No matter what it took.

The strong arms lifted Gisela from the wooden platform and through the carriage window. She heard her coat tear on a shard of gla.s.s. Grateful to be wearing pants, she planted one foot on the sill and pushed her body inside. She fell across several laps and wondered if she would ride all the way to Berlin with her feet hanging out of the window.

The man who brought her inside pulled her the rest of the way through. She managed to get to her feet-though she still stood between the seats-and examined the rip in her coat. The jagged tear extended from her elbow to her knee. Even if she had needle and thread, she might not be able to repair it. She tried to be thankful to have a coat at all.

"Danke, danke." As she lifted her eyes to look at her hero, she noticed that his pants leg was empty, pinned up with a safety pin. The other men in the seat were also missing either legs or arms. The women with the knockwurst called this an ammunition train, but this car, at least, carried war wounded.

The soldiers sat in the faded and worn red-velvet seats. The women and children who managed to get aboard took up every available inch of aisle s.p.a.ce. A little boy pressed against the side of the seat and clung to her leg, the three middle fingers of his right hand stuck in his mouth. No mother claimed him.

She turned to her rescuer. "I'm sorry to have caused you trouble."

"I couldn't leave behind a beautiful woman like you." He tipped his curly head.

She had landed in the lap of a flirt. Like she needed another one of those. "I'm looking for my husband and my nieces."

"Oh." The single word carried his apology. "What do they look like?"

She didn't know what help he would be. "Two little girls, three and five, blond hair, gray eyes, freckles. My husband is an SS officer. He has dark hair."

The soldier put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The sharp noise halted the many conversations. "Looking for two girls and a man." He rattled off the information Gisela gave him. "Has anyone seen them?"

"I know they aren't in this car."

"You are sure they got on?" he shouted over the already resumed din.

"Ja, the kinder did. My husband, I don't know about." The thought of leaving Mitch behind, of never seeing him again, was almost too much to bear. If they parted, they would never be reunited. A hard lump pressed against her windpipe.

The soldier shook his head. "I hope you will be reunited with them despite this chaos. They will pa.s.s the word to other cars and maybe you will get good news."

"But I have to take care of them." She should have never allowed Kurt to rip them from her arms. She had tried to stop him, but she should have tried harder. I can't fail them.

Another woman shouted above the noise. "My boys. I don't know where my boys are. Ten and six. Blond, blue-eyed."

Yet another woman's voice rose to an anxious pitch. "My little one is missing. Just a year old. Wrapped in a blue blanket."

"Bitte, help me find my babies."

Oh Lord, help me find the girls.

Mitch didn't know how much longer he would be able to keep pace with the train. The cars pa.s.sed him one by one until there were only a few left. His legs cramped, his ears buzzed. The faces in the windows blurred.

What chance did he have of reuniting with his chums if he got stuck in Danzig? What if the rumors about the Russians were true?

And Gisela, all alone. He could hear his father's words. "A gentleman always takes care of a lady." Mitch had no true obligation to her, but something drew him to her.

Then there was the fact that she had been part of the Hitler Youth. Might have supported this madman who had caused this trouble for all of them.

The whistle blew. His feet hurt with each step.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a man who leaped for the train. He missed. The train's wheels took his life.

Five cars left. Now four. Now three.

Should he? Shouldn't he?

The second to the last carriage.

With all he had in him, he leaped for the handrail. In the split second he flew through the air, he prayed as he had never prayed before. Lord, let me catch this train.

His fingers grasped the metal and he managed to get all ten of his toes on the bottom step. That is as far as he could go. The stairs were jammed. All of them like a flock of birds, flying away in front of a predator.

Men, mostly older, clung to the ladders ascending the boxcars. The train picked up speed and the bitter cold wind bit his face. The countryside whipped by-farms and villages and burned-out towns-destroyed in the initial German attack in 1939. Not too many kilometers into the trip, his hands froze to the railing. His shoulders ached, then went numb.

The train made steady progress westward, away from tyranny and death, toward freedom and home.

Home. He imagined himself sitting in front of the fire, his mother's red-and-gold Oriental rug at his feet, his springer spaniel Charlie by his side. Wonderful smells emanated from the kitchen and a pot of Earl Grey tea sat on the small, round table beside him.

The simple joy. One he used to take for granted. To be in that spot again.

Warmth rushed through him, even as he lost feeling in his toes.

And to tell his father he was sorry. No, not that he'd joined the 5th Queen's Regiment with Xavier. He just wished he would have had his father's blessing first.

Not that he would have given it.

Mitch's arms quivered. His muscles screamed in pain and his eyelashes were almost frozen shut.

An old man fell from the car in front of him. The chap's screams penetrated over the train's clattering and chugging.

That man may have been the first, but he wasn't the last. As the train puffed its way along, more of the men clinging to the outside of the train let go. Certain death. Those who weren't run over by the steel wheels would freeze in the fields and forests.

Would he ever see the rolling green hills of his boyhood home again? Would he fish in the cold streams, race his car up and down the hills, fly over the countryside?

Not only his arms, but now his entire body shook. His grip slipped. He would never make it like this.

His hold on the railing slid a little more.

And more.

Then he heard the unmistakable drone of a Russian plane.

THIRTEEN.

The train screeched to a halt. Mitch tried to grasp tighter, his hands frozen to the railing. He clutched to his tenuous position on the outside of the car, his boot-encased toes clinging to the edge of the step. In the quiet, fighter engines roared.

Like on the ice.

Like the day he lost Xavier.

These were Allies. He should celebrate the sound.

But these pilots shot at innocent men and women. Little children like Renate and Annelies.

