Forever Greta

By Harald Lutz Bruckner

Greta and her young son, Nick, narrowly escape death during the bombing of Dresden in February 1945. Undertaking a daring drive through war-torn Germany, they flee to be reunited with her family in Essen. While Greta's husband, Kurt, is imprisoned by advancing Russian troops, she is caught off guard by André, a French POW who falls in love with

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hideaway Park Press
• Release date: Nov 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985338430

Harald Lutz Bruckner

Harald Lutz Bruckner, author of The Blue Sapphire Amulet, Escape on the Astral Express, A Wanderer on the Earth, The Born-Again Phoenix, Harald's Garland, Lighthouse Mystery, Doretta's Damnation, A Backward Glance at Eden, Obsessive Compulsion, and Forever Greta hails from Germany but has spent his adult life in the United States. His work and educational adventures have taken him from merchandising/retailing, the teaching of German and World Literature, to a career in Audiology and the challenges of working with hard-of-hearing and deaf children and adults. Among his favorite academic subjects to teach were his offerings in sign language. In 1981, he discovered the magic of painting in transparent watercolors and has never stopped painting. Moving to sunny Arizona from the high country of Colorado in 2003, caused a major shift in his subject matter, changing from a primarily realistic orientation to one of total abstraction. Since his retirement from academia, Bruckner pursued his passions for travel, art, music, and the enjoyment of writing.

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Acknowledgments

IT gives me great pleasure to see another of my novels reach the stage of publication. I’m especially thankful for a small group of dedicated readers and their many comments, suggestions, and corrections. This circle of friends includes Donald Berk, Kevin Burns, Eric Hucke, Bette Packer, Duke Southard, Vikki Stea, and Lawrence E. Long. Sadly, Larry is no longer with us, and he is greatly missed by all, including his fellow writers. Without his encouragement during the dark days of the Pandemic, Forever Greta would not have been thought of or written. My sincere gratitude goes to the staff of Wheatmark Publishing for their efforts in bringing this latest novel to fruition. I wish to recognize especially Wheatmark’s Senior Project Manager, Lori Conser, for her dedicated and diligent work leading to the publication of my writings during the past six years. Many thanks are due those who have encouraged me to continue writing, especially the members of the Green Valley Writers’ Forum and family and friends. Last but not least, I want to extend my appreciation to my wife, Lynne, with heartfelt thankfulness for her endless hours of reading and providing suggestions during the creative process, critical editorial commentary, and invaluable support throughout my many hours of writing. Thanks, Lynne, for your loyal support for fifty-nine years.

Chapter 1

OSKAR Schulmeister limped across the Augustusbrücke [Bridge of August] at noon on February 6, 1945. No matter how often he had crossed the Elbe on the old bridge, he never failed to admire the Semperoper, the Brühlsche Terrasse [Bruhl’s Terrace], and the majesty of the Frauenkirche [Church of Our Lady]. Today he wouldn’t take the time to walk slightly out of his way to admire the famous Fürstenzug [Procession of Princes]. Oskar picked up his pace as he continued down Schloßstrasse [Castle Street] toward the Altmarkt [old market]. He couldn’t wait to be welcomed by the fragrances of yeast, caraway, and fennel upon entering his favorite bakery in Dresden’s Altstadt [old town]. More enticing would be the smile on Greta Beerenbaum’s face that would greet him.

There was something about her smile, always in concert with a twinkle in her eyes. Unlike the fashionable upswept do, the Entwarnungsfrisur [All Clear Do], Greta preferred her blond bob with just a hint of a wave. She still missed her favorite stylist, Alfredo, during her weekly visits to the beauty salon. He had long ago been drafted and reported killed in some Godforsaken place in Russia. She had cried bitter tears when she learned of his death.

As far as her clothing, Greta sported that Marlene Dietrich look. Even her voice echoed a certain resemblance to that of the famous movie star. She didn’t care what Hitler thought of women wearing trousers. Elegant silken frocks had given way to smartly styled high-quality woolen slacks that were tailor-made. She always wore sparkling white lab coats in the shop, her name, Greta, hand embroidered in pale blue close to the left lapel. Unlike for the masses, there never was a shortage of Persil [common German laundry detergent] and lye soap in the house of Beerenbaum. Rarely did she wear rouge or lipstick. She didn’t care that the ever-present freckles on her face were exposed; she didn’t have time to powder her nose and waste precious minutes on all the other folderol to change her appearance.

