THE SEARCHERS

By Barbara Foster

Sergeant Johan Rheinsmidt, drawn up tightly in a ball, stared at the peeling concrete block wall beside him, the same wall he had grown familiar with for the last three years.  As he rolled over, his make shift bed groaned and creaked.  The bare rough sawed planks under him did not make sleeping very suitable.  In fact, every probing splinter in them felt like he was sleeping on a porcupine.

The abstract every flake of dingy paint made and every gaping crack were now burned into his memory.  This wall was his imaginary window to freedom outside.    The piercing wind whistling through separations in the blocks had made every night almost unbearable with the cold.  It also played a chorus of high-pitched songs that would have kept a hibernating bear awake.  The chill that accompanied the wind pierced through him like an arrow, making his body almost too stiff to move.   Maybe, someday, Johan imagined, that the cracks might get big enough that he could slip through them or he so paper thin that the cracks would just swallow him up.  He squeezed his eyes shut, dreaming of escape. 

As he drew his postage stamp size blanket around his neck, he knew, of course, that he would probably never leave this prison detention camp and that he was destined to die on these boards.  At least, all they would have to do is nail the planks together and sandwich him between them.  As his thoughts wandered to his mother, tears swelled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheek.  He wiped his face with his ragged sleeve, for he was sure that, in his heart, his mother would die not knowing what happened to her dear son.  He was the only family she had left.  The war had robbed her of everyone else in its quest for victory. 

The year was 1945 and the war was quickly coming to an end.   As with every German man, Sergeant Rheinsmidt fulfilled his patriotic duty by enlisting in the German Army.  Their ambition had been built on the empty promise that they would soon rule Europe.  Sadly, little did they remember that history always seems to repeat itself and powers bigger than Germany had met the same fate for their overconfidence.   If Germany had just taken heed of just how Napoleon finally met his Waterloo, their invasion of The Soviet Union in December 1942 might have had a different outcome.   Their pride and arrogance quickly turned to defeat and capitulation when the Soviet Army captured them as they were freezing and starving on the frozen banks of the Kiev.  Capturing Stalingrad was now meaningless.

The gears of the German Army had to now shift towards survival.  Unfortunately for Johan and his comrades, it was over for them.  The last ditch effort to save this part of German’s elite army and its’ reputation from total ruination was now cramped in boxcars heading for the frozen wasteland of the bowels of Russia.   This ended Johan and his troops forever from ever finishing their part in the war.  The only thing Johan had now was the fortitude to survive the trip, all the other poor unfortunate souls were left behind to die and rot.

These three years that Johan has spent here have been a true trial of faith and endurance.  Sadly, he knew that many of his strong comrades in neighboring cells had collapsed and died from nothing else but sheer broken hope of ever being set free.  Fellow troops strong as bulls were immediately put to work building railroads tracks that led to nowhere.  But, they had withered away to mire fragments of walking and breathing corpses in their forced labor.   It was a miracle that Johan had survived all this time for he was not as strong as they.  Weighing now under a hundred pounds, Johan fought to eat everything that happen to crawl within arm’s reach.  One good thing about these cracks, they allowed enough insects to squeeze in to be snatched right up.

This particular day starting off different from all the others, Johan felt.  Something was amiss in the activity outside of his door.   Being in a compound surrounded by nothing but miles and miles of vast wasteland for three years, he had learned all the smells, noises and habits that patterned around his life.  Pungent body odors that had drifted around him every day started to diminish.  Muffled noises from adjoining cells were now elevated to an almost discernable level.  Furthermore, all that stale air that soured his senses was now subsiding as fresh air from the outside rushed down the corridor.  The corridor started to lose its opaqueness as the light bounced down the halls.

"What day might it be?" Johan thought to himself as he raised himself up on one elbow as if he could get a better view.  He stared at the steel battered door that had kept him isolated.  The thick glass in the window of his door now displayed a different shade of dark.  He squinted at his wall, trying to calculate by the hash marks he made on the wall what day it was. 

