Echoes of the Fatherland

February, Cincinnati, Ohio

Everyone had a death date; eighteen-year-old Kristian Bauer would never have guessed his came nearly a century ago.

Kristian stared at the trunk his father had carried into his apartment.

“Why must you wear your hair like that?” his father said in a voice tinged with resignation.

“Because I like the way it looks.” He ran his hand through the longer top hair of the fade.

His father’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It makes you look like…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Kristian knew exactly what his father was thinking. And he knew exactly how it looked.

His father sighed as if he had carried the weight of disappointment for decades. “Anyway, your mother and I decided you should have this. You’re the only one who would want it.” He nodded toward the trunk. “I wanted to drop it off before it starts raining.”

“I appreciate it.” Kristian struggled to keep a grin off his face. He wasn’t oblivious; his parents had never approved of his fascination with his great-grandfather. Or the things Kristian collected. They probably never would.

But then he wasn’t perfect like his older brother, or his little sister, the family princess. So maybe they shouldn’t be too surprised.

“I never knew how hard it would be to clean out Dad’s house,” his father said.

His father was talking about the emotional toll, not the contents of the house. “Do you need me to help?”

“No. I’ll shoulder it. Father would expect no less of me.”

Kristian nodded.

His Opa’s farmhouse wouldn’t last long on the market. His stomach knotted. He’d spent as much time there as possible. His Opa had done more for him than his parents ever had. He still hadn’t come to terms with knowing he was gone. “Let me know if you change your mind and need help.”

“No. Your mother and I will do it. As I said, your grandfather would expect me to do this without dragging my children into it.”

Kristian shot a glance at the trunk. His fingers itched to open it and see what World War Two treasures lay inside it. He’d asked his Opa many times to look in it, but Opa had always refused.

Now it was his.

His father looked around the apartment, frowning. “You might be arrested for that kind of stuff in the Fatherland.”

“What?”

His father nodded toward the giant poster of German soldiers goose-stepping in perfect formation.

“I can keep it in my apartment,” Kristian said.

“But if people visit and see it… It might not be good for you. And if someone looks through your window and sees it…they can say they’re offended. And you’ll get a knock on your door.”

Kristian shrugged. “It’ll be fine, Dad.” He wasn’t going to risk prison, but he’d learned to navigate around parental rules like that.

“There may be things in that trunk that could get you in trouble. We didn’t look through it. Your grandfather never allowed anyone to see what was inside. We don’t want it. But I know you do.”

“Can I have the framed picture of my great-grandfather?”

“Yes. I don’t want it.”

How could anyone not want that picture? He felt a pang of something he couldn’t name—frustration? Maybe a little longing for approval.

His father’s gaze landed on the book he’d just purchased and left on the beat-up coffee table. “You’re too interested in the SS. They were horrible people.”

“You think your Opa was a horrible person?”

“Yes.”

Kristian blinked, uncertain how to respond. “Without him, you wouldn’t be here.”

“And neither would you,” his father said, voice clipped, matter-of-fact.

Kristian stared at the trunk. Something about it called to him, curiosity, pride, grief, and a little defiance all tangled together.

“I’d better go. Your mother’s waiting for me to pick up lunch on my way back. I’d like to get home before it starts raining. And I know you can’t wait to see what’s in there.” He said it as if it pained him.

“Thanks for bringing it.”

His father nodded. “I’ll see you soon.”

The moment his father closed the door, Kristian locked it and went to the trunk. He unlatched the lid and opened it.

How much would he have to leave with his parents when he moved to Germany? He wanted all of it. But he didn’t want to get himself in trouble either. However, he could surely hide some of it mixed in with his belongings. As long as he made a good, detailed packing list, they wouldn’t have a reason to snoop through his things. Still, it was a risk.

The trunk was full of boxes.

He lifted out a small one and opened it. Medals, lots of them. He looked at each one, running his fingers over them. What had his great-grandfather done to earn them?

He closed the box and set it aside. Next, he pulled out a box full of letters. Kristian looked at the addresses. Most of them were the letters sent between him and Kristian’s great-grandmother. He would look at them later. Maybe. He wasn’t sure he had a right to read something like that…they were intended for someone else.

Another box held an officer’s hat. He’d seen it before, in the picture he wanted. His great-grandfather had been wearing his uniform in that picture. As a child, Kristian had been fascinated with it, and he would stare at it every time they took him to his grandparents’ home.

In a way, that picture had started his obsession with learning about World War Two and his German roots.

He found a belt with the buckle in pristine condition.

