“Hans?” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
“Arthur. My name is Arthur Wilson, but most people call me Art,” he said.
Gabi stared at Art, images flashing like a slide show until a frame was recognised. “Excalibur,” she whispered as the blur dissolved and she slipped back into unconsciousness.
He lifted her fighter jacket. It was a quality piece of leather tailoring with fur lining and a stylish belt, now ruined by two punctures. He rummaged through its pockets and found a wallet that he slipped into his jacket.
Kurt sat in the vehicle, drumming his fingers on the dashboard. He had not told his mother that he would be in Dresden, and he knew she would be emotional. He couldn’t remember his last visit—it had been so long—and even he felt anxious. He grabbed the box of assorted chocolates he had won in a bet months ago, the same box he had offered Gabi but she had refused, suggesting that he give it to his mother on his next visit instead.
Kurt made his way to the front door, turning the knob to let himself in. It was quiet inside, so he snuck down the hallway to the kitchen.
“Mama.” Nothing. “Mama, it’s Kurt.” Silence.
He wandered about the house, room by room until he was sure no one was home. His mother and sister were probably at his uncle’s house so he headed for the larder as he always did, in search of something to eat while he waited for them to return.
His mother was a good cook and always had something special hidden away, but not today—the cupboard was bare. Damn, he thought, didn’t anyone have any food anymore? He tossed the box of chocolates onto the bench and took the last bottle of cider before settling himself on the sofa.
It was dark by the time Kurt woke. He had fallen asleep in an awkward position and now his neck ached like a rusty rivet forced into motion. He stretched and rolled his shoulders, peering out the window into the blackness, a faint humming growing in volume as he listened.
Bombers! The alarm sounded and people ran frantically into the street and to the bunkers. Kurt did not know what to do—should he seek refuge in the cellar or look for his mother and sister? He ran from the house, and as he ran to his uncle’s home, the sky turned a ghoulish red from the phosphorous bombs that rained down on the city. He dodged panicked people running for shelter, the atmosphere charged and deafening with the drone of bombers and the whistling of their falling loads.
An explosion shattered a building and it burst into pieces, blasting Kurt across the road and against a wall. He staggered to his feet, ringing in his head, unable to see his uncle’s house through the inferno, its heat so intense that people fell where they stood, into the molten tar of the road. A passing soldier seized him by the arm and dragged him to a bomb shelter.
It was crammed with screaming refugees, old men huddled near the entrance, fending off frantic women as they fought to escape and find children separated in the turmoil. He scrambled to the back of the bunker in search of his mother. The atmosphere was thick with fear, and he swore he could detect the faintest whiff of gas. He clambered back over the mass of hysteria, back to the entrance, where he sat beside a man that formed part of a prayer group and listened to the monotonous chant of the Hail Mary. But the man merely mumbled, and Kurt assumed he was not religious for he knew not a single word. Kurt watched and listened, his anxiety building with the relentless pounding above them until he could take no more and he forced his escape from the madness inside the bunker, pulling at those who held the door shut.
A bomb landed just as he fought his way out of the door, sending dust and rubble down from the ceiling, choking the panicked mass that scrambled for fresh air. Kurt stood his ground, blocking the open door to the fires of hell. He watched a family walking calmly along the road and one by one, they dropped like ragdolls as they suffocated.
He slammed the door and his body sank to the ground. He buried his head in between his knees and prayed.
The firebombing came in two waves that night starting at 21:51; the second, three hours later. Survivors sat out the rest of the night huddled in their bunkers across the city, praying for God’s mercy.
Kurt resumed his search before dawn, hopeful that he would find his family scared but safe in a shelter nearby. He wandered aimlessly through the rubble and smouldering ruins, hearing nothing and smelling only death. In the distance, the clearing smoke revealed a make-shift stall offering coffee and biscuits to dazed citizens. Kurt lumbered towards the gathering, a familiar silhouette standing on the fringe.
“Onkel Ludwig, Ludwig!”
Ludwig turned. “Kurt, what are you doing here?”
“Mama, where is Mama?”
“Gone. They’re all gone.”
“What? Where have they gone?”
His uncle’s voice fell to a whisper. “They were in the house.”
Kurt clenched his jaw; hope had failed him again.
They returned to Ludwig’s house and set about recovering their loved ones. The bodies of Ludwig’s wife and daughter, Kurt’s mother and his little sister were found in the remains of the kitchen. Only Ludwig had escaped, having gone to the pub some hours before the bomb destroyed his home—his life. Their bodies were not added to the pile of death at a nearby market square, to be cremated by the SS when the heap grew too high. Instead, Kurt and Ludwig buried them in the nearby Elias cemetery that had miraculously escaped the destruction of the firestorm.
Later that day, Kurt hitched a ride back to his base with a regiment on its way to the front. Seething with anger, he made his way to administration to find out why more had not been done to defend the city, confronting a young private left to fend for himself.
“Our position is hopeless,” he said. “We’re grounded… not enough fuel… we just don’t stand a chance against the Allied forces.” His eyes lowered, unable to look Kurt in the eye.
“What is it?” Kurt moved towards the private, who cowered under his glare.
“Captain Richter, sir… she’s… she’s…”
Kurt slammed the private against the wall. “Out with it! What has happened to Captain Richter?”
“She didn’t come back. She’s MIA.”
Gabi woke to unfamiliar surroundings. The smell of disinfectant was strong. She was in a hospital ward with beds running along two walls, hers being at the end of a row beside a window. She struggled to sit; her shoulder ached and her limbs were weak. A man in the bed beside hers called for the nurse and gestured that she should stay in bed but Gabi slipped her legs down onto the floor and staggered to the window, peering through the cloudy glass.
Outside she could see military personnel in flight gear loitering about hangars, lorries running errands, tankers refuelling and the drone of planes taking off and landing. She wasn’t at a POW camp; she was at an RAF base. How strange, she thought. Was she dreaming?
By now, Gabi had stirred up quite a commotion. Her gown was undone leaving her back and rear exposed to a room of ogling convalescents. The nurse had finally responded and hastily tied the bows, firmly pushing her back towards the bed.
“Get back into bed, my young lass,” she scolded. “What a spectacle you’ve made of yourself.”
At that moment, an officer walked into the room and Gabi’s heart quickened at the sight of him. She had seen him before, but where? And in the flicker of a thought, she remembered.
“She’s a saucy thing, Sir. I’ll not have her upset my other patients,” the nurse said. “You, now, back to bed I said!”
Art raised his brow and Gabi shrugged. She winced at the pain.