"Judgment day, maybe?" Johan tried to count them out on his fingers.  "Or maybe this is the day of my execution?"

The Russians had reduced them to mere subhumans in just three years.  So maybe, it was time.  He was ready to end this existence; this process of breathing in.  It was not what one would describe life.  Just a manifestation of how cruel humans can be to their fellow man.  Johan lowered himself back on his bed; glad finally that this was it.  He was too frail and weak to care otherwise.  Maybe, at least in heaven, he would be with his mother again.  Deep down in his heart, he felt a sharp pang, for he knew she was waiting for him there.  He started to say his prayers like his mother had always reminded him to do for strength and courage. 

Down the corridor, he picked up the noises that started to drift his way, getting noticeably louder and louder.  He had been able to distinguish each guard's footstep from each other as they used to sashay by.  But their gait was different today, a hurried pace that kept getting closer and closer.  The clatter that the cell keys always made as they dangled from the waist of the guards was not noticeable today.  "Odd," He visualized being shot through the cell window as he lay right in his bed.  Johan drew his woolen tissue thin blanket up over his head peeking through a moth hole.  As the clatter of steel toed shoes stopped in front of his door, he was afraid to look, afraid to see who had been given the order.  “Private Rheinsmidt, achtung! Stand at attention,” the guard snapped.  "That is your name, is it not?" as he yelled through the steel door.  "No, I am Sergeant Johan Frederick Rheinsmidt of the German Army, Sergeant, Sir" Johan shouted, trying to keep his voice from quivering. 

He tried to muster energy for he had one last plan of attack.  If the door were to open, he would make one last try at escape before they shot him down like a dog. 

Johan stood up, shaking as he tried to maintain his balance on his spaghetti-thin legs.    As he faced the door, he pulled up as straight as he could.  After three years of lifting and tugging railroad ties that were three times his weight, it had taken a tremendous toll.  As the door unlocked with an echoing clang, the noise was almost deafening.   He squinted as the door swung open.  The guard shoved it so hard that it hit the wall behind it.   Johan flinched, but noticed that the key was left in the lock on purpose. 

The light blinded Johan.  He could see down the corridor that all the doors were open now and light was reflecting off of every wall, bouncing back down to the end where he was. 

“Oh, I get it, I am to be shot while trying to escape ” Johan quickly assumed.  As he stood, the guard stepped back away from the entrance to his cell. 

“You’re free, it is over.  I have your release papers.  They are all in order,” he snapped.  “All incarcerated foreign troops have been ordered to leave the country immediately, by orders from headquarters in Moscow, so depart, quickly.”

Johan stared at him, his heart started to race.   “Free? You say I am free?”   The burly guard turned on his heel and marched back down to the main corridor like a wind up toy soldier, contributing nothing more. 

As Johan made one shaky step outside his cell, he glanced both ways with caution.  He knew what kinds of games that had been played here before.  Familiar voices, laughing voices, crying voices were everywhere.  As he toppled towards them, he glanced back just once more to confirm that he, not his ghost, was in fact leaving this hell. 

Johan made his exit outside as quickly as his legs would carry him.  He had nothing to gather except thread-bear clothes on his back and the blanket that he had draped over his shoulder.  As he hoppled through the door, sun hit him as he looked up to the heavens to thanks God for finally remembering all his children here.   His first breathe of fresh air almost consumed him as he took in as much as his lungs would allow.  The rays of the sun reached down and caressed his face.    Suddenly stopping short, he stooped low as if he was dodging bullets. 

“Maybe this was an ambush? Maybe this is a ruse to get rid of us by making us decoys in an imaginary escape attempt?” With squinting eyes, Johan scanned his surroundings.  No machine-guns, no troops guarding the stockade, no nothing.  However, the whole place was busting with activity.  Every guard, like worker bees, was too busy gathering all their personal property that no one paid any attention to Johan and his remaining regiment.  All that had survived this chamber of horrors tried to muster together in the middle of the compound.  Watching all that was unfolding around them, Johan tried to count heads. 

