would he do? Who would take care of him?

He lay there a few minutes, sobbing. Then felt a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Little boy, you okay?”

A man’s voice. Luther looked up into the face of a soldier. Or was it an older man dressed as a soldier? He shook his head no. He was not okay. “I lost my mother and my sister. And my brother, too.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll find them. When did you last see them?”

“I’m not lost. They’re not lost. They’re dead. I saw it happen. The bombs.” He started crying again and buried his hands into his face.

The man patted his shoulder again. “That’s okay. You just cry then. You have every right.”

Luther must have cried himself to sleep. When he opened his eyes, he could tell some time had passed. He saw the old man dressed like a soldier about thirty yards away. He and a younger man were carrying an unconscious woman this way. He guessed this must be some kind of temporary hospital.

The other man in the white coat, whom Luther guessed was a doctor, walked toward the woman and pointed to a place in the grass. The men laid her there, and the doctor began to examine her. Luther didn’t know why, but he decided to walk toward this older man. When the man saw him, he nodded and came toward Luther.

“How are you?” the man said. “Are you doing any better? No, don’t answer that. Of course you’re not. How could you be?”

Luther did what he said and offered no reply.

“Which of the bombings killed your family?”

“The one today,” Luther said. “Except for my brother. I think we lost him last night during the second one. He started to come home with my sister and me until some men took him to help the people from the first bombing.”

“Oh,” the man said. “But how could anyone have known the Brits would come back to attack us again? Twice in the same night.”

“My brother said we would never be bombed. He said we had some kind of deal with the British. They have a city like Dresden. If we didn’t bomb it, they wouldn’t bomb us.”

“I’ve heard that before. Oxford, I think. Well, obviously it wasn’t true. Last night may have been the worst bombing of any city in the entire war. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I hate the British,” Luther said.

“I don’t blame you,” the man said. “But I’ll tell you who should hate even more?”

“Who?”

“Hate the Americans. They were the ones who bombed us today. I saw the planes. American planes, B-17’s. Hundreds of them. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I used to have some measure of respect for the Americans. But they’re no better. We have no military targets here. Not a single flak gun to defend us. Not even a bomb shelter to protect us. The Brits totally destroyed Dresden last night. Thousands of people were already killed. Tens of thousands. What purpose could the Americans possibly have sending their bombers here today? There can only be one, to kill the survivors. As if we haven’t suffered enough. I thought the Brits were devils, but for the Americans to pour it on like that…they want to kill every last one of us. Every man, woman and child.”

“And every mother and sister,” Luther added. Tears filled his eyes again. He had all but accepted the fact that Ernst had been killed last night. Now, today, the evil Americans had come, and for absolutely no reason, they had taken Eva and his mother away.

Now he was alone. Completely alone.

Luther looked up, locked eyes with the old soldier. “I will always hate the Americans,” he said, “from now until the day I die.”

Jack had been at the cabin for just over an hour. Mostly getting situated. He’d hung up his button-down shirts, unpacked his suitcase, put the food and drinks he’d brought in the fridge and cabinets. Then he’d spent some time figuring out the best place to set up his laptop for writing. There were two choices: a dinette table near a window with a decent view of the lake or a desk in the loft bedroom. It also had a window but didn’t face the lake.

From the outside, Jack couldn’t even tell the cabin had a second floor because of the high-pitched roof. The loft was really just an open room with a double bed in one corner and some mismatched upholstered chairs in the other. The desk stood between them under the window. A braided oval throw added some warmth to the scene.

For now, he decided to put his laptop and research materials downstairs on the table. The downstairs bedroom was smaller than the loft, but the bed was softer and you didn’t have to duck your head to get into it. Except for the bedroom and bath, the rest of the downstairs was just one big open space. Coming in the front door, the whole right side was the living area. The furniture looked decent but pretty old. There was a portable TV on an aluminum stand, not even plugged in. Jack didn’t think cable companies even supported these old analog sets anymore.

But the cabin did have Wi-Fi; he’d confirmed that with the realtor. That was all he cared about.

A stone fireplace centered the living room wall, but the opening was filled by an old wood-burning stove. Functional but unattractive. The stovepipe went right up the chimney flue. The stones under the mantle were all blackened with soot. Jack walked over and rubbed his finger along one of the darkened stones. Nothing came off. The stove hadn’t been used in years. The realtor did say the owner hardly ever came out here. Jack stood back and admired the matching dark-wood bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. The shelves were full of books, mostly hardbacks. The bottom shelves were taller, loaded with coffee table books, illustrated history books and what looked like a couple of photo albums squeezed in between.