No longer did she hide her passion. When not in the bakery, she would indulge and place one of her cigarettes in a silver holder and smoke to her heart’s content, not that her Ecksteins were necessarily of the pre-war quality she treasured. One of her customers, on occasion, traded some hand-rolled cigarettes for a loaf of bread. Perhaps subconsciously, her habit of reaching for a Piepchen [German slang for cigarette] was a protest against the ruling power.

Greta loved wearing high heels and never owned less than three fur coats. The only time she would dress elegantly these days was when she attended the Semper opera. The last time she went was for a world premier in February 1944. She didn’t like going out on her own, much less to leave Nick alone, no longer having the luxury of live-in help. It would have been different were she living at home in Essen. She was certain her mother still had a personal maid.

On this sunny morning she stood behind the counter. The tinkle of a bell announced Oskar’s arrival. He inhaled deeply, his nose searching for the wonderful smells stored in memory. He was astounded by the total emptiness of all shelves and display cases as he looked around the bakery shop. There was only the slightest hint of his dreamed-about spices hanging in the air. Even Greta’s luminous greeting could not dispel his utter loss of culinary pleasure.

Welcome, Oskar. I can tell by your sour face that you’re disappointed. I don’t have a single loaf left. I sold the very last one about an hour ago. When I opened the shop at seven this morning, the regulars were standing in line clutching their ration stamps in their mittened hands. The temperatures have been frightful. I don’t need to remind you of that. How’s your wife doing? Wasn’t she taken to the hospital with pneumonia?

"Erna is back home. She was lucky they caught it right away. I ration the little bit of coal we have left in our bunker. Shutting down the potbelly stove overnight helps to conserve what we have. I make sure I revive the coals first thing in the morning before she rises. Erna hates to climb out from under the Federbett [duvet]. It’s a problem you never have. With the heat rising from the Backofens [baking ovens] below, the store and your living quarters are always pleasantly temperate."

How true. Kurt often talked about wanting to add a couple of floors to the one-story structure of the old building and move the ovens to the ground floor. With the way things are now, I’m glad he didn’t have a chance to act upon his plans.

Do you have any news from Kurt?

Neither his parents nor I have heard from him in forever. I assume he’s still alive and believe in ‘no news is good news.’ He’s never allowed to mention where he is. I imagine he’s still somewhere in the East. He was deep into Russia when his regiment began its retreat. These days I can’t even call his parents in Moritzburg.

I know what you mean, Oskar nodded.

Kurt’s father still works as the gardener at the old castle. They haven’t drafted him because of his history with tuberculosis. His mother takes in laundry to keep the ship afloat. They are very proud people and refuse my offers to help them. Kurt is their only child.

How well I remember when you took over the old bakery in 1933. Kurt had served his apprenticeship under the old codger. Much of the place had fallen into ill repair. You had just been married in Essen a few months earlier. I forgot how you two met.

Well, Kurt was heavily into athletics in those days. He had competed in the 1928 Olympics in Amsterdam. On his way back to Moritzburg, he and some of his compatriots overnighted at my parents’ inn in Essen. It was love at first sight. We were married two years later. When Master Baker Anton Kropf passed away, his daughter, who lives in Hamburg, was only too happy when Kurt offered to buy the place. I was glad my parents could help us in making Kurt’s dream of owning his own business come true.

How are you managing to keep the place open, having lost most of the men working for you?

I’m down to the last apprentice. He just started his third year with me. I’m lucky he is small of stature at age sixteen. If he was any bigger, they probably would have nabbed him as well. That would mean closing the bakery for sure.

You’re in a real fix. No manpower and little flour, Oskar said.

"If things get much worse, I don’t know what we’ll have left to bake. I’m not particularly proud of our product these days. The only time the bread is edible is straight out of the oven. When cold, the loaves make great doorstops. There’s hardly any flour in the loaves; it’s mostly sawdust. Luckily Kurt had bags and bags of spices hoarded. Thus the Kommissbrot [army bread] at least has some taste."

How’s Nick? How old is the boy now?

He’ll be ten next month. I’m thrilled to have him with me. She fussed with her lab coat; it had ridden up on her wool slacks. Remember, as the sign in the window says, I’m closing on Saturday after the last loaf is sold. I’m driving to Moritzburg to spend a few days with Nick’s grandparents. Kurt’s parents are looking forward to having us and Felix, the German shepherd, with them for a while. Grandpa will be pleased to spend time with his grandson.