Finally, the commandant appeared.  He made his grand entrance from the main guardhouse and approached.  A tall man, lean and unpredictable like a caged animal, he had the look of authority.  As they watched him walk down the stairs towards them, they pooled their strength together to make a halfway distinguishable line of formation.  Johan stood at attention and held his salute as best he could as he marched towards them.  They all watched with suspicion.  Testing his knowledge of the German language, Commandant Commacheft extended his hand to Sergeant Rheinsmidt. 

“All are free to go.  Just leave.  The war is over and everyone has been given a reprieve to return home”, Commandant promised, cracking a smile in that stern, disciplined face.  Johan was the first to break rank and he acknowledged him with an extended handshake for a final tribute of the good will gesture. 

“May we leave now?” Johan questioned.  “Yes, sooner the better for I have arranged a train to take all of you home”. 

“Oh?” Johan thought.  The hairs on the back of his neck bristled for all the tracks that his men had laid did not lead anywhere but east.  Germany was west.  But, true to his word, before the day was over, Johan and his ragged troop were on the next train, heading west. 

It felt good to be part of the living again, Johan thought as he leaned out of the boxcar.  The wind whipped his face as his tears streaked across his cheeks.  His thoughts were now of home and his mother.   But, deep in the back of his mind, fear lurked.   Johan was sure that if he closed his eyes, he would be back into his cell again.  The odor, the muffled cries, the intimidation will haunt him forever.  So when the train signaled the end of the line, it came to a rolling stop.  Johan and all of his weary troops piled out as fast as they could.  The priority now was to get as far away as they could from the idling steam engine and its belching black smoke.  As the Russian sentries watched from above, their rifles were slung over their shoulders as if the only thing they needed was just one final burst of gunfire to finish the job. 

As soon as their feet hit the dirt, they stormed the forest that lined the railroad right a way, glancing behind them as they ran.  Johan tried to help as many as he could for everyone was weak from hunger.  He thought of the watery borsch that had been flung his way every day.  Maybe, the broth wasn’t so bad after all since he was ravenous.   Hunger was something that he had adjusted to.  Even though his belly felt wrapped around his spine, his goal was to get as far away from the train as possible.  Dark descended upon the shivering knot of men sooner than anyone had expected.  With no shelter or warmth, they all clung to each other. 

Morning broke early and everyone woke with a new fervor, knowing that getting home was going to be a bittersweet victory.   As Johan gathered his thoughts of what was facing everyone, he encouraged all to stick together but got few takers.  “If we all stay together, our strength combined will help all of us” he tried to convince them that strength was in numbers.  But it was to no avail. 

 “I can go no farther ” confessed Peter as he looked up to the sky.  Peter thought to be the youngest of all of them, bore the image of a toothless old man; a man that had spent his life, begging in the street.  The meager diet and forced labor proved to be his ultimate demise.  As Johan studied his features, his pale face resembled a wiry ghost.  His arms looked as brittle as twigs, too.  Maybe, the disembodied demon of Russia that had accompanied all of them, Johan thought. 

“Home is not far,” Johan urged as he studied Peter, concluding that Peter had lost all his will to live.  He was sprawled on a carpet of grass staring into space.  They all could see the mask of death on his face starting to form.  Johan sighed, as least he did not die in the bowels of the prison.  A moment of silence fell on everyone as they watched him surrender to his fate.  Still, no one could agree on the best way home so everyone broke ranks and took off at every angle into the forest.  It was now survival of the fittest.  With nothing but what was on his back, Johan started out on his own, relying on his intuition and raw courage to get back home to his mother.  He knew that she would be waiting for him on the steps of their home. 

