I take a deep breath as I hear him take a drink of something. “It’s good, Pop. Merry Christmas.”
“You too” is all he says, but then, “I miss your mother.”
“Me too.”
More silence.
He clears his throat, then asks, “You met a woman yet?”
I hesitate, not because I wasn’t expecting it, but because I’m not sure if in my intoxication, I’ll answer civilly or if this will be the time I give him a graphic description of the most recent man I’ve been with. Words I could use to describe my sexual encounter with the Irishman a few days ago spring into my mind. They lead to a brief sexual fantasy that goes nowhere because my father says, “John? Are you there?”
“Yeah, Pop, I’m here, and no, there are no women. How’s the house?”
The rest of the call continues in this manner, both of us skirting any important topics and sticking to casual conversation. Beyond my use of the name “Pop,” someone listening in might not gather our relationship. We sound more like old acquaintances catching up with disinterest.
After I hang up, I decide to lie down, but realize I’ve done the wrong thing when the dream begins.
I’m sweating. It’s rolling down my forehead and cheeks. My hand is over my mouth and nose, as if I can keep out the stench. It smells acrid and the air tastes bitter. Looking all around me, there is nothing to describe the scene except for FUBAR. I can see it in the eyes of my brothers. They think it too.
My finger twitches on the trigger of my M-1. Movement to my left draws my attention and I pivot. German soldiers are running toward a wall. David’s yelling beside me. “You fucking Krauts! Stop right there!”
He’s barely audible above the noise and chaos. It’s not surprising that none of the Germans stop.
But there’s nowhere to go. They bunch up, shoving each other in fear and anticipation. Their hands are up and it’s clear to me that they are unarmed, but it’s also evident that nothing can stop the coming wave of bullets. I can feel it in my belly and in the tightness of my muscles. I itch to raise my weapon and fire.
We’re all just standing there at the ready, shifting our weight back and forth as we keep our eyes glued on the enemy. One could have a gun and end some of us. They could rush us. They could start running again. I am no longer breathing only for myself. My brothers and I are now a collective. We drag in oxygen for each other, and in unison, we wait together, knowing in moments all hell will break loose.
“They’re trying to get away!”
I don’t know who says it and it doesn’t matter. As one, we aim and shoot anything in a German uniform. I imagine Hitler himself in front of me. Terror would be in his eyes, and I would squeeze the trigger without remorse or hesitation. Just like I’m doing now.
The firing lasts forever. I am stuck in a never ending close range firefight. Ears ringing, flared nostrils taking in every sickening smell, I drop my weapon. My brothers don’t acknowledge my action.
While the killing continues, I move away. Weaving my way through bodies and corpses, I’m searching for something. Maybe for
someone
. I don’t know. I don’t know.
I’m running now, full speed, possessed by some divine knowledge that there is something I’m meant to do beyond murder. Suddenly, I’m tumbling forward, falling into the feces and piss soaked ground. Something’s pulling on my boot. I look down and see a dead German holding onto me. His eyes are the palest blue I’ve ever seen. They are nearly white. His mouth is open, a slow trickle of blood at the corner.
Kicking, I connect the sole of my boot with his face. His whole head snaps off and rolls to the steps of a barrack. I can’t look at the bloody stump of a neck, so I push up off the ground and begin to run.
I’ve circled the barracks twice without finding what I know is here. My brothers are still killing soldiers, even though I know there must be no one left. Time has stopped. I start to panic. I know whatever it is, I
must
find it.
Another trip around and I come up empty again. I fall back onto the ground, knees raised, arms wrapped around them. Death is all around, I cannot look. The mud is caked with blood and gore, I cannot look. The sky is gray. Standing out against it is someone in pain.
The striped uniform worn by prisoners covers the thin, sickly body of the man. I can’t see his face. His arms are stretched behind him, bound at the wrists. He’s hanging from a post. Feet dangling off the ground, head hanging forward.
It looks as though his shoulders are only moments and centimeters away from popping out of their joints. Body in motion, I’m to him in a few seconds, shouldering his weight, pushing upward, trying to wriggle his bound wrists off the hook.
