Anna is more than an hour late for the night shift at the Potsdamer Platz bunker, and she is hoping she will make it in before the pre-alarm, not be stuck on the subway system in the middle of the air-raid.
They are stopped between stations, people bundled by the exits, impatient to get going. It smells in here, of poorly laundered clothes, unwashed bodies. The boy sitting across from her with the leather pouch is wearing an odd-looking uniform. She is trying to figure out what it is exactly. The belt, buckle and tie seem okay, the long pants. Is it the hat? He has pushed it back a little, scratches his sandy mop of hair, looks worn out but gives her a friendly, inquisitive glance. Crosses the aisle and sits next to her.
“Are we going to spend the night in this tunnel?”
“That would be exciting, but I am expected somewhere. You?” He responds fluently but with a slight accent.
“What are these?” She points at his uniform.
“I’m from Holland. Ours is a little different from yours. Not very.”
“You wear Hitler Youth uniforms in Holland? I didn’t know that. How —”
“Oh, we don’t. Not all of us. Not many at all, in fact. It’s dangerous. I don’t know how long I can do this travelling thing now.”
“Why do you come here? What do you do?”
“I’m a messenger, come over twice a month.” He pats the pouch at his side.
“Don’t your parents mind you going on these, these dangerous trips? To Berlin?”
“Well, me and my aunt and my cousin, but my dad and uncle —” and he draws a line across his neck.
“Oh boy. A family war.”
“Yes. Big Time.” They look at each other in silence for a while. “Do you think we’ll win this one?”
“You are not really allowed to talk about that. Not here.”
“So do you?”
“Not sure any longer. But I hope so.” They sit, staring at the tunnel outside. He takes a deep breath. “If not, it will mean Communism all the way to Rotterdam.”
“Are you hungry?” Anna asks. “Would you like a sandwich? I’ll have soup where I’m going.”
“Yes. Thank you. We’re always hungry,” he laughs.
“What’s your name?”
“Bert. What’s yours? Can I write to you sometime? Give me your address.” The train starts moving with a massive jerk, and her scribbled note looks pretty messy. From the door she calls back, “So where do you have to deliver that?” Points at his pouch.
“They moved the office into the woods,” and he winks.
A postcard, mailed in Berlin, arrives a few weeks later. No sender, but Bert is still at it, so it seems.
In late 1945, when it is all over, the people of Europe moving debris, saving reusable materials, unearthing bodies wearing every kind of uniform or none, promising, swearing that this time there really will never be another war, a letter arrives.
Bert reports that he and his family have survived this one, and six of them will be emigrating together shortly. Likely to Canada or the USA. No sender.