“Goodbye, comrades, stay among the trees and off main paths” was Johan’s last command as he yelled at the disappearing figures among the trees.  He took one last long look at the supine figure as he whispered a final prayer to God.  “Sad, indeed, but maybe he has found rest at last,” Johan murmured. 

Johan knew the sun and its movement in the sky.   He knew the forest and its’ secrets from his papa.  These basic skills were nothing new to him.  His father taught him this ancient art as they played an imaginary game of survival.  He thanked him for taking the time that they had spent together pretending that they lived in the days of the Neolithic early man.  He was not afraid. 

Johan spent the most of his first day putting distance between him and his fallen comrade, Peter.   He did not want to linger too long in the vicinity of him.  His fate was something that no one wanted to share.  Johan felt a pain of guilt for not burying him but with nothing but his bare hands and maybe a stick, it would have been impossible.  But as a final consolation, however, Johan covered the silent face of Peter with his precious blanket.  Peter had won in a way for at least he did not die on the frozen Russian tundra.  Johan shuddered as he plowed through tall weeds and thorny wild rose bushes. 

The forest was teeming with activity that first day.  He ventured down into a creek bed; plunging into the sweetest water he had tasted since his capture.  As he knelt, he remembered that his papa had taught him not to gulp on an empty stomach.   He rolled over on his back and allowed the trickling stream wash off his lingering despair.  He watched as the birds soared up in the sky.  If only he could fly, he thought.   Digging in the mud of the creek, he was able to amass a small snack of crawdads and frog eggs.  Johan closed his eyes, as they disappeared quickly in his mouth.

Night was fast approaching and Johan welcomed it now.  He was so exhausted that words could not even describe it.  Crawling under low hanging branches of a majestic pine, he made a soft bed out of the boughs.  His makeshift blanket of fallen leaves and pine needles warmed him contently.  Maybe sleep would ease his pains. 

His second day started out with a bang.  As dawn broke, the forest came alive.  He heard deer rustle by as they foraged for food.  Watching through the parted branches as they tore at the ground, he had not thought of grass being a delicacy.  Grass? Maybe not very palatable, but at least there was no end of supply.  As he crawled out, he brushed off the sleep.  In exposing himself to the creatures of the forest, they all made a hasty retreat.  The birds also scolded him for not knowing that they had shared their bed with him.   Johan grabbed a handful of grass as he trekked on.  He followed the animal paths until mid morning.  The footpath was at least very manageable with the shoes he had claimed back in the boxcar.  Luckily, everyone had been thrown a pair of shoes by the guards as they climbed in the boxcar.  Some had sizes two times too big for their feet, some had shoes with no soles and some had shoes that only went on one foot.  At least, he was thankful for some sort of protection for his feet as he plodded along broken twigs and jagged rocks. 

His next day was just a productive as his first.  He was able to wash down a breakfast of bird eggs and fat grubs.  Waking up to the sound of sweet gurgling water from the stream, he had developed a special relationship with it.   It had been his guide, his resource of his existence and his companion since he started out.  It called out to him as he followed it.  As it trickled down hills, crevasses and through grassy knolls, he pursued it.  He could sense it waving him on, pulling him up as he stumbled; just like an old friend.  It was very reliable in pointing him the way home.  He could sense it for the foliage now took on a familiar tone.

Dark approached fast as he was in his third day of his journey.  His resolution and determination strengthened him more now since he was able to identify and consume the meager roots and occasional wild radishes hidden amongst the brush.  He was proud to think that his mind had retained all that his papa had taught him.  Finding a glob on dried sap on the side of a tree and wild mushrooms that had pushed their little heads out from under fallen trees, reassured him that this night he would not go to sleep on an empty stomach.  As he let the sap dissolve slowly in his mouth, his thoughts wandered back in time to his papa.  Papa had taught him to be resilient and unwavering to whatever hardship that he had to overcome. 

