Escape To Rome

And there it was, the symbol, all things he valued in this rotten world. The very thought of it could dry his throat and bring a tear or two to eyes that had, since they could see been smothered by its very presence. He had to leave the city, the Russkies could be heard across the river Spree, a Hansa car was ready and had been loaded with rags and medicines both for the poor and wounded. With care and trepidation he crossed the Ku-damm into Charlottenburg, squeezed through the space just barely big enough that had been left between the school and the still smoking wreckage of the tram, one-hundred-four. Accelerating inconspicuously, he felt the wind, the promise of fresh snow from Prussian fields. He smelled the blood, mixed in with acrid smoke. And to distract his mind he turned the radio knob and heard the speech, his Fuehrer's urgent voice that strangely reassured. Yes, victory would still at this late hour belong to Germany. He wondered whether anyone, his wife and the two boys were safe, if they had even reached the sanctity of Switzerland. You could not trust nor guarantee a thing here, in the Fatherland since the entire world had trained its weapons on his land and people. Oh, yes, it was the Bolsheviks, those stinking Russkies with their primitive and so subhuman features. Who only trusted Vodka and their carnal needs. If things went well he would, by nightfall, reach the border and show his letter, stamped by hand of Vatican, with seal of what they call the Holy See, it proved his presence was required by the Pope himself. He sighed, then cleared his throat as if this might remove debris from that long stretch of road one-twenty-five, course SSWest, he thought it funny, this symbol of his group. The smell of petrol hung, like drapes of anaesthetic above his frozen ears. He'd be alright with four full Jerry cans, all stamped with 'US ARMY', and duly documented, for one, en route to Rome with stop in neutral territory. A Russian road patrol....... his heart now hammered, sweat trickled down his collar and painful twinges squeezed his crotch. 'Shtoy, Gospodeen, zeig documenti! ' Things were in order, though and this, his voyage would, now he was certain, lead to Rome. He gripped the wheel to hide the fear now from himself, and started the long climb that leaves the range of Brandenburg. So many miles to go, how many bloody Russkies? The car was groaning now, the differential whine, and clunking of some kind, in second gear due to the rise. All systems go, full steam, the brutish power of the Horch, eight cylinders of German ingenuity. To calm his nerves and fretting heart a cigarette would do just fine, a Scandinavian brand, restricted to the party heads, much treasured by SS as well as cardinals in Rome. He smiled just then, a happy day it was. And from the pocket of his vest he plucked his favourite toy a ZIPPO lighter from America, memento of a mean interrogation down in the cellar of the Spandau Jail. Two Russkis, Ivan and Vasili had stopped their olive jeep down in the valley, to have a smoke. And, as they leaned against the Jerry cans, strapped to the back, marked CCP, they saw a fireball, and seconds later a thunder hurried off the mountain top. And the explosion was much bigger than a cannon would produce. Some bits and shards now landed down on the road. Outstanding was the fact that a dozen silver pieces rained from the smoke-filled skies. They came to rest next to the sign that read ZUR KIRCHE. Someone who loved graffiti had painted upon the sign a handsome swastika.