"In war, truth is the first casualty." -Aeschylus
Richter walked through the trees, following the road back towards the city, from a distance. His ribs screamed with every step, but he pushed through the pain. The sun was setting. The sky had turned from grey to a deep orange. Shadows grew longer. He moved from cover to cover, watching for Soviet patrols and taking small breaks.
He won't make it much further on foot, even though he wasn't bleeding badly.
He crouched behind a hedge and waited.
Night was coming fast. He heard an engine.
A vehicle approaching from the north. Single headlight cutting through the dusk. He pressed himself flat against the ground and watched.
One thought entered his mind. Friend? Or foe?
A motorcycle with a sidecar. Alas! It looked like soviet military. One soldier driving, no passenger. The bike moved at a leisurely pace. Must be a messenger, he thought.
He waited until the motorcycle was close enough.
"Hey!" yelled Richter.
The bike skidded to a sudden halt. The soldier turned, looking towards the source of the sound.
Richter was already running toward the soldier as fast as his legs would allow.
He covered the distance in seconds. The soldier fumbled for his rifle, but Richter was quicker, yanking it away and swinging it into the man's face. The soldier's nose broke. He fell backward and hit the road beside the motorcycle, hands clutching his face, blood streaming between his fingers.
Richter, wasting no time, took his shot. The soldier stopped moving.
For a moment, Richter just stood there, breathing hard, looking at the corpse he'd just made. He dragged the body off the road, took off his uniform, and threw away his gray one. He took the soldier's sidearm as well. The uniform was too small for him, but it would do for now.
No time for guilt. No time for anything but survival.
He checked the motorcycle. There was a canteen of water in the sidecar, which he emptied in a few large gulps. It was the first drop of water he'd had in hours.
Richter climbed onto the motorcycle and started riding it. He remembered how he used to joyride on bikes with his fellow soldiers. Back when life was much simpler than this. It felt like a memory from a former life.
The road seemed to be getting darker by the minute. Only one thought mattered now. He will sneak into the outskirts of Berlin and check their apartment to find Greta. If she were there, he would take her with him. If not… well, he hoped she fled the city in time.
The sky above was fully dark now. No moon. Just stars, scattered and distant.
He thought about the note. Argentina. A ship. Freedom. A second chance.
The villages he passed were dark. Just empty houses and burned buildings. The war had swept through here like a storm, leaving only ruins behind.
After what felt like the longest ride in his life, he recognized where he was. The outskirts of Berlin. The neighborhood where he and Greta lived.
He slowed the motorcycle, peering through the darkness at the buildings. Most were damaged beyond repair.
He turned down familiar streets. Past what was left of her father's bakery. His heart sank at the sight of it. Past the park where they'd walked on summer evenings.
Then he saw it. Their building. Their apartment. Still standing.
Richter turned off the engine and climbed off the motorcycle. His legs shook as he walked toward the door. His hands trembled as he reached for the handle.
The door was unlocked.
He pushed it open and stepped inside. The hallway was dark. The stairs creaked under his boots. He climbed to the second floor, to their apartment, and stopped in front of the door.
What if she wasn't there? What if she'd left? What if she were…
He pushed the door open.
Candlelight flickered inside. A single candle on the kitchen table. And there, standing by the window, was Greta.
She turned quickly with fear in her eyes.
For a moment, neither of them moved or said anything. They just stared at each other as if they had never seen each other before. Her face was pale. There were dark circles under her eyes.
But she was alive.
"Klaus?" Her voice was barely a whisper. Like she didn't believe it. Like she thought he was a ghost.
"It's me."
She ran across the room and threw her arms around him. Her body shook against his. She was crying, her face buried in his chest.
Klaus held her tight. His ribs hurt, but he didn't care. He just held her, breathing in the smell of her hair, feeling the warmth of her body against his. Then they kissed.
"They said most officers were being shot," she whispered. "I thought you were…"
"I know. I'm here now. I'm here."
She pulled back, looking up at his face. Her hands touched his face like she was making sure he was real and not a figment of her imagination.
"But how?" She asked. "And are you wearing a Soviet uniform?"
"I err… stole it. No time to explain, Greta. We need to leave. Right now." He said urgently.
