Padlocked, page 2
A soldier’s megaphone broke through the commotion, and he turned to listen.
“All media,” the young man bellowed as he stood atop a platform, “are to reconvene beside the first building.” He pointed in that direction. “All media, you are urgently needed.”
“They must have found the bodies,” one guard laughed. Hank snapped his photograph, sickened by his callousness.
As the other guards chuckled or snickered, a prisoner in the crowd called out, “Agata!”
Hank’s eyes swept the crowd to land on a woman in a striped uniform so oversized that it threatened to fall from her thin shoulders. Others in the crowd gathered, chanting, “Agata! Agata!”
“I’ll check it out,” Rafe said as he took long strides toward them.
Confused, Hank turned slowly toward Agata. Her eyes were still downcast, her face immobile, but a long tear raced down her face to drop on the dirt beside her. As he continued to turn, he heard a gasp, and he looked from Agata to Max, who was standing only feet from him.
Max was clearly startled to see Hank. His eyes were wide, and his hand went instinctively from his side to his chest. As Hank followed his movement, a heavyset male guard who towered over Max stepped forward just behind him and withdrew his hand from his pants pocket. As he quickly removed the pin from a grenade, Hank shouted. Max turned in the direction that Hank was pointing, and Agata looked up and met Hank’s eyes.
What followed was the most terrifying sound Hank had ever heard. There was no warning hiss, as a pineapple grenade might make. This one was instantaneous. He could no longer see as the air around him filled with black smoke. All the camp sounds abruptly ceased—the megaphone, the clamor of soldiers and vehicles, and prisoners who had shouted Agata’s name.
My eardrums have ruptured, he thought.
2
Hank
Hank opened his eyes to a strange, misty air. He expected to smell the acrid scent of a smoke grenade, but the air was oddly devoid of odor. He was lying flat on his back, the smoke obscuring his view of the skies.
His first thought was of Rafe. He called out his name, but his voice sounded odd, and he received no response. He tried to remember where his friend had been standing when the grenade detonated and was relieved when he recalled that Rafe had moved toward the prisoners. He prayed that it had placed him out of harm’s way.
Hank placed his palms against the ground and tried to pull himself into a seated position. He was astonished to observe the length of his body and discover that his legs were missing. That’s strange, he thought. They were there just a moment ago. He felt no pain, though he could clearly see that his pants were in tatters and covered in blood. It was odd seeing half a body, and he wondered how he would manage to get anyone’s attention if he couldn’t get off the ground.
The smoke appeared so pervasive that he wondered if there had been subsequent blasts. He hoped that Rafe was alright. He tried calling his name again. He should have been able to see the guards who had been lined up in front of him and the soldiers beside him, but they seemed to have disappeared. Maybe the medics had already taken them away. Maybe they were coming back for him.
He had the urge to look behind him. When he managed to twist around, he found himself staring into a massive white light. He thought the Soviets had turned on a floodlight to cut through the smoke, as the light appeared too large and solitary to be headlights. At least he now knew the direction to move toward to find the others.
It wasn’t until he saw the gates in front of him that he realized he’d been wandering toward a light that appeared to be moving upward as though the terrain was changing. Startled, he peered down at his body. Oh, there they were. He shook one leg and then the other. He chuckled rather nervously and wiped his forehead. He must have been stunned by the blast and only thought they were gone. He felt a rising desire to reach the gates to hold onto them as if he might stumble and faint without their support. His head didn’t feel quite right.
He was astonished to reach the gate to find it padlocked. Misha told them during the briefing that a Ukrainian soldier had fired his weapon into the lock until it had fallen apart and slipped to the ground. It had happened hours before Hank had arrived. He had even taken photographs of the prisoners’ gaunt faces through the open entryway. Why would the soldier have shot off the padlock only to replace it with another?
And his camera was gone. Now he was irritated. The photographs were undoubtedly some of the most important of his career, and he’d lost his camera. Perhaps it wasn’t lost, but only misplaced. Maybe Rafe had it, and Rafe had the first spent film canister.