He approached the next day with a reassuring fervor that he will see this through.  After he washed off the layer of earth that had been embedded into him as he slept, he faced the sun to capture its’ morning warmth.  His breakfast started off with a handful of cattail shoots growing among some wild garlic followed by several unfortunate minnows that Johan was able to splash up on the banks.  When his stomach stopped scolding him, Johan challenged all the ups and downs of the meandering creek with passion.  He also offered a challenge to the sun to try and catch him.  He sensed that all the birds were cheering him on, too.  As he entered a clearing mid morning, he stopped short of venturing out.  In the break of the tree line stood a campsite with a circle of ragged souls spread out around a fire.   He strained to hear any familiar words.  His attention was drawn to a small caravan of covered painted wagons sat off to the side, circling the fringe of the trees. 

“Gypsies”, he thought.  It was too late for him to retreat back as they spotted him along the edge.  The opinion of gypsies by the entire universe was that they were professional dinner guests, looking for the proverbial hand out.  They had the label of being highway robbers and thieves; clumped together as the scourge of Europe along with other subspecies that roamed the continent.  All were classified as an organism that fed on others, a race that contributed nothing to the betterment of a society.  A band of roving clumps of people that took advantage of generosity of others.  Therefore, it was justified to systematically exterminate them in this war just like the Jews.  They were a pestilent that needed to be eradicated.  At least, that is what Johan had always been taught. 

“Wie gehts” rang out as one of the men stood up.  Johan apparently looked like the creature of the forest and not part of a marauding band of murdering troops, for they did not show any fear as they waved him into their circle.  The smell that lingered from the cooking pot was like a magnet that drew him closer to the knot of people.  He approached with caution even though he had nothing to surrender or barter.  They also, apparently were seeking refuge in the forest too.

 “How goes it?” the main man said as he gestured to Johan.  Johan was skeptical but hungry for hot food and any word from the outside.  The man relinquished his spot by the fire for Johan.  He thanked him as he sat down with a thud.  His feet also thanked him. 

They were a tribe of desperate souls that had escaped the horrors of war by being swallowed up by the inner depths of the forest.  Hoping to survive in a war that was not theirs, they were always in the run.  “We are anxious to know of the war,” one asked in broken German.   Johan dared not let on that he was a soldier for fear of reprisal and rejection of any of their food. 

“I am trying to get back home to my mother, she is waiting for me”, Johan said, nervously.  He did not volunteer any more that he had to.  During these hard times, trusting strangers was not wise.  He dared not say where he had been or who he was.  “I have heard nothing, I had been caring for my dying grandfather over in the next village when she summoned me home”.  Johan could sense that they knew he was lying but they remained stoical.  Johan salivated as he looked at the simmering pot.   They did not offer any food nor did Johan ask for any.  In these hard times, sharing what food a family had with strangers was foolish.  It also meant cutting their chances for survival. 

Johan had taken the warmest spot next to the hot ashes.  The radiating heat felt good on his bare arms.  As he extended his palms out to absorb the heat, his eyes darted from face to face.    Mothers, children, and old men all watched him, skeptically.  Some of the toddlers even hid behind heavy folds of their mother’s colorful skirts, occasionally peeked out to examine him and his ragged appearance.   One elder finally broke the silence. 

“Do you have far to go?” he inquired.  “No, just over that rim and down the valley to the next village.” Johan tried to say in a rather convincing tone.  His government had taught him that they were not worthy of sharing mother earth with such a superior country like Germany.  But here was Johan, sitting beside them sharing their warmth and conversation like school classmates.  Their trademark was cheating and robbing all along the countryside.  But here, sitting next to them, he felt an affection and bond that was unexplainable.  They were just a sad band of people trying to survive, just like him.  They felt hunger, just like him.  They felt exiled, just like him.   They loved their family, just like him.  How ironic, he thought, that these people were God’s children, just like him.  Why, then did his government want to exterminate them too? “Then why must you be off?” asked one of the elders as Johan stood up.  “I really must go.  My family will become worried if I do not arrive soon.” Johan was wasting valuable daylight by staying.  Why did they want him to stay?

