A Flicker of Light Read online

  Petra navigated as carefully as she could through the wooded area. Trees huddled close together, ripping her clothing and scraping her face as she forced the branches aside along the narrow trail on her way to the main road. There she would find a ride going toward Denmark, from there it would be easier to get home. Icicles hung precariously from the branches and fell at random. Petra allowed her mind to drift for a moment. She thought of the possible danger of being hit by falling ice. Her heart beat faster, but instead of focusing on the danger, she clenched her jaw in defiance and continued walking. Snow seeped into her shoes, turning to ice that froze her silk stockings to her feet. Trudging along through the darkness, the heaviness of the baby sent pain shooting through her hips and legs as the effort drained her color and turned her skin an ashen gray. Absent-mindedly, she reached for her abdomen and stroked the child within. It was hard to believe that only seven months ago she had lain warm and safe in Hans’ arms, sweet joy and love surrounding her as the new life had found its way into her receptive womb. Now she would protect that gift of love with her life, if need be.

  Twigs cracked and snow crunched beneath her feet, breaking the eerie quiet of the forest. An occasional hoot owl cried out in the distance. Thin tree limbs - frozen and devoid of leaves - reached out their bony fingers into the darkness, scraping at her exposed skin. Drops of blood froze onto her face. Gripping her coat tighter around her against the chill, her slender finger found a button.

  Stroking the small, round metal object, she felt the tiny pattern of daisies imprinted upon it. Alone in the woods, she remembered how her mother had sewn that very same button back on for her when it had fallen off only last winter. Sitting on her sewing bench, her silky blonde hair tied at the nape of her neck into a bun, illuminated by the light of a small lamp, she had smiled when Petra had entered the room. Her mother retained her place as the angel of her childhood. How Petra had longed to be like her, with her soft, calm, gentle touch. But Petra had proven to be much more akin to her father, with his stubborn, insistent nature. When pressed to act against her will, Petra had forcefully refused. A tear fell from her eye as she wished she could be sitting by the fire beside her mother sharing the joy of her pregnancy, with her younger brothers at play on the floor in the living room, or running and yelling through the house until a word from her father quieted them down. Lost in thought, she’d forgotten to pay attention to her path.

  Petra was caught unawares as her foot slid awkwardly on a stretch of ice. The suitcase flew from her hand as she instinctively tried to break the fall. Then her body slammed against the frozen ground. A sharp pain shot through her knee as the tender flesh tore on a broken tree branch. A cry of despair escaped her lips and culminated in a sobbing frenzy as she lay face down in the snow. Scraped and bleeding, she saw that the only pair of silk stockings she owned was torn, and blood seeped from the deep cut. Her toes were numb, but still tingling, and she realized they might be frostbitten. She must not allow herself to weep. It was an indulgence she could not afford.

  Hopelessness turned to anger; she would not allow herself or her baby to die here in these desolate woods. Then, with great effort, she forced herself back to her feet. She wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her dirty, bloodstained hand and pulled her suitcase out of the snow. Gritting her teeth and limping on one leg, she continued on her way.

  As the sun’s dazzling golden rays broke through the darkness, Petra knew she must rest. Both her body and her mind were totally exhausted. Birds began to chirp as the forest slowly came to life. As she came closer to the road, she heard the rumble of a motor vehicle as it broke through the calm of the sounds of nature.

  Using a thick clump of bushes for cover, she waited as it came closer. If it happened to be a local on his way to town, she decided that she would flag him down and ask for a ride. Even though the Institute hung like a dark cloud less than a mile away, the cold, hunger and thirst were already wearing her down.

  Watching from her hiding place, she saw a German army truck loaded with prisoners wearing gray striped uniforms, with yellow arm bands. The arm bands had six-pointed stars on them. She held her breath, afraid of being seen as she watched the vehicle go by. The girls at the home had talked about the concentration camps, where enemies of the Reich were detained. She wondered what crimes these men had committed. Of course, the other girls had also mentioned the racial issue and how undesirables were taken to camps because they belonged there, far away from the pure German population.