Hank tried to peer between the bars to the other side, but the smoke obscured everything. He held onto the bars with both hands, and as he looked upward, he realized the German words he’d photographed, Arbeit Macht Frei, were gone. His eyes drifted to an odd carving of a young woman’s face. Ah, he thought. That explains it. In his confusion, he wandered to a different gate. The soldiers hadn’t removed the padlock from this one yet. All he had to do was find his way back to where he’d been.
“You might want to take things slow.” The voice was pleasant but authoritative, much like a doctor’s voice. “You had quite a jolt.”
“Yes,” Hank answered as he stared into the area where he thought the voice originated. “My head doesn’t feel quite right. I might have a concussion.”
The smoke had dissipated, leaving swirling colors in its place that reminded him of the Aurora Borealis. Eventually, he made out the figure of a man with dark hair and olive skin, seated casually only a few feet away. For the briefest of moments, he thought it was Rafe. But, as the skies grew brighter, he realized the facial features were very different. While Rafe’s nose and jaw tended to appear chiseled, this man’s were not, and his eyes seemed larger and darker.
“Do you know where Rafe is?” Hank asked. “My partner. He’s a war correspondent,” he added.
“Rafe was not injured,” the man answered. “He reached the prisoners and was well beyond the blast zone.”
“And the prisoners? Were they injured?”
“They were not.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Rafe will live a long life,” the man continued casually. “He’ll marry after the war, relocate to America, and have five children. The first will be named after you.”
“That’s a good joke,” Hank answered. He mopped his brow. He thought it would be sweaty, between the blast and his anxiety, but when he withdrew his hand, it was dry. “And you are—?”
“Joseph,” the man answered.
“Well, it’s good to meet you, Joe,” Hank answered. “I’m—”
“I know who you are,” Joe interjected smoothly. “You might want to sit down, Hank.” He gestured toward a stone that jutted out from a stonewall fence adjacent to the gate.
Hank didn’t care to sit down; he preferred to find Rafe and his camera. Yet, as he stared into the eyes of the man seated nearby, he found his hands groping for the stone seat. It was cold to the touch, and when he sat down, he had the strange sensation of energy emanating from it. “How do you know my name? Have we met before?”
“You’re on the other side, Hank.”
He glanced at the gate and then outward, as though expecting to see prisoners and Allied soldiers filling the courtyard. “Oh. Then, where is everybody?” He glanced at the skies. He shouldn’t have been able to see the Aurora Borealis in the afternoon. “What time is it?”
“No, Hank.” Joe’s voice was patient. “You’re on the other side of life.”
“The other side of life,” Hank chuckled, “is death.”
“Some might say that.”
“That’s a horrible joke to play on someone,” he said sadly. “It was nice to meet you, Joe, but I have work to do.” He rose and took a few steps away from the gate, but found he could go no further. There were no physical barriers between him and his destination, but his foot became so heavy that he could not lift it to keep moving forward.
“Perhaps, it was your time.” Although Joe was seated further behind him, his voice seemed to fill the air.
As Hank continued peering ahead, the colorful skies appeared to part, revealing a circle with a hazy outline. It was as though he was standing at the edge of a cliff and staring over it into a scene that was starkly different from the brilliant skies surrounding the gate. It appeared to be shades of brown, gray, and drab green. As he watched, he discovered four bodies lying prone on the ground with a growing number of uniformed people surrounding them. Medics, he thought. He’d certainly seen enough of them in his career. They obscured his view of the injured, and his eyes swept over the growing circle to find a surreal mix of skeletal people, many with blankets around their shoulders, while fit and robust soldiers rushed all around them. Regardless of how long he stood there, he could not see beyond the circle.
Finally, he turned around to find Joe still seated on the stone beside the gate. “I can’t be dead,” Hank said flatly.
“You certainly are not,” Joe answered smoothly.
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“The soul is eternal, Hank, and you have entered a different dimension.”