That will be good for all of you. How do you keep Felix fed?

I’m lucky. We are good friends with the butcher two doors down. He’s keeping me in bones and scraps. As for us, it’s becoming slimmer pickings from day to day for him as well. He’s toying with the idea of selling horse meat. Lord knows how all of this will end. She rolled her eyes heavenward. Oskar understood what Greta tried to convey. Neither felt a great love for Herr Hitler and his grandiose ambitions that led the country into an abyss.

Well, Greta, I’d better head home. Erna is probably wondering what’s taking me so long. She has no idea how impacted I am by having to wear the prosthetic device on my left leg. I was lucky to escape from the war in 1918 with just a lost limb. Millions never made it home. You have any idea when you’ll be back?

I’m planning to drive back into town on the morning of February 16. Hans, the apprentice, is taking a break as well. His parents have a farm in the country.

I’ll come across the river early this next Saturday. Be good enough and hide a couple of loaves under the counter, would you?

Yes, I will. I’m not supposed to do that. But you’re almost like an old friend of the family. If I can’t do it for you, for whom could I do it?

See you Saturday. Be safe. Oskar shook her hand lightly and turned to leave. His shoulders were sagging in disappointment of leaving empty-handed.

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True to her word, Greta hung the sign in the window of the Beerenbaum Bakery on Saturday. It read Geschlossen bis 11 Uhr, 17. 2. 1945 [closed until 11 o’clock February 17, 1945]. She made certain all of her valuables, money, and important papers were tucked away in the large safe housed in the bowels of the old building. Nick helped her with getting two small suitcases stashed in the trunk of the little Steyr. Felix lay across both seats in the back of the car. She was fully aware she violated the laws of the land. Greta didn’t care. If she was stopped, she would lie and say a relative died.

She turned to Nick as she slid into the slightly worn seat. Did you pack up some bones to keep Felix happy during the drive?

Yes, Mom. He’ll be just fine. I know Grandpa will have lots of food on hand for his favorite dog.

Greta smiled. That’s one thing that’s good about living in the country. Grandpa still keeps a couple of hogs on the sly and butchers them with the help of a neighbor’s kid who’s aspiring to be the town’s next owner of a butcher shop. I wonder if your grandparents have had word from your father. It’s been ages since he sent his last note.

Mom, he’s like me. He doesn’t like to write. He’d rather pick up a phone and call. I know that’s tough to do from Russia. From what I saw in the movies, outside of the big cities, it’s a sea of mud.

When were you at the movies?

"A few weeks ago. Horst and I went after school. Our teacher was sick and they let us out early. His mother had to work that afternoon. I had my allowance with me and treated him. I knew you were busy in the shop and wouldn’t miss me. They were playing Damals [Back Then] at the Odeon. It’s that movie with your favorite, Zarah Leander. That’s when I saw the newsreel. They showed lots of Russians hanging from trees. It almost made me throw up."

Why didn’t you tell me before?

Don’t know. Guess I didn’t want to worry you. Those pictures were terrible. God, I hope Papa is okay. I want this war to go away. I haven’t seen father since he was taken into the service. Was it six years ago?

I’ve stopped counting. I miss him too. I thank God everyday that he gave me you, Greta said. They both fell silent and kept their eyes on the road. It wasn’t long before they spotted the Moritzburg Castle in the distance.

Greta pulled up in front of the old abode. It was draped heavily in wisteria bines still covered with dried leaves and flowers mourning the passing of summer, 1944. Come May there would be once again a profusion of color ranging from pale blue to the deepest purple.

Henrietta and Georg Beerenbaum emerged from the small house as Greta and Nick got out of the car. Georg and his wife extended a handshake to their daughter-in-law but briefly hugged their grandson. There never were any expressions of warmth between Kurt’s parents and Greta. As much as she longed for it, she didn’t succeed in bridging the gap between Kurt’s family and her own. Henrietta found it difficult to accept her daughter-in-law who never knew anything but a world of affluence. After almost fifteen years Greta gave up trying. Felix was more warmly received.