  From what Petra had heard, Jews and Romany seemed to pose the biggest threat to the Nazis’ supreme Aryan race, but others like homosexuals and Jehovah’s Witnesses also fell into the objectionable category. At Heim Hockland, Petra had heard the girls say that these prisoners spent their days living in concentration camps were often hired out as free labor to the German farmers and factory owners. The concept bothered her. She wondered what made the Nazis feel so superior, but she had dared not speak her mind.

  From within the truck, a single prisoner caught her eye, and she felt sure that he saw her too. His deep-set black eyes blazed out of a pain-stricken face, trapping her in their stare. After the truck had passed by, she stood still for a few minutes, consumed both with pity for the prisoners and fear for her own well-being. With a firm grip she braced herself on the trunk of an aging oak tree and sucked air into her lungs until she felt that she could continue on. When she finally reached the open road, she found herself surrounded by acres of farmland.

  Heim Hockland meant highlands - that much she knew - but she had never seen the beauty of Germany’s farm country before. Hills curved gently across the landscape covered with virgin snow, a pure white powder that seemed like fairy dust sprinkled with tiny diamonds sparkling in the rising sun. Petra was famished and thirsty. Instinctively, her hand went to her belly. She must feed the baby. Wishing now that she had stolen some food and a thermos from the home before she left, she began to walk towards the farmhouses. Unsure of how she would be received, she decided not to risk going to someone’s door. Instead she would hide out in a barn where she could get out of the cold for a while and possibly find some food. Then, once she regained her strength, she would continue on. She studied the nearby farms. They lay acres apart. She chose the closest one and made her way through the snowdrifts toward it. As discreetly as possible, she inched around the old wood frame house and found the entrance to the barn. With the last of her strength, she lifted the bar on the door and opened the latch. The barn appeared peaceful as she entered, dimly lit by the early morning sunlight that had found its way through the openings in the wooden slats of the roof.

  An old gray plow horse stood in its stall covered with a blanket. When the horse saw Petra, she whinnied softly. Beside her in an open stand, a brown and white milk cow stood swishing her tail. Both animals eyed Petra curiously, their large brown eyes expressive and questioning. Pushing hard, she closed the door against the wind. Turning her attention to the mare, she quietly apologized as she borrowed the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Until now Petra had not realized that her body shook and her teeth chattered. She looked down and noticed that just out of the horse’s reach was an old soft apple atop a small pile of hay. For a moment Petra considered giving it to the animal, and then, although she felt sorry to take it because the horse watched longingly, she sat down in the hay and devoured it herself. Soft, chewy, and slightly frozen, the apple tasted like a feast to her.

  Across the room she saw the milk pail hanging from a hook on the wall. Rising, she walked over and took it down. She lapped up the remnants of milk still within the bucket from the cow’s last milking. When she’d cleaned the container dry, she set it down and lay to rest herself upon the hay. She wished that she knew how to milk a cow, but she had not grown up anywhere near a farm and she had no idea. The warmth of the blanket and the safety of the shelter brought on a need for sleep, and her eyes suddenly grew heavy. Within minutes she drifted off, swept into a deep, but fitful, slumber. />
  Dreams of her father whirled in her head; how happiness radiated from him to everyone in his wake, back before the accident on the fishing boat had claimed part of his leg. For years he had come home with the sea in his hair and his heart in his work. In her childhood memories, he wore a permanent smile. His kind face had taken on a permanent ruddy hue from years of sun exposure. When he returned home from a day on the water and tossed a bundle of fresh fish on the table he would state proudly, “I am a fisherman,” then turn to them with a hearty laugh, “like my father before me and his before him.” At night before bed, he would tell them all stories of the legends of the Vikings, and with pride he declared them to be his ancestors and theirs. His heart big and full, he’d embraced his wife and children with kisses and tenderness as he’d enfolded them in his massive, muscular embrace. His essence had brought laughter and song into the household.

