Nazi Gold

Chapter 20 — Not all Rain Brings Thunder

A terrible rainstorm pummeled Dresden in the early morning hours. It came seemingly from nowhere and woke Heinz from a deep sleep. Shattering thunder cut through the darkness, keeping him from drifting off again, so he turned and checked the clock radio — 2:45am.

Snorting like an old boar, the tall German sat up to survey the room. The room glowed in blue from the light powder blue curtains that carried the electric flashes of lightning to the screens and walls and he could see the dripping shadows of the droplets against the window glass.

Heinz would never admit it, but since he was a child he was afraid of thunder. Its roar reminded him of his late father and his vicious orders when Heinz was a child in Bremen. The old drunk bastard had been a tyrant and often took his fists to Heinz and his sisters for no reason. A survivor of the Second World War, Heinz’s childhood was fraught with dreadful living conditions and hardships and one thing that persisted throughout was thunder — the thunder of his father’s threats and curses, the thunder of the bombs and grenades, the thunder of the cold nights after the slaughter of the day, rumbling on and on to warn the young Heinz that the ferocious gods were looking down on him.

Even now, as an old man, he still felt that uneasy feeling in his stomach whenever he heard the angry voice in the clouds and sometimes he could swear he heard his father’s curses in it. But he reminded himself that the past could not hurt him anymore and that he was now the thundering voice of the household, although his methods were more threatening than violent. His hand found nothing when he reached for Greta. Her side of the bed was empty, save for the mount of rumpled blankets.

“Greta?” he said, looking toward the bathroom door. It was shut, but he could see that the light inside was not on. Checking anyway, he switched on the light, but found the bathroom empty. Where would she be at this time of night? He braved the fury of the angry weather in the dark and made his way down the corridor to the spare rooms, but did not find her there either. He did not want to wake the Romanian boy in the adjacent room by calling for Greta, so he searched in silence.

Heinz descended the stairs and finally saw that the light in the guest bathroom was on behind the locked door.

“Greta?” he tried again, but she did not answer him. He frowned, his heart palpitating slightly at the terrible scenarios that flashed through his mind. Given his experiences in life with strangers and family alike, Heinz was prone to think the worst of mysterious situations and this one could present some pretty grisly options.

As he approached the illuminated door frame edges in the hallway with his feet on the cold marble floor scenes of his wife hanging from the pipes presented themselves. Then another mental image of her mangled body, ravaged by a stalking killer, came to mind. “Greta!” Now he shouted, but the weather was wild and the whistle of the gale drowned his voice.

Before he knocked on the door, calling her again, he placed his ear to the wood and listened. Inside he could hear weeping. Heinz was befuddled. Weeping occasionally became little muffled screams into what sounded like the dampening of a pillow. Another unsettling sound reverberated through the acoustics of the bathroom — profuse vomiting. He had enough. He hammered on the door, “Greta! Open up! Let me help!”

He chose his words carefully not to sound angry but concerned. Suddenly it was deathly still on the other side of the door. Nothing happened. Heinz was worried sick about his wife. Now he kept his voice as calm as he could, even though his heart sank at the sounds he had heard. He knew Greta better than anyone and she was never one to cry for nothing, and the fact that she chose not to discuss her unhappiness with him told him one of two things — she did not trust him with her feelings, or worse, she was crying about something he was not supposed to know.

“I’m alright, Liebling,” she croaked from inside the bathroom, “go back to sleep. I am just feeling a little off.”

“Then let me in,” he pressed.

“Heinz, I am fine. Go away!” she shouted.

He did not like that one bit. Gripping the copper doorknob in his giant hand, he started turning it with force to let her know he was coming in, it only a question of how he would gain entry.

Greta knew her husband could tear the door off its hinges if he wished, and that he would have no reservations in doing so, so with this she weakly dragged herself to the door on her knees and hands.

“Wait, goddammit!” she shouted as she slowly progressed to the lock. With great effort she turned the key and just collapsed right there, remaining motionless.

Panic stricken, Heinz gathered his wife up in his arms and in the flashing blue that lit up the contours and corners of the foyer and living room he carried her to the big velvet couch in the living area. Carefully he placed her on her back. Greta was still gripping the bloody towel in her hand that she had used to scream into. Her nose was lined with dry blood, as was the corners of her mouth and under her nails where she tried to cover her nose before she made it to the bathroom.

“My god, Greta, what is going on?” he asked. His normally robust voice was now reduced to a withering and sorrowful whine. He tried to wake her up, but she was out cold. Again the thunder sounded and he was too worried about his wife so he switched on the reading lamp next to the couch to have a good look at her. Her skin was moist and ashen; her lips blue and she had dark circles under her swollen eyes. It was obvious that she had been sobbing for a long time as well, the weeping had heard from outside the door. Continually he tried to revive her with wet cold towels and calling her name, softly tapping her cheek with his palm and patting the back of her hand until she finally groaned.