“We would appreciate if you at least stay and share our meager meal with us,” begged one of the elders.  Johan was speechless, for he was suspecting that they wanted him to share his meal with them.  The stereotype was going against the grain of what he had been taught all along of these parasitic people.  “ We want you to tell us what is going on outside.  We fear that the war will soon be licking at our heels.  With our children and elders, there are just so few places that we can hide anymore.”

Johan became very apprehensive.  How could he tell them that the war was over? How could he tell them who he was? He was part of an army that tried to eradicate their culture, their entire existence.  Johan was not sure how to approach this.  He wanted to stay but his instincts pleaded with him to retreat.  The soldier was still part of him.  However, he was tired and hungry; not only for hot food, but for conversation and companionship with a fellow human being.  Ironically, here he was, rubbing elbows with human beings that were not worthy of sharing the same table with, or so he had always thought.  All that he wanted was to take their food and give nothing in return.  In his mind, he felt like he was the gypsy.  He wanted to play the shell game that they were known for; hoping that he could grab what he could and leave.  It was not going to be that easy.  Johan plopped back down, apparently showing his exhaustion.

“We have only a scrawny rabbit to offer in a watery broth, not much around we can find to make it taste any better,” the elder said, defending the cook. 

As he sat cross-legged on the other side of the campfire, Johan studied him intensively.   His garb consisted of gaily-colored loose pants that were bloused down into a pair of boots that made Johan drool.  His shirt was soiled and thread bare but intact.  As the old guy extended his apologies for what the meal lacked, his smile cast an image of the old papier-mâché Halloween pumpkin heads that mother so fondly used to display.  Johan dreamt of home and his mother.  “I apologize for our obvious display of bad manners,” the elder said extending his hand.  “ My name is Attila and this is my family or sadly, what is left of it,” sweeping his arm towards the people that had fanned out behind him like dominos.  “ We have been running and hiding since the war started.  We don’t belong anywhere.  So everyone is afraid that it will eventually grind us into dust if we stay too long in one place.  Johan accepted his hand graciously and introduced the basic essentials of his identity as not to reveal too much.  He salivated as the plate the women were holding was pushed his way, heaped with chunks of meat and wild roots. 

He was amazed that everyone got equal portions.  This act of generosity was going against the grain of his conception about these people.

“I am Johan.  And I am also trying to keep ahead of the war and its’ killing machine.” This time he was not lying for he feared also that there still were forces out there lurking somewhere destroying everything as they retreated.   His hand shook as he ravaged the slumgullion that had been shoved in front of him.  Everyone ate in silence. 

They had sensed by his appearance that he was on the brink of starvation.  The clothes he had on his back afforded him less warmth that a fishnet.  Plus, the shoes he wore were just flaps of leather bound on his feet by pieces of cattail string that Johan had made in the forest.   Attila studied Johan further.  “We want to welcome you into our troupe.  I sense that the war has not been kind to you.  We, therefore, wish to offer you what little shelter and food that we can afford to spare.” Johan sat speechless.  He could not help but notice the activity around the wagons, as the women gathered up the aftermath of what was supper.  Bundles of clothes and blankets started to appear.  Attila waved his hand in front of Johan’s face trying to break the spell that had swept over him. 

“We have no particular place to go.  And since we feel we must keep on the move, we will take you to as close as we dare to your village for we believe strength is in numbers.  And by banding together, we all will be safer.”  Johan’s countenance showed his surprise.  It was beyond comprehension of this race of people showing such generosity to a stranger.  He tried to argue but to no avail.

Daylight appeared quietly as Johan stirred.  He had wrapped himself tightly like a cocoon in a battened quilt that someone had thrown his way in the night.   He was afraid to open his eyes, fearing that he was still back in the bowels of Russia.  But soon the noises of camp breaking with clattering tin cups and chattering toddlers brought him back on track was to where he was.  As he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, a scrawny girl with a disheveled look shoved a mug of hot brew of boiled pine needles under his nose.