He groans. I’m causing him more pain. Frantic, I shove his body up and over and up and over and up and over again and again until he’s free. We drop to the ground, his light body covering mine. Cold, he feels like a corpse, and I worry that I’ll have to carry him to the heap to be tossed into a mass grave with the rest of them.
My heart leaps! Carefully, I flip the man over. Kurt. He says my name over and over again. I try to brush the dirt off his forehead, but it smears. He’s mouthing something now, not my name, but I can’t hear him.
After a moment, he goes still and I worry he’s dead, but when I look at him, his eyes are fixed on my jacket. He’s staring at the insignia. It’s not the Thunderbird. It’s the swastika, the emblem the 45th no longer wears. Kurt claws at me, pushing me with what might he can muster using arms that must throb with pain. He kicks at me, and with one final shove, he forces me off of him.
He crawls backward, fearful eyes never leaving mine. I stand and realize I hold a club in my hands. He thinks I’ll hurt him, but I don’t want to. I want to hold him. My body aches for it.
A sharp pop sounds next to me. David stands with his gun still pointed at Kurt. I look to the man on the ground as I say, “Please, don’t!” But Kurt is already dead. Eyes wide, limbs sprawled, no dignity given.
Shoving my friend, I yell at him. “What are you doing? Why did you—”
“I saved you. He’s a fucking Kraut.” David points to Kurt’s body. The striped uniform is gone and replaced with the uniform of an SS officer.
My gut hurts. “No,” I whisper as my legs give out. “No. He was—”
“Tough shit.”
I glance up at David and catch my M-1 as he tosses it down to me.
“These fuckers don’t deserve to live, John.” He digs his fingers into my jacket and hauls me up onto my feet. “They don’t deserve to live,” he stresses again.
I shake my head, but repeat his words. My throat is dry as I fix my eyes on David’s. My friend. My brother-in-arms. The man who saved my life. His big hand gently slaps my face, and finally I feel normal again.
Trained for battle, I turn at the sound of noise behind us and run with him back into the shit, leaving the body to rot.
I vomit whiskey and holiday cookies all over the sheets. Head throbbing, I barely acknowledge that day has turned into night as I clean up.
Drunk when I arrive at the Fourniers’, I think I can disguise it well enough. My breath is sour from alcohol, and I’m not quite sure what I’m doing here. As I stand on the porch, my mind drifts to the first time I was given armored diesel.
I was only eighteen. “Here,” my bunkie Hank said as he shoved a container toward me. We were just out of basic, getting ready for deployment. I knew it was alcohol from the way he was hiding it, but I hadn’t known before I took a quick swig that it was almost straight whiskey with just a little lemon and sugar.
One sip became two and two became however many it took to drain the metal bottle. “Let’s go cause some ruckus,” I said before we sneaked out of the barracks. The other guys were just as inebriated, most of them talking about wanting off base for a little tail, but that would come.
The ruckus we caused only turned out to be trying to break into the chow hall, only to get scared after hearing a creak twenty meters away. Neither of us wanted to get the boot, especially after just surviving basic. Out in the training yard, staying out of sight as much as possible, we wandered around singing the latest songs.
Finally, after finding a quiet spot, I flopped down and looked up at the stars. “Wonder where we’ll be in a few weeks.”
“Don’t know,” he said as he lay down beside me.
I turned to look at Hank and groaned at the way my brain sloshed around in my head. Too much to drink. He was a good looking fellow, but I didn’t think he was like me. When he turned his eyes to me, I went back to looking at the stars. I was in the military now. These guys—my new brothers—wouldn’t be as forgiving as just regular guys. There would be no subtle glances, no little brushes of our arms, no silent questions to ascertain if he liked men.
He wasn’t a guy I’d normally go for, but when he rolled over and kissed me, I kissed him back. I was shocked to say the least, but drunk and ready for a little action, I didn’t let myself dwell too much. Thoughts of getting caught only entered my mind after his hand moved under my cotton shirt. “Hank, we—”
“John?”
I blink to bring me back to the present. Confused, I glance around until I realize I’m on the Fourniers’ porch. Pushing an uneasy smile onto my face, I say, “Good evening, Flori,” even though my mind is still back with Hank. The images of that night are gone, replaced by the day on Motta Hill in Sicily when I looked over and found my friend on the ground. A bullet in his neck stopped him cold. There was nothing I could do but take cover.