Heinz felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders, but he knew it was not all well yet.

“Greta! Greta! Can you hear me?” he said loudly, still tapping to keep her conscious.

Greta’s eyes fluttered open and it took her a moment until she knew where she was. Then he gaze fell on her husband and her reddened eyes grew wide in terror.

“I am being punished, Heinz-Karl!” she wheezed suddenly, gripping his hand tightly as if he was holding her over the edge of a cliff face.

“Calm down. You fainted, probably dehydrated from the vomiting. You have to rest,” he said with reassurance while rubbing her fingers with his own.

“No! No, I am not safe! Listen to me. I am being hunted by my own deeds. My fate is sealed,” she blathered hysterically with eyes frozen in hellish fear.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, hiding well his absolute apprehension for his wife’s condition. “What could you ever have done that would have you in this state? You are a wonderful woman who has helped countless people all these years. Now come, you are talking nonsense,” he tried to sound encouraging, even light, but she would not settle down. Her grasp caused his fingers to go numb as she wailed in desperate sorrow.

“No, Heinz-Karl, no! I was…I am a bad person and my soul is doomed!” she cried. “My time is running out. My time…r-run…my t-t-time isss…”

Greta’s eyes fell shut again and she released her grip on his hand. Heinz checked her vitals and determined that she was only sleeping. Color had returned to her cheeks and lips and she breathed comfortably, so he carried her back to bed and covered her to rest. For the remainder of the night the horrific incident would not leave him be. The look in her face, her sincerity and the utter terror in her eyes haunted him as the thunder clapped and chased his heart in his chest until the windows grew light and the only the soft patter of rain was left of the terrible night.

At 8.00am Heinz took it upon himself to wake Radu. Greta was still fast asleep, something completely out of character for her. The woman was a tireless worker, even on Sundays sometimes, and to see her sleeping like a corpse, without any movement apart from her heaving chest, was disturbing. Her husband was gravely concerned, but he dared not summon the doctor for her yet. What if she was suffering some sort of psychotic break? All of Germany and most of the world, all the organizations that funded her, would hear about it and that could be detrimental to her business and ventures.

This was something that had to be handled with the utmost sensitivity.

Even with all this going on, the politics involved, the secrecy everything had to be dealt with, Heinz’ worries came last. He was not allowed to fold. Ever. He had to keep his chin up and be the grim old German military man by Greta Heller’s side, the watch dog. There was no time for him to feel. There was no time for him to take a moment to emote about all the worries and nightmares living in his own heart, because he was not supposed to have a heart.

And strangely enough, at this time of emotional and psychological toil in which Heinz found himself alone, his first instinct was to seek the company of little Radu. The child had a wonderful old world wisdom about him, able to see through things others would never notice. Besides that, there was genuine warmth emanating the independent boy that Heinz now craved to keep company with. It bothered him that he felt this way, but he could not deny that some time with the only other member of his current household would remove him, momentarily, from whatever tortures his wife’s condition inflicted upon him.

“Radu,” Heinz said softly.

He did not want to put his hand on the child for fear that he might startle him. When this failed to wake Radu the old German raised his voice a little bit, speaking up as if he would in normal company. Radu stirred, his eyelids flinching. Heinz smiled.

“Hey, are you going to sleep all day?” he asked. In truth, Heinz just did not want to be alone in the big empty house.

“I wouldn’t mind sleeping all day,” Radu answered in a daze. His eyes remained closed, but he smiled. It lit up the old German’s heart. A bit of humor would do him well right now.

“Come! Let’s go have breakfast. I’m cooking,” he told the boy, and threw his previous day’s clothing on his bed. Of course Greta would never allow such a thing as wearing the same clothing two days in a row, but she was not here.

The atmosphere in the kitchen was depressing. The dark weather draped its dusky grey on everything.

“I think I want omelets,” Heinz said enthusiastically. It made Radu smile that the old man tried to be nice to him.

“With custard stuffing,” Radu added, evoking a grimace from the old German. Heinz leered playfully at him and pretended to give it some thought.

“What the hell, go get the leftover custard from the silver fridge. And bring me the eggs in the white fridge. We will need strength for the day ahead,” Heinz said.

They spent the entire rainy day inside, playing board games. Radu really enjoyed big scary Heinz and his dry sense of humor and in turn Heinz found someone that did not care who he was or what he was entitled to, only that he was a companion and that life was something, adults failed to realize, that should be taken one day at a time.