Henrietta offered tea or coffee. Alcohol hadn’t been served in the Beerenbaum home for years, at least as far as Henrietta was concerned. She believed it was the Devil’s water since Georg had heavily imbibed before diagnosed with his silent illness. She didn’t know he kept a bottle of Asbach Uralt [German brandy] hidden in the tool shed by the castle. He’d rinse his mouth with Odol, a powerful mouth wash, before leaving work—when he had felt the need to relax.

Have you heard anything from Kurt? Greta asked, walking into the barely lit home. She always found the place depressing.

Not a word. In a way, that’s good. At least he isn’t missing or dead, in which case they would have come knocking on your door or ours, Georg offered.

My sentiments exactly. No news is good news. You’re right, Georg. He did not want to be called Father, Papa, or Herr Beerenbaum. Henrietta preferred Mutter Beerenbaum, a small concession to warmth. I can’t believe he’s been gone for more than five years. When he was taken into the service in 1940, or was it 1939? "I’d always hoped he would be furloughed now and then. That didn’t happen. He wasn’t in France all that long before they moved him to the Eastern front. There wasn’t anything he could do about it. In the beginning I received a few scribbled notes. There’s been nothing for more than... Greta halted two years?" She couldn’t believe it had been that long.

Georg patted the dog and played with the pup and his grandson. How’s school going, Nick? What are your favorite subjects?

You ask me that every time I see you. I love geography, math, and sports. The other stuff is of no interest to me. Of course, our teacher keeps talking about getting ready to join the Hitler Youth after I turn ten in March. We’re having practice sessions in marching and saluting the Führer properly.

That’s a good boy. Your father will be proud of you, Georg said.

Greta just nodded and smiled. She was well aware of Kurt’s negative opinion of the great leader who often proclaimed the Nazi regime would live one-thousand years and more. If the Allies play it right, this war will be over in less than a year. My God; Kurt might come home! Greta knew when not to speak.

Henrietta prepared a humble meal of brown soup—nothing but singed flour, water, and salt. It was in keeping with the times and her cooking skills. Conversation was sparse and both Greta and Nick were relieved when they were encouraged by their hosts to consider retiring early.

On the weekend, mother and son went for long walks in the public parks of the Moritzburg Castle. Nick was fascinated by the turrets and the fact that it sat on an island. He was intrigued by the water surrounding the property. On occasion, being an inquisitive boy, he peeked into a window but never saw anyone living in the castle.

Why do they have Grandpa look after their gardens if no one is here to enjoy the hard work he does? Nick wanted to know.

I don’t have an answer. You’ll need to ask your grandfather. I know he’s been thankful to have the job. He loves being outdoors and enjoys his work. That’s a love you’ve inherited. Neither your father nor I are the gardening type. But I do enjoy the beauty of the place and the peace and quiet. It’s sort of desolate right now, but oh so pretty during all seasons but winter. And even that has a certain beauty, the bare branches reaching into the sky.

I’m glad we can escape to this place. I told Grandpa I would like to come with him next week when he has to tend to things. There won’t be much cutting of grass. You don’t mind, right? Grandma isn’t the easiest to be around.

That’s okay with me. I’ll manage with Grandma. Perhaps I can be of help in the house. It looks like it could stand a good dusting and washing of the floors. I don’t think the bathrooms have been properly scrubbed in a while. I don’t mind if you go off with your grandfather. He’s not in the best of health. We don’t know how much longer he’ll be with us.

Thanks, Mom. That works for me. Nick was pleased that he could escape the gloom of the house for a day or two.

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Everything changed on the evening of Tuesday, February 13. Nick was the first who heard the droning of hundreds of planes approaching. He got everyone’s attention. Grandma was frightened by the sound and wanted to run to a nearby bomb shelter.

Georg believed he needed to assure his family. Don’t worry. They won’t hurt us. They are probably on their way to hit Leipzig once again. They are not interested in Moritzburg or Dresden. There’s nothing here of military interest, only thousands fleeing ahead of the Russian invaders. It’s all old and cultural stuff; we are perfectly safe.

It was only a matter of minutes before they beheld the fate of Dresden with their unbelieving eyes. They could hear the cacophony of detonations as bombs struck the unsuspecting inhabitants of the Queen of Saxony, the capital of the State. Within moments of unloading their devastating cargo, the city of Dresden was turned into an inferno. Located less than ten miles from the city, Greta, Nick, and his grandparents viewed the rising flames that would render the pride of Saxony in ashes.