  One day while out fishing, something had happened at sea. He would not explain, but he had lost his left leg from the knee down. The family had rushed to the hospital where they saw the backbone of their world weak and broken as he lay upon the bed. Petra had recognized the dishonor he felt in his face, and therefore did not meet his eyes. At first, for a while, following his return home, her father had been quick to anger and had grown ill tempered, refusing to engage in conversation with anyone. As time went on, he’d learned to function without his leg. Although he’d never been quite the same, he’d finally accepted his plight. Life went on, but his joy in it had been lost.

  Financial need had forced him to find work, but there were few opportunities for a crippled man. He’d saved what little money he could and opened a tavern on the water. The saloon became very popular, and he made a fair living. It became known as a place where sailors could come for hearty fish chowder, fresh herring, a beer or a cup of schnapps. Over time he came to have affection for the little place, but Petra knew in her heart that he always longed to be out on a boat, catching fish, and singing the songs of the sea. Her papa’s face lingered in her mind as she slept on the pile of straw.

  Chapter 5

  S

  iegland Bruchmeier found out early in life that she’d been born to cook. Whenever she worked her special magic, the aroma of wonderful food permeated every room of the house. Her enormous body moved through the farmhouse kitchen like a whale swimming the seven seas. With great care she prepared thick slices of ham, poached eggs, and freshly baked bread. The responsibility to see her husband well fed before he tended the land would never be taken lightly. This was the only life she knew, the only life she understood. She had gone from her father’s farm to her husband’s.

  Klaus Bruchmeier, her spouse - a kind, gentle, soft-spoken man - had proved to be a good provider and a loving husband. In so many ways, fortune had smiled upon her, and never, not even for a day, did she forget to give thanks. In the beginning they’d both been aware that they’d entered into a marriage of convenience. He was a shy man, awkward around women, but badly in need of a wife who could help him with his chores. He was an only child who’d lost his father a year before they met. She was a sheltered girl, not blessed with a pretty face or attractive figure. When their mothers had introduced them, it was with the hope of a marriage that would bring many children to help with the farm work. The elder Frau Bruchmeier had lived with the newlyweds, and although she could be demanding, Siegland had cared deeply for her, and she had wept when her mother-in-law passed away in her sleep just a few months after the wedding. The farm work was hard, but as the years together bound Klaus and Siegland to each other, their love grew into a joyous union. They had good fortune because their farm lay in the fertile highlands outside of Munich. It served them well, providing abundant crops, including asparagus, onions, and a huge bounty of red strawberries every June.

  Before the Nazis came into power, Klaus had hired workers to help him with the harvest, and when he had taken his crops to market, he’d always returned with a full purse. They owned a single cow for milk and cheese, three hens for fresh eggs, a rooster who made sure that Klaus never overslept, and of course, the farmer’s best friend, the old gray plow horse. In good years, the couple purchased a pig to slaughter for meat for the winter. In leaner years, they managed to trade for wheat, and still found plenty to eat from what the farm produced. The neighbors had always been generous with the Bruchmeiers, and they returned the favors. Klaus, a warm and appreciative man, showed his wife the utmost respect and fondness. He knew how well she cared for him and he bestowed upon her all of the love a man could give.

  Although she had a full and satisfying life, Siegland had one overwhelming regret - she could not have children. The desire gnawed at her, and she tried to it fill with tremendous amounts of food. Over the years she had grown quite fat. Klaus, a large man himself, did not mind. Instead, he enjoyed the glorious meals she painstakingly prepared for him, and his greatest fulfillment in life became her bright and open smile. As she sat across from her husband at the breakfast table, Siegland slathered butter across a thick slice of freshly-baked, dark, grainy bread. With love and care, she covered the butter with strawberry jam that she had canned the previous summer, and then licked her lips as she bit into the hearty fare. Satisfied with her preparations, she smiled at her husband, then cut another slice of the bread and prepared it in the same manner for him. Klaus’ full face broke into a large, jagged, yellow-toothed smile that warmed her heart even now, after all of the years that they had spent as husband and wife. Memories came flooding back to her of their early days together. How skinny he had been; only his bulbous nose had had any flesh to speak of. But after years of her coddling and delectable cooking, she had fattened him up, and she smiled to think how healthy and strong he had become - robust, she called it. Klaus had grown to be robust! Touched by the knowledge that she had taken his gaunt frame and rounded him out, she reached over and affectionately stroked his arm.