“No,” Hank said. “You don’t understand. I can’t be here. I have a wife and three children—”
“Dottie will be fine,” Joe said. “So will your children, Mary, Susanna, and Ray. Funny how both Ray and Rafe have the same birth names. Raphael, isn’t it?”
“How do you know their names?”
“I know all about you, Hank. You were born Henry Mullins in a little town in North Carolina called Lumberton, back in 1898. You weren’t born in a hospital, but your three children were born at Thompson Hospital, weren’t they?”
Hank placed his hand above his heart, expecting it to be thumping out of control. Oddly, he felt nothing. He did not want to see any more of the prison courtyard. He returned slowly to the stone seat opposite Joe and sat numbly.
“You married Dottie just before you enlisted in the military. It was 1916, wasn’t it, Hank? And the ‘war to end all wars’ was raging. You were eighteen years old when you landed in Europe, and you soon discovered your calling was not to carry a rifle but a camera.” When Hank did not respond, Joe continued, “The war ended, but your wanderlust had just begun. And, sadly, the Great War did not end all wars, as you discovered. Shall we go back in time, Hank?”
April 1, 1939, Madrid, Spain
It was April Fools’ Day as Hank strode quickly down the narrow hotel corridor. Although he was turning 41 this summer, he moved like a much younger man. He was slender and wiry, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal sinewy muscles tanned from years spent outdoors. In one hand, he carried a typed message he’d just picked up from the front desk, and in the other, a twenty-dollar American bill.
He heard the sound of men’s voices long before he reached the hotel bar. It was a cacophony of accents, perpetually seeming as if everyone spoke at once, with no one listening. Any one or all of them were likely to pop up at any moment and rush from the room, a constant adrenaline rush of breaking news and urgent deadlines.
One voice rose above the others. He spoke perfect English in a cultured Spanish accent, but with the edge of too many drinks. “I swear it is true,” he was saying. “Planet Earth is the battleground for good versus evil. Revelation 12, verses seven to nine. When Satan was cast out of Heaven—and I paraphrase—he was hurled to Earth and his angels with him. The battle continues here, my friends.”
Hank burst through the doorway. “Don’t listen to a word he says,” he announced as several grunted their greetings or held their drinks high in tribute. “He is a baby-faced youngster not yet schooled in the ways of the world—and a Catholic to boot.”
“Go to hell,” the other man said.
Hank slapped him on the shoulder. “According to you, I’m already there.” He dropped the twenty-dollar bill on the table in front of him.
The younger man picked up the bill and held it in front of him. “Care to explain?”
“I do, in fact.” Hank pulled out a chair. “Dario, drinks all around!” He settled into his seat as his eyes wandered over the appreciative crowd. He hesitated as his eyes landed on a man in the far corner who seemed oddly familiar. He appeared to be alone, his dark hair and skin blending into the shadows, as he quietly watched him. He glanced around the room, but when he looked back, the man was gone. He took a breath and turned back to his friend. “You have won a bet again, Rafe, and I always pay up. Twenty for you and drinks on me. The war is over.”
“I knew the war was over days ago.”
“Yes, but Franco just announced it. It is now official.” He raised his voice so all could hear. “The Spanish Civil War is over, and Franco has declared himself the leader of the country!”
As the bartender set glasses of ale on the table in front of them, Rafe said, “I don’t know why you sound so fucking happy, Hank. Evil has won yet again.”
“Be careful with your voice,” Hank chided, but he was only half-joking. He leaned forward. “There are spies everywhere.”
“Don’t I know it,” Rafe grumbled. He ran a hand through his abundant black hair, but a lock fell stubbornly across his brow. His thick brows were knit, and his dark eyes troubled.
Hank grew somber. “Are your parents well?”
Rafe shrugged. “Last I heard from them. The mail is nonexistent, as you well know.”
“They are still in France?”
He nodded. “Four months now. They are safe there, safe from Franco. He will seek retaliation now, and there will be nothing in Spain left to stop him.”
“Will you join your family in France or cover the aftermath?”