"What? Klaus, I don't-" she began, but he cut her off mid-sentence.
"There's a way out of Germany. A ship to Argentina. But we have to go tonight. Now!"
Greta's eyes widened. "Argentina?"
"Yes. I'll explain everything on the way. Pack what you can carry. Quick. We leave in five minutes."
Greta nodded slowly. She moved through the apartment, gathering things as fast as she could. Clothes. Papers. A photograph of them on their wedding day. She put everything into a small bag.
Richter watched her as she moved about hurriedly. A sense of comfort and calmness washed over his weary heart as he watched her. It all came back to him, the way her blonde hair fell to her face, how she gracefully tossed her head, her blue eyes, her gentle laugh, and the way she bit her lip with a frown when she was thinking.
"I'm ready," she said smiling.
He smiled back at her.
They went downstairs together. He helped her into the sidecar. She held her bag on her lap. He climbed onto the bike and started the engine.
"Godspeed" he said.
The motorcycle pulled away from the building. Away from their apartment. Away from Berlin.
They drove south through the darkness. Greta sat silent in the sidecar, her face turned toward the road ahead. The headlight cut through the night, a single beam of light showing them the way.
The road stretched on, long and winding.
It was darker now. Perhaps nearing midnight. The stars were disappearing. Then whole sections of sky were going dark, like something was erasing them.
He looked up. The darkness was spreading, creeping across the sky like spilled ink on white paper.
"Klaus?" Greta's voice was quiet. "Are we going the right way?"
"Yes," he said. "Just a bit farther."
But he wasn't sure anymore. The road looked different. Narrower.
The motorcycle's engine sounded strange. Not the smooth rumble from before. Something rougher. Louder.
"How much longer?" Greta asked.
"Soon," Klaus said. "Anytime now."
He glanced at her. She was looking straight ahead, her face calm. Too calm. Her hands were folded in her lap. She wasn't holding onto anything. Wasn't bracing herself against the bumps in the road.
"Greta?" He asked with care.
"Yes?" She answered.
"Are you all right?" asked Richter with concern.
"At least we are together now," she said. She turned to look at him and smiled. "That's all that matters."
Tears welled in his eyes.
The headlight was dimming, it seemed. Or was the night getting darker? Either way, he could barely see six feet ahead.
How long had they been driving? An hour? Two hours? It felt like days.
"Almost there," he muttered. "Almost there."
A shape appeared in the road ahead. Richter squinted, trying to make it out. A person? An animal?
No. A soldier.
Standing in the middle of the road. Wehrmacht uniform. Just standing there, rifle at his side, staring at them, not moving aside.
Richter had to make a sharp turn to avoid hitting him. The motorcycle wobbled. He looked back, and the soldier was gone.
"Did you see that?" he asked.
"See what?" Greta said.
Richter didn't answer. His heart was racing. His vision blurred at the edges. He blinked hard, trying to focus.
More shapes appeared. Soldiers lining up on the side of the road. Dozens of them. No. Hundreds. All in Wehrmacht uniforms. All standing perfectly still, watching them pass.
He recognized their faces. Men from his unit. Men who'd died in Russia. In France. In Berlin.
"They're not real," he whispered. "They're not real."
"What's not real Klaus?" Greta asked.
The soldiers faded. The road was empty again.
Richter's breath came in short gasps. His chest felt tight.
"Klaus, you're scaring me." said Greta.
He looked at Greta. Her face was pale in the dim light. Her eyes were dark. Too dark.
"We're almost there," he said. His own voice sounded far away. "Just hold on."
Lights appeared ahead. Golden lights. Warm and welcoming. "Do you see the lights?" he asked.
"Yes, Klaus," Greta said softly. "I see them."
"Almost there," he said. "Almost."
Greta's hand reached out and touched his arm. Her fingers had gone cold. Ice cold.
"Klaus," she whispered. "Let go."
"No."
"You have to let go."
"I can't. We're so close. We're…"
"Let go. You have done well. You have done enough."
Her voice was fading. Her face was fading. Everything was fading. Everything but the lights. The lights grew brighter and nearer, almost blinding.
The motorcycle's engine died.
He felt himself falling forward. Felt the handlebars slip from his grip. He felt the world spinning.
The lights swallowed everything.