War no longer held appeal. The l.u.s.ter had worn off.

And it ripped a hole in his heart. The tear he shed froze on his cheek.

Heads poked out of the windows, peering toward the sky. The crowd pushed outward now and Mitch lost his grip and his footing. He fell to the hard ground, the breath knocked out of him. He rolled out of the way to avoid being trampled by the women and children rushing from the train. They sprinted, fanning over the countryside.

He scrambled to his feet, but instead of running away from the train, he jogged the length of it. His stiff, cold muscles protested the movement. He urged himself forward. Had Gisela and the girls managed to climb aboard?

"Gisela, Annelies, Renate." Over and over he screamed their names. No one answered.

"Please, G.o.d, please, help me."

His continued shouts met with no response. His voice grew hoa.r.s.e.

He tripped over his own tired, aching, frozen feet, stumbling along the uneven ground. He slid on the icy gravel and fell, rocks stabbing his frozen fingers.

The plane made a wide arc and flew directly over the train. In one brilliant, deafening explosion of ammunition, the engine took a direct hit. Mitch caught the sinister grin of the Soviet pilot in the plane's c.o.c.kpit.

If he could, Mitch would shoot that pilot out of the air.

Once again the Russian turned and this time strafed the pa.s.sengers lying on the ground.

Mitch dove to the earth, dirt and bullets spraying around him.

The jerking halt of the train slammed Gisela out of her light doze. Why were they stopping? Had they arrived at their destination? With all the bodies between her and the window, she couldn't tell if they had entered a city.

"A tiefflieger! A Russian plane is firing on us!"

The cry and the accompanying screams cleared her head. A single plane after them. She had to get off now. Had to find the girls. If the plane struck the engine, they would be consumed by the fireball. If they were in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by farm fields, they were ripe for the picking.

The boy at her side whimpered even as he sucked his fingers. She reached down and took him in her arms. Then she grabbed the soldier's crutches from under the seat and threw them at him.

Minutes and more minutes ticked by as they inched their way toward the exit. The rat-a-tat-tat of the airplane's guns punctuated the air. Women screamed and children cried. The little boy in her arms buried his head in her shoulder. The wounded veteran tromped after her, his single footfall heavy.

At last they reached daylight and fresh air. As soon as her sole hit the ground, she began to limp-run, her heel burning in pain, looking back for the soldier.

He hobbled along. "Go on without me. Stay safe."

"But . . ."

"Go, go."

She didn't want to leave him. She had to help him.

A blinding flash was followed by a thunderous boom. The engine had been bombed. Like Lot's wife, she couldn't help but turn around. The iron horse had been destroyed.

The child in her arms screamed as the whine of the plane's engines faded, then roared back to life.

"Annelies! Renate!"

Her words died on the air as the Russian pilot turned his plane and began to fire on the crowd. Bloodcurdling cries raced across the fields. Bodies thumped to the ground.

"Get down! Get down!"

In an instant, not caring who issued the command, Gisela obeyed. She belly flopped to the frozen ground on top of the boy, his arms squeezing her neck. She lifted as much of her weight from him as she could while continuing to shield him.

The past blended with the present. The screams of the women could have been those of Tante Sonje. The cries of the children could have been those of Heide and Lotta.

Not again, Lord, not again. Wasn't once enough? Why can't we shake these Soviets?

Bullets zinged from the metal monster less than a hundred meters from them. Feet rushed past her, most of the shoes worn, some rags replacing proper footwear. One set of heavy boots entered her line of vision, then stopped.

The body of the wearer fell on top of her.

Her stomach rose to her chest and threatened to empty its meager contents. Gisela's elbows collapsed and she pressed her weight on the boy. With all of her might, she straightened her arms and managed to roll the woman off of her.

The strafing continued for several more minutes, though it could have been a lifetime. Even after the plane departed and the air grew still, Gisela held her breath. If she moved, the plane might return and mow her down. For all she knew, she was the lone survivor.

Then the child stirred under her. Like Renate had on the ice. Other children cried and women screamed. At least she wasn't alone in the world.

Alone. Annelies and Renate. Were they even alive?

She sat and brushed the snow from her torn black coat. The living around her rose as well. She picked up the child and brushed him off. His right cheek was sc.r.a.ped and he cried all the harder when she swept her hand across it. She had hurt him when she'd lain on top of him. He tore away a tiny part of her heart.

Balancing the boy on her hip, she rose to her feet and scanned the crowd. Dazed women walked in circles, crying for their children. The bodies of little ones, old ones, women littered the ground, the snow tinged red.

This field that had once nurtured wheat or oats or maybe even daisies-the flower of innocence-had become a place of carnage.

She directed her attention to the deceased woman lying prostrate beside her. Her dark brown coat was old but in good repair. The heavy boots that encased her feet showed no scuffs or sc.r.a.pes or wear on the soles.

Gisela glanced to her right and to her left. She winced at her next thought. Would anyone notice if she took the coat and the shoes and anything else of value the woman had on her person? And she, who had reprimanded Mitch for stealing, was stealing herself.

Mitch lifted his head from the ground as silence roared in his ears. He searched the sky but found no trace of the plane. As he sat, so did a mult.i.tude of people. But not all of them.

Panicked women clutched wee ones to their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Was Gisela one of them? Had she even been on this train? Even if they didn't continue on together, he wanted to know whether she lived or died.

He had to find out. This was his chance. And if they weren't to be found? He didn't know. Hiking back to Danzig would be suicide. As if he would even run into them there.

Not to mention he would be going in the opposite direction he wanted to.