“Mamma says to hurry and drink this down for we will be leaving soon.”  Before he had finished, the horses were already getting hitched and the wagons were jockeying for their rightful place in the queue.  A pile of men’s clothes had mysteriously appeared at the foot of Johan’s cot.  “These belonged to one of our fallen comrades.  His widow, Sophia, over there wishes you to wear them a token to her dead husband”, nodded Attila as he greeted him good morning.  Johan spied the thin woman and her daughter hidden behind one of the wagons, studying him.  “Interesting,” he thought as he slipped behind a tree.  And before Johan could hardly get changed, the wagons were rolling out onto the road from the safety of the trees. 

The day progressed faster that what Johan had imagined.  His ensemble had made him feel worthy again along with his new alliance with this band of marauders.  The dusty trail took turn after turn in the dense forest as the wagons sashayed in a westerly direction.  All sense of direction now was lost for him as his eyes did not follow the meandering road ahead but kept close watch behind.

As with tradition, the women always made up the tail end of the wagon train.  He was quick to notice that Sophia took the helm in the wagon directly behind the one he occupied.  He craved very much for her to not fear him for her dark complexion and her doe like eyes held him hostage.

As they progressed, the terrain started to change.  He noticed, now that the countryside had taken on a familiar ring.  Johan’s heart quickened.  The caravan crossed hill after hill like a sailing ship in turbulent sea.  It snaked through deep valleys as it inched its way towards the village ahead.  In an instant, Johan was quick to recognize the skyline but now it had taken on a ragged look.  He took in a deep breath.  The once majestic steeple tower now was partially gone with jutting edges sticking up like spikes.  Other lofty buildings were now crumpled heaps of debris as they approached the village that was nestled in the valley.  The village had an ominous tone about it.  Foreboding but yet inviting.  Johan had now jumped off the creeping wagon train. 

“Hallo, mutter!” he screamed at the top of his lungs as he raced down the intimate street that led to his home.  All the streets were void of any signs of life.  No people, no barking dogs, no nothing but settling dust amongst mounds of broken concrete and plaster.  Not a building was left standing in the village.

Johan looked back towards the caravan as they stopped to survey the destruction.  Tears streamed down both cheeks as he approached the shell of what was once his home.  His heart was now at the bottom of his stomach.  The empty windows that at one time were graced with lacey curtains looked like the black eyes of the grim reaper.  The walls were pot marked with large gaping holes apparently made by some sort of howitzer. 

“Mutter! ”Johan screamed once again.  “I am home, can’t you see? I finally made it home to you!”  His words echoed down empty streets.  His eyes darted up and down the road, searching for any sign of life.   He buried his face in his hands, fearing the worse.  He felt totally alone in the world now.  Sobbing silently, he felt a soft touch on his arm.  “Mutter?” Johan raised his head expecting to see the sparkle in her eyes and her proud smile as she held out a plate of his favorite torte.

Instead, he was staring into the beautiful face of the olive skinned woman that had captured his gaze.  “Johan, I don’t believe there is anyone around.  We searched the entire village thoroughly.  There is no one here,” Sophia said softy.  Her touch was comforting to him. 

“I just can’t leave.  I have to keep searching.  She is here somewhere, I am the only one left to take care of her” Johan said trying to reassure himself.  Saddened at the unexpected loss, Sophia held him now tightly against her, comforting him.  She gently whispered into his ear, encouraging him to leave this place.  “Let’s leave this sad place,” she said, “Together.” As she wiped the tears from his cheeks with her thumbs, she gazed into his eyes and added, “We will find your mother.  Remember, we all vowed to stay together for strength is in numbers.  Attila is already preparing to venture on to the next village.”  As she turned back towards the wagons, she grabbed Johan’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

Hope was just over the rise, Johan could sense it now as he ran to her side.  His feeling of despair and isolation was beginning to wane.

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