A big box filled the bottom of the trunk. He pulled it out and set it on the sofa. He lifted off the lid and caught his breath. Inside the box was a perfectly clean, gray SS uniform and the white shirt that went with it. He couldn’t believe it.

He ran his hand over the cloth, feeling the texture, the weight of history stitched into it. Gently, he pulled the tunic from the box, admiring it. He placed it on the back of the worn, second-hand sofa and reached for the trousers.

For the first time, he understood that he and his great-grandfather were about the same height and build. He’d seemed taller in the photograph Kristian had always admired.

He ran his hand over the gray wool again. It was amazing that something so old was so well preserved. He couldn’t stop staring at it and touching it.

A uniform like that would have looked great on him. He was sure of it.

He could find out if it would look great on him. He could try it on. What was the harm?

No. He shouldn’t. It was his great-grandfather’s uniform. He didn’t deserve to even touch it.

Maybe he would be proud if his great-grandson tried it on. It was in pristine condition. He wouldn’t damage it. The urge to put it on was nearly overwhelming.

He stood there longer than he meant to, staring at the uniform laid across the back of the sofa.

It shouldn’t have been out of the trunk. It shouldn’t even have been touched. The fact that it was sitting there in his apartment, on his furniture, made his skin prickle.

He glanced toward the door. Locked. Then the window.

No one could see him. He knew that. Still, his shoulders tightened as if someone might knock, or worse…peek in a window and recognize what he was doing.

Just to see. That was all.

He fidgeted a moment longer, biting his lip.

With a furtive look at the door, he scooped up the uniform and carried it into the bedroom, slow, like he was afraid of making noise. The room seemed smaller with it in his hands. He set it on the bed and stood there, uncertain, his pulse loud in his ears.

It was his great-grandfather’s. Not a costume. Not a relic meant for admiration. A thing that had been lived in.

He stripped out of his clothes quickly, not looking at himself, and stepped into the trousers.

They fit.

That realization landed wrong, too precise, and too intimate. He swallowed and fastened them, his hands suddenly clumsy.

He pulled his own boots on. Then the shirt. When he slid into the tunic, the weight of it settled across his shoulders in a way that made him straighten without thinking.

He froze. It wasn’t pride, but reflex.

He buttoned it.

When he finally looked in the mirror, the first thing he noticed wasn’t how well it fit. It was how young he looked.

The uniform didn’t make him imposing. It swallowed the softness he hadn’t noticed before and left something unfinished behind. A boy wearing the shape of a man who’d known exactly what he was doing.

His stomach tightened.

He looked like his great-grandfather, enough to be unsettling, but without the authority the photograph carried. Without the certainty. The man in the picture looked outward. Kristian looked like he was waiting to be judged for a crime.

The thought made heat creep up his neck.

What was he doing?

It wasn’t admiration. Not exactly. It wasn’t even curiosity anymore. It felt like trespassing. Like reading someone else’s mail.

He fought the feeling down and reached for the cap, then stopped.

No. That would be too much. He didn’t need to finish the look. He had the answer he’d been looking for.

“Fantastisch.” The word slipped out, quiet and embarrassed, as if he were trying to convince himself it was harmless.

It sounded ridiculous in the small room.

Thunder answered him, close enough to make him flinch.

The window rattled, rain slamming down hard enough to feel accusatory, and the spell broke all at once. The uniform didn’t change anything. It didn’t give him purpose or direction.

It just sat on him, heavy and borrowed.

Shame settled in, not crushing, but insistent.

He reached for the buttons. He needed it off. He needed it back where it belonged, folded, in the trunk.

Outside, thunder boomed, and rain slammed against the window in a torrent.

Lightning flashed, followed by another deafening crack. Glass shattered, and the scent of something burnt filled his senses. Heat under his boots transferred out from the window through the floor. It took a moment for him to realize lightning had struck the ancient window frame.

A strange sensation washed over him, and the room swam, spinning around him. He sat on the bed and grasped the sheet in both hands to keep from falling. He was pretty sure he was going to throw up if the spinning sensation didn’t stop. His ears buzzed, and he lurched forward, falling onto the still-warm floor.

With the room tilting and his ears ringing, everything began graying out, and he had the sensation of falling until blackness closed on him.

Kristian came to with a hard, painful jolt as he hit the ground, or more accurately, was slammed onto it. He struck his head painfully on something. Disoriented, his breath came in harsh pants. It took a moment to register that he was lying in at least four inches of snow.

It was so cold that it bit into him almost instantly, and the uniform was already getting wet.

He rolled to his knees and scrambled to his feet, and almost fell.