Rafe took a long swig of his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “France has officially ended La Retirada. In only the last four months, nearly half a million of my people have fled Spain for France, and they have declared the camps overflowing.”
“But your family is not in the camps.”
“It makes no difference. Spaniards are persona non grata.”
“Then you’ll cover the aftermath?”
Rafe shook his head. “I am marked, mi amigo. I have not been kind to Franco and his forces. As long as there is a newspaper still in print with my name in it, it is a death sentence for me here.” He peered into Hank’s eyes in the gloom of the bar. “What will you do, mi amigo Americano?”
Hank slapped the piece of paper onto the table between them, patting it as though it were a friendly dog’s head. “Orders just in. I am going to Germany—after a rendezvous with Dottie.”
“Are you crazy?”
Hank shook his head. “For seeing Dottie? It’s been—”
“Of course not. You should have gone home long before now, and you know it.” Before Hank could respond, Rafe continued, “But why Germany? It’s like jumping from one fire to another—and Hitler is far more powerful than Franco could ever be. Remember Guernica.”
“How could I ever forget it? Anyway, the magazine wants me on the front lines. With the war ending here, the lines have shifted.”
“What front lines? Memelland?”
“Memelland is done. My editor has it on good authority that Germany will soon invade Poland.”
“They wouldn’t dare.”
“The code name is Fall Weiss.”
“Code name,” Rafe repeated, taking a hefty swig of ale.
“That means the source is someone in Hitler’s inner circle. No one else would know it,” Hank said conspiratorially.
“Or it was made up for a twenty.” Rafe shook the bill before returning it to the table.
“Why do you always have to be so cynical?”
“I am a realist, Hank. I have just seen my entire country destroyed. It is every man for himself.” He called for another drink. “And why are you returning to Europe? The war is over here. You should be on your way home to America to your lovely wife and children. Kick back, Hank. Relax. Take it easy for a change.”
“But the job is here. And,” Hank added with a flourish as he patted the piece of paper in front of him, “there is a job for you as well.”
Rafe froze with his glass halfway to his lips. He set it down carefully. “Doing what?”
“Same thing you’ve been doing here,” Hank answered. “Besides, between the two of us, we have all Europe’s major languages covered.”
Rafe shrugged. “Not all, mi amigo. Not by a long shot.”
“Close enough, for where we’re going.”
Rafe frowned. “Why would you want to set foot near the German border? You saw what the Nazis did to Guernica.”
“Yes,” Hank said. “I saw what they did.” It had been Guernica that had changed Rafe. Before Guernica, the Spanish Civil War had been a cultural war between opposing ideologies. On the far left were the Republicans, a mishmash of socialists, communists, and anarchists. They counted among them the majority of the rural population, who had become enraged at the excesses of the wealthy elite while toiling seven days a week and still struggling to survive. On the right, led by Franco, were the Nationalists, fascists who believed in an elite ruling class and dictatorship.
Guernica had not only changed Rafe but had changed everything. With Hitler and Mussolini supporting the fascists, Hitler had sent his Luftwaffe to bomb the city indiscriminately, killing over 1,600 civilians at a time when the population numbered only 7,000. The town was demolished within three hours. The terror from above was something the world had never witnessed before, and it was said that two years later, the survivors were still traumatized by the horror unleashed on them. The atrocity had garnered international condemnation, but had done nothing to stop the fascists from rising across Europe. It was then that Rafe became convinced that Europe was not heading into a period of differing cultural and political opinions, but rather a battle between good and evil.
“So,” Rafe was saying, “why would you possibly want to go into the lair of the lion?”
Hank finished his drink and leaned back in his chair. He rapped the table absent-mindedly. After a long moment of thought, he said, “We know what Hitler is capable of doing. We have seen it with our own eyes in Guernica and elsewhere. We know that Spain was a test for fascism, and now the fascists have won. If this truly is the battle between good and evil that you have been going on about for two years now, someone has to tell the world.” He tapped the camera that always hung around his neck. “I trust myself, and I trust you, to tell the story accurately and honestly.”