Greta cried out, Oh God, it’s all lost. My poor neighbors, my friends, my customers, our home. It’s all gone. She hugged Nick and held onto him.

Georg folded her into his arms. I would’ve never believed it if I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes. In time the events of this day will be viewed as one of the greatest crimes of this war. His eyes were flooded with tears.

They stood for hours as one squadron of planes followed another. Eventually, they sought safety in the bomb shelter. With small breaks in between, the bombing of Dresden continued into Thursday, February 15. Greta feared there would be nothing left of the city. All she and Kurt had worked for would be gone.

Georg finally faced reality. You can’t go back. There can’t be anything left of the city.

How can you say that? I must go back and see what remains of our home. If nothing else, I need to see for myself what’s become of us and what we once owned. I must lend a helping hand to those who’ve survived this nightmare. She sobbed into Georg’s shoulder. Nick clung to his grandmother. It seemed in the desperation of the hour, her heart of ice had given way to much-needed warmth and empathy.

You won’t be able to drive into the city. You leave Nick and the dog with Mother. You and I will have to walk. It’ll take us a couple of hours, but we’ll make it together. You cannot face this alone, and Nick and the dog are better off with Grandma. You have no idea what we may encounter in hell on earth, Georg said.

Greta closed her eyes, trying to envision what hell might look like. She had no idea to what extent her father-in-law’s premonition would translate into harsh reality.

Chapter 2

ON the morning of February 17, Georg Beerenbaum believed it was high time to venture into the city. Nick wiped a couple of windows with the sleeve of his flannel pj’s. Peering into the distance, the sky appeared smudged by rising smoke. Nick was asked to walk Felix first thing in the morning and was thankful for fur-lined boots he’d brought with him. He slipped on the heavy wool peacoat. Georg yelled from the kitchen. Make sure you wear those insulated mittens; you’ll need’m this morning. Temperatures are well below freezing. It’s been one of the coldest winters in recorded history.

That isn’t exactly news. I’ve been freezing my butt off all winter long, Nick mumbled.

Georg, typically not outspoken, claimed his role as the patriarch of the clan. Nick, as much as you want to go with us, you must stay with Grandmother. It will be difficult enough for your mother and me to face the inevitable and to make our way on foot. Besides that, under the circumstances, I don’t want to leave your grandmother alone. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?

But Grandpa, what if our house was destroyed? What about all my things and my favorite toys? You wouldn’t know where to look, and I might recognize the stuff I truly care about among the rubble.

True, true, Nick. You just have to trust your grandfather and your mother. We have no idea what we will find. If there is anything that can be salvaged, we’ll make sure it isn’t lost. Be a good boy, and do as I’m asking you. Look in your room and check out the books I’m keeping. You might find something of interest. I know you always liked the magazines I buy about building model planes, ships, and cars. You will like the new book I just bought on interplanetary travel. When you were barely reading, you often looked over my shoulder to see what I was so intently studying. He gave Nick a slight touch on the behind and shooed him in the direction of the guest room and turned toward his daughter-in-law.

Greta, finish your coffee. We best be on our way. That mink of yours might be a touch too elegant for what we are about to undertake; however, looking at my thermometer, you better wear it for warmth. Don’t forget about gloves. I hope you have good tread on those boots of yours; you’ll need it this morning. Be prepared for lots of snow and ice on the roads.

He threw on his well-worn dark blue peacoat, donned his fur Chapka, and grabbed his warmest mittens. When he rose from under his Federbett [duvet] earlier, he saw no choice but to wear his thread-bare long johns and woolly socks. He slipped into the heaviest corduroys he could find among his arsenal of work pants and stepped into heavy fur-lined warm boots, knowing how cold it would be during their long march. Georg helped Greta into her coat and tied the fur hood firmly around her neck.

"Kiss your boy goodbye, and let’s be on our way. It will take us about two, perhaps three, hours to get there. If it wasn’t so cold and I knew what the Landstraße [country road] is like, we might’ve tried taking the bikes. It’s out of the question this morning. It will be a brisk walk. Taking your car isn’t even an option and could be a challenge; besides that, you’d be in real trouble with the authorities. That’s the last thing you need right now. Let’s hope the headwinds aren’t too strong."