Pain slammed through his ankle. He jerked his foot up, balancing on his toes. The ankle didn’t hurt as bad without weight on it. It probably wasn’t broken, just badly sprained. He took a tentative step to see if he could walk on it. Pain lanced down into his foot. Terrific. He was out in the middle of…

Where was he?

His insides knotted. He tried to push it down.

Where the hell was he? That morning, the ground had been clear of snow, and it had been nearly fifty degrees. It had rained…stormed. Now…”

His breath puffed out as he looked around. Large trees grew close together, their skeletal branches wove together overhead.

Wind blew through the treetops, making them groan and squeak as they swayed.

The wind cut through him like a saw, and he shivered.

It was really cold. Not quite single digits. He knew what that felt like, but close. His hands were already freezing. He rubbed them together in an effort to warm them.

How had he gotten there? Wherever there was.

His mind performed mental gymnastics seeking answers, but nothing made sense.

He looked for anything that explained where he was and what had happened.

When had he left the apartment? Why had he left? The last thing he recalled was feeling sick and falling on the floor. So how was it that he was in a forest…In the freezing cold?

He shivered hard, and his teeth chattered.

He still wore the SS uniform, so he damn well hadn’t strolled out to his car and driven off dressed like that. Oh, God, he hadn’t, had he? No. Surely not. No. That was impossible. Where would he have gone where inches of snow lay on the ground?

He’d come to with a harsh jolt, like he’d fallen. But he didn’t remember walking or how he’d ended up on the ground. But he had to have fallen; he’d struck his head on the ground.

“Shit,” he said out loud, and his guts knotted tighter.

His hands shook and burned from the cold.

A dirt road wound through the trees. He spied a wooden sign not too far ahead. Maybe that would help him figure out where he was. He brushed himself off and limped onto the road, each step causing stabs of pain, and slowly headed for the sign.

His feet were cold already.

He finally reached it, and what he saw, town names and the distance to them, written in German, sent shock through him.

What?

Understanding flooded him.

He wasn’t where he should be. He wasn’t even in the right country.

Ah, hell no. His mind struggled with the evidence. But as much as he wanted to pretend he was sleeping and having a crazy dream, he wasn’t. The snow and cold were real. Fear was real. Confusion was real. And he had no idea of what he should do.

Somehow, he’d landed in Germany. But where? How? And… when?

He limped along for nearly a mile, by his best estimation, before he became aware of a sound overhead. A plane.

If he saw the plane, he would… What? Know what time frame he’d landed in? The thought was insidious, and he wanted to shove it far away. Because that was a thought he didn’t want to entertain.

The sound was approaching quickly. The plane should be in sight soon. Clearly, it wasn’t a commercial plane; it was something smaller.

The sound of the engine was almost on top of him. And then it came out of a bank of gray clouds. His breath left him in a whoosh. He didn’t know what kind of plane it was, but he knew the emblems painted on it and what they meant. The iron cross was unmistakable.

His stomach clenched, and he took deep, calming breaths as he watched the plane fly out of sight.

No way. No. Not possible. Yet the plane said otherwise. Denying it changed nothing, not when the wind bit mercilessly into him, and his fingers and toes tingled, and the fading buzz of the plane still sounded overhead. He was in the past. In Germany. The exact place he’d thought he wanted to be.

Except now… He didn’t know how to navigate the situation. He had no papers, no money, no one he could go to for help, and no knowledge of how to make himself fit in.

Even worse, he knew how it ended. The whole world knew how it ended. But knowing and living inside it were two different things. And he was inside it.

He had no idea how it had happened or why. But the end result left him alone in a country at war, in a uniform that wasn’t his. And he was stranded with no way home.

He didn’t know where he was or which direction would lead him out of the forest quicker.

What he did know was that he was in danger, from the cold and from anyone he might run into. If he chose the wrong direction, he might freeze to death. And if he ran into someone, he might be shot on sight.

The uniform could cost his life in more than one way if the wrong person saw him. If an enemy saw him, he would be shot as a matter of fact. If another soldier saw him and realized he wasn’t who the uniform said he was, that would be a problem too. He didn't even have a coat to hide the insignia. Or to keep him from freezing to death.

His insides twisted even tighter. He fought to calm down. He was in no position to allow the indulgence of panic. He had to think things through. Because if he didn’t, he was as good as dead.

But he’d have to think on the move. He couldn’t just stand there getting colder and colder. The forest would kill him before anyone else got the chance. It didn’t matter which way he picked; he had no idea what was on either end of the road.

He started walking, head down for a moment, then he jerked his head back upright. He had to pay attention to his surroundings. Being inattentive could be fatal.