“John?”
Having already greeted her, I have nothing else to say, so I wait until she invites me in. I’m not exactly sure what time it is, but the house is quiet. She ushers me into the sitting room, where Professor Fournier is smoking a cigarette while reading. The little girl is sitting on his lap, happily playing with the collar of his shirt.
When he looks up, the professor says, “Ah, Mr. Oakes. Good to see you.”
Adéle, however, frowns at me. Through narrowed eyes, she accuses me with her stare. Her soft voice contrasts with the charge she lays on me. “You upset Oncle Kurtsy.”
Jules admonishes his daughter for her bluntness. I almost tell him that it’s all right, that I’m not offended. I actually like that she speaks up. Instead, I turn to Flori as she says, “He is… not having a good day.”
My brow stitches together. She assumes I’m here for Kurt, and for some reason it bothers me. Perhaps it’s my fascination with him that is the real issue. I feel horrible that I’ve caused him to have a bad day, but the pull to him is strange and intoxicating.
The alcohol in my system doesn’t help. I take a step toward the chair, but I stumble over the toe of my old combat boots. I’m not sure why I chose them. Loafers would have been more comfortable and less cumbersome.
I steady myself, then look to the professor. His fox eyes are on me, and I know he can tell that I’m not exactly in my right mind. Gently nudging the girl from his lap, Jules stands up. His hand on my forearm is foreign. “Would you mind, my dear,” he says to Flori, “bringing us a cup of coffee?”
“Of course.”
We’re alone now. Depositing me into the chair, he squats down in front of me, eyes narrowed as he takes in my face. I turn my head to look out the window, but I can still feel him assessing me.
“You are not having a good day either.” He stands and moves to the edge of the sofa. We’re no longer facing each other, and the respite helps me relax back into the chair.
“Certainly not.” I hear the rustle and then the scratch of a match igniting. I follow suit, lighting a cigarette of my own. “You know, in Germany, Hitler almost outlawed Christmas. Everything Christian in the season was replaced with old Germanic tales. Singing the carols became illegal unless one sang the new lyrics. I am not an overly religious man, but there is something wrong in changing the beauty of well-known hymns to suit a political agenda.”
I chuckle and finally look at him. He has a very kind face, and I can understand why Kurt trusts him. I’m saved from having to speak by the arrival of a hot cup of coffee. I smile my thanks to Flori and smoke another cigarette in silence after she leaves the room.
Perhaps a half hour passes in this way. I don’t think it’s just the coffee making me feel better. I think it’s the serenity of this house and the oddly reassuring silent companionship of the professor.
The magic of the quiet is broken when he says, “Do you remember much of the liberation of Dachau?”
A jolt runs through me. The hair on my arms stands up as my spine fuses together to form a straight line. I’m sitting at attention, gripping the coffee cup too tightly. My voice comes as an unbidden whisper. “I remember more than I want to.”
I draw a blank, but I don’t try to remember. When I don’t answer, he brings me a leather bound notebook. With an ache in the pit of my stomach, I flip it open and scan the handwritten pages. Halfway through the book, drawings of triangles catch my eyes. There are many different colors with words written next to them in French.
Red, green, blue, pink, purple, black, brown, yellow. I didn’t need to know much French to read the meanings written beside them.
It takes a moment for it to sink in, but when it does, I look up at Professor Fournier. When I retrain my eyes on the book, I find red.
Politique
. “Holy shit,” I mumble.
I don’t answer. I can’t. My mind is falling back into the past. In vivid color, I can remember seeing these patches on the prisoners’ uniforms. All different colors. Walking through the camp, weapon at the ready, I take in each and every starved man I see. Their clothes hang from their bodies. Their gaunt and haggard faces stare at me, as if to ask,
What are
you
going to do about this?
I’ve already shot the German soldiers. That was my reaction to the death I saw on the train. I don’t know what to do now because my rage has come back, but now it’s coupled with disgust. The death was horrible to face, but the living is unbearable. These men are barely human anymore. Back home, if men starve their animals, they’re punished. Here, in this camp, these men have been treated worse than livestock.