They left shortly after nine. The sun desperately tried to penetrate the thick and acrid fog hanging in the air. Both Greta and Georg were two of many who joined the chorus of constantly coughing men, women, and children who were headed in the same direction. One might have thought they were in a sanatorium for those afflicted with lung issues. The irritating air affected their eyes, and they detected an unfamiliar odor in the air.

Greta finally spoke up. I should have brought my carnival mask; it might have come in handy this morning. Breathing in this stuff cannot be good for you, Georg. Are you sure you want to continue down this road?

"Don’t worry about me. Unkraut vergeht nicht [weeds don’t die]." He squeezed her arm and gave her a big smile.

You say that so lightly. I’m worried about what we might encounter when we are in the middle of things. The foul air seems to get thicker by the minute, and I’m aware of your condition.

I’ve been free of TB for years and have myself checked regularly. I’ll be just fine. Stop fretting about something so trivial by comparison to what we are about to face. Your life as you’ve known it may come to a very bitter end. You are young and don’t deserve this. Henrietta and I are old, have lived our humble lives, and have little to lose. You, Kurt, and Nick might have lost everything but your lives and the clothes on your backs. That’s a terrible future to confront. Just then, Georg almost slipped on the icy road and was barely caught by Greta’s firm grip on his right arm.

That was close, Greta said. We’d better concentrate on where we are walking rather than being philosophical. I’ll stop challenging you.

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They had walked close to three hours when they approached the Augustusbrücke, taking them across the River Elbe. They could barely make out the superstructure of the old bridge that was rebuilt thirty-five years earlier. It had stood the test of time. Although heavily damaged during the bombing, it was open to pedestrians trying to reach the Altstadt. A momentary break in the smoke enshrouding old Dresden allowed a glimpse into a scene of utter destruction. Greta held onto Georg as she raised her right hand, wanting to stifle her scream. Tears flooded her eyes; what they saw was beyond description. Words like apocalypse, calamity, catastrophe, annihilation, carnage flooded her mind. None of it made any sense. Why, of all places, destroy this part of the world long known as a shrine to culture and human endeavor in the arts?

The skyline of Dresden had vanished; the Hofkirche [Catholic Church of the Royal Court], the Semperoper [Semper Opera House], the Fürstenzug, [Procession of Princes], the Zwinger [Royal Palace and Gardens], and the Frauenkirche [Evangelical-Lutheran Church of Saxony since the Reformation]—just a few of the famous landmarks in the heart of the city—all lay in ruin. Nothing stood no matter where or how far they looked. The scene included men and women who had survived the attack, attempting to find, and perhaps rescue, someone still alive under the debris caused by the near-total destruction.

Greta and Georg held their noses; the stench of burning human flesh was pervasive. Only on closer inspection did their eyes behold the mounds of human bodies being burned in giant funeral pyres. These were friends and neighbors whose lives unexpectedly ended only hours ago, their earthly remains disposed of in undeserving ways totally lacking in human dignity and respect.

After maneuvering the many obstacles on Schlossstrasse, Georg sighted the spot where once stood the old bakery facing the Altmarkt. The blaze and smoke from another flaming pyre dominated the site where twice a week Dresdeners and visitors had enjoyed the colorful market scene. There was no way to describe what they saw and what they felt in their hearts.

Many of the ruins still smoldered after their total annihilation from bombs and incendiary devices. Greta’s brick home was flattened by the impact of explosives that had descended by the thousands upon the city. She couldn’t hold back any longer. We’ve lost everything. How can I face Nick? How can I face Kurt? What‘s left of the country for which he fought? Greta cried on the shoulder of her father-in-law.

He raised her chin gently and reached for his handkerchief. There, there. We are alive; by the grace of God, we are alive. All this is only brick and mortar; these are objects that can be replaced. Neither you nor Nick are among that pile of dead bodies being turned into ashes. Georg made the sign of the cross and pointed at the human remains being consumed by rising flames.

He spotted a wrought iron park bench covered in ash and soot. His bandana-like handkerchief came in handy in different ways. Georg used it like a fan to dust off a spot for Greta to sit.

She glanced at her mink, its tips sparkling with ashes. This is the height of lunacy; but darn, it’s keeping me from freezing. I hate saying it, the heat from the pyre of those on their way to eternity is giving me warmth!

Georg chose not to comment on Greta’s last outburst. "Let me crawl over the rubble and see if there’s anything worth recovering. Didn’t you have a large and substantial safe in the basement? Your house didn’t