  The hand-carved cherry wood kitchen table and chairs stood proudly as evidence of Klaus’ talent with woodwork. This set, in its intricacy, proved to be Klaus’ finest creation. Large and sturdy, each piece painstakingly bore the imprint of roses as their petals unfolded, all different and in varying stages of development. In the center of the table was a large wooden bowl, carved with wildlife, the etchings consisting mostly of rabbits and deer. Klaus enjoyed working with wood and spent much of his free time creating stunning pieces that adorned the entire farm house. As he lifted his coffee cup, Klaus sipped the steaming hot liquid and breathed in the strong mouth-watering bouquet. Then he patted his wife’s fingers lovingly and stood up.

  “It was delicious, as always, my dear.” Then, draping the heavy gray wool scarf that Siegland had knitted for him around his thick neck, Klaus pulled his winter coat down from the hook and shoved his bulky arms though the sleeves. He buttoned the garment and placed his hat on his head and gloves on his hands as he prepared to go out and milk the cow. As soon as he finished the milking, he would collect the eggs from the chicken coop and bring them back to the house. From beneath the table, an old black and white mutt stretched as she came to life. The dog waited patiently, as she had done for years, until the couple finished breakfast. She knew from experience that leftovers would be coming her way, and as soon as Klaus left for the barn she would be fed a feast, courtesy of her beloved Siegland.

  “Come on, Daisy,” Siegland said to the dog, “I will give you some bacon.” A bark of recognition and love sprung from the animal’s lips as her tail wagged in joyous anticipation of the coming treat.

  Klaus walked slowly through the snow. Winter was always an unproductive period on the farm, and during the cold months he always longed for planting and harvest season. Every spring as the ground thawed, he felt a burst of new life and energy. It seemed to him that Mother Nature rewarded him each year with a temporary rejuvenation of youth. A sentimental old fool, he called himself, for he had even given the barn animals names. The cow he called Freda and the horse he had named Gurta. At least he had not
named the chickens! Siegland had forbidden it. “Just in case we decide to eat one, at least we won’t have given it a name, which would just make it so much more like a pet or a friend. And who could eat a friend?” Siegland had said.

  He had agreed, and so the chickens remained just birds. The crisp ivory snow crunched beneath his feet and the icy winter wind stung his face while Klaus trudged through the yard on his way to the barn.

  When he approached, he saw the bar missing from the door. He assumed he had left it off when he put the animals to bed for the night. As he had done for more years than he could remember, he entered, and then turned to close the door behind him as the snow-laced wind blew back at him flying up into his face.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he spoke to the cow and the horse. “And a fine day it is, even if it is a bit cold, eh?”

  As he filled Gurta’s feed bucket with hay and grain, Klaus glanced over and saw that she had thrown her blanket off again. With just a quick look he could not see where the old horse had flung her coverlet, but he hoped that it had not been in a pile of manure. The farmer smiled and shook his head as he patted the horse’s neck with affection, like an old friend. First he would milk the cow, and then he would look for the blanket. With experienced hands he hung Gurta’s feed bucket on the inside bar on the wall of her stall. Then as he approached the cow, he saw Petra. Shocked to see this young blonde woman wrapped in the horse’s blanket asleep on a hay stack in his barn, he quietly walked over to get a better look. She was clearly pregnant; of that, he had no doubt. Having much experience with animals, he guessed about six or seven months along. In silence, he approached to observe her more closely. His eyes studied the caked blood on her hand. Who could she be? Where had she come from? What had brought her here? It was obvious to him that she’d been hurt. Klaus put the pail down on the ground and headed back to the house to find his wife. Siegland would know what to do.