April 11, 1945. 3:15 P.M.
Etter Mountain. Weimar, Germany. Buchenwald concentration camp.
“This is too much… those sons of bitches…!”
Alfred nodded. He didn’t need to turn to know Kirkland was beside him, looking with horror at the pile of bodies. Their faces were drawn with pain and starvation, bony limbs were twisted in unnatural directions (probably a result from when they were tossed into that heap of corpses), most of their eyes were open looking to the back of their heads, and their mouths were parted slightly, perpetually frozen in the time of their owners’ final exhalation.
Walking skeletons, all of them.
Surviving prisoners crawled from their hiding places, their dirty faces shining with hope. As the American troops walked through the desolate camp, cheers came from the edifices as more ailing men appeared to greet their rescuers, stretching their fingers in a weak attempt to embrace the soldiers. Alfred saw how a young man, as he walked out into the sun and slowly limped towards them suddenly fell to the ground soundlessly. He was dead.
Choking back tears, he ran to where the man’s body lay still. He placed his hand over his cold back, feeling how his spine pressed against flesh, bones jutting upward like mountains.
“I’m sorry we weren’t fast enough…” He found himself whispering to the man, despite knowing he wouldn’t answer back. That he couldn’t hear him.
Old men crawled toward them, happily calling out their thanks. Alfred could see the rest of his men and Kirkland helping them to their feet, handing over food and blankets.
Alfred choked and prayed silently. Somehow, he found it difficult to remove his hand from the body. He stood up and with several men headed for the remaining barracks, used for horses before the war and that now housed hundreds of prisoners who lived there cramped in deplorable conditions.
Bodies of German guards and prisoners killed during evacuation marches were strewn randomly across the grounds.
Alfred kicked the door of one of those barracks open and the stench on the inside was so strong it made him dizzy, but what he saw was something he would not be able to properly explain in the years to follow. His knees buckled for a moment.
Over fifty men dressed in the camp’s striped uniforms, others completely naked, with their ribs visible and wobbling legs, turned with watery eyes in disbelief. As realization hit them, their once hollow faces shone into one of pure happiness, warping them from soulless vessels and into human beings once more, reborn and with their emotions intact.
They were all brothers reaching out for that long-awaited salvation. The sudden attachment and love that was suddenly born in Alfred the moment those eyes were one him made him feel humbled beyond comparison. When all of this was over he would go somewhere where he could be alone and cry, cry until he feel asleep and surely Kirkland would find him and place one of those blankets over him.
He helped the thankful men leave the crowded space. Many cried tears of joy, and shook his hand, and patted his shoulder, and hugged him. A lot of the soldiers told him that many prisoners had tried to carry them and toss them into the air in celebration but most were too weak to achieve it.
It was hard getting some to leave the room for half of them were in such bad conditions they could barely move. A lot of them couldn’t even get up, they were too sick or weak. Many were already dead when he reached rows where several still seemed to be sleeping. Up to five men shared one bunk.
Then, in the darkened corner he heard low humming. Alfred froze, remembering that night by the Seine. Shaking his head to snap out of his reverie, he followed the voice until he could make out words, which of course he could not understand. Someone was singing in Polish.
He found two young boys sharing a bunk. One, pale and dark-haired rested with his face toward the ceiling, his chest rising slowly as he breathed. The other boy leaned over the other in a protective way, cradling his face with his arms as his blond hair, untidy and grey due to dirt, covered them like a curtain. Bags had formed under his green and tired eyes and his voice was high, boyish despite both were probably past the sixteen years of age. He shushed the sleeping boy as one would when calming a child scared of a storm. His fingers hovered over the other’s closed eyes, expecting him to open them so he could close them back and then, the blond turned to face Alfred, regarding him with his sharp eyes.
“Toris is sick… he won’t last long.”
Alfred walked next to the blond and held his gaze, blue clashed with green. Then, the blond looked away, shifting his attention back to his precious friend. He stroked his sweaty brow and a stray lock of brown hair.
“Hey... I’m here to help you and your friend. Name's Alfred. You’re free now so let’s take him to our medical team.”
The blond turned back at him and slowly a smile crept over his face, a tentative sign of gratitude. Alfred could see him shivering. Slowly, he helped the blond lift his friend from the bunk and wrapped one of his arms over his neck. The blond was quickly standing on his other side, holding his other arm. His long legs wobbled momentarily before he steadied himself and walked alongside Alfred, heading toward the dazzling beams of sunshine that peeked through the broken door.
“Can you walk?”
The blond nodded hastily after her almost tripped. He held his friend with determination. They had to stop for Toris started to mumble something in his feverish state and worriedly the blond hummed and whispered against his ear. Alfred couldn’t make out the words but the song was soothing and the other boy soon calmed down. Alfred looked around to check if there was any other prisoner left alive and turning to the bunk next to the boys’ he found a man who seemed to be sleeping peacefully. He could have sworn he would open his eyes at any moment and find, to his surprise and happiness that he was a free man. Alfred believed this because the man was smiling as if caught in the middle of a pleasant dream.
“He was a good fellow. Helped us so much when we needed it the most, like, share his food and get us a bunk all for ourselves in the back where no guards could see Toris when he was weakest. It was as if he totally didn’t care about what happened to him even if that was like, suicide.”
The blond looked at the sleeping man for a moment and then closed his eyes as he held his friend closely. “He died last night, you know? Asked me to sing for him, sing to him this lullaby he’d always liked as a child. He like, taught me the lyrics, said I would be better singing it, said I had a lovely voice. Most of the men here also liked it when I sang, especially when Toris was feeling down. So last night, he was looking totally ghastly and he had like, a fever. Toris then got sick as well. So I sang to him and to Toris and then he just fell asleep and sometime during the night he died.”
Alfred felt a tightness growing over his throat. Clenching. He turned away after a silent prayer and helped both boys out and into the sunlit grounds. The blond’s face changed as emotion took over him and with a smile he turned to his friend as they placed him on the floor so Alfred could go get the medical team. Of what he could make out, it was nothing serious, possibly a mix of hunger and exhaustion that caused a fever, but he would live. Both would live. He saw how the blond fondly held the other’s hand and hummed his lullaby endlessly.
Such passion and determination… yes, they would definitely survive. They were strong.
“What is your name?”
The blond timidly mumbled, “Feliks...”
“I see. Feliks, he is going to be okay.” He said, grinning as he looked at Toris. “And I heard you singing when I was inside. Could you tell me the name of that song? It was lovely, bet you could sing it again to me?”
Feliks looked at him, blinking, and as a blush tainted his cheeks he mumbled again, “Sure… It’s like, the most famous Polish lullaby ever, I guess… Bajka Iskierki…”
“Would you sing it to me after I return with the doctors, yes?”
Blushing still and holding Toris’ hand tightly, Feliks nodded.
“’Kay. I’ll be back in a jip!”
-
Na Wojtusia z popielnika
Iskiereczka mruga
Chodź opowiem ci bajeczkę,
Bajka będzie długa.
Była sobie raz królewna,
Pokochała grajka,
Król wyprawił im wesele...
I skończona bajka.
Była sobie Baba Jaga,
Miała chatkę z masła,
A w tej chatce same dziwy...
Cyt! iskierka zgasła.
Patrzy Wojtuś, patrzy, duma,
Zaszły łzą oczęta.
Czemuś mnie tak okłamała?
Wojtuś zapamięta.
Już ci nigdy nie uwierzę Iskiereczko mała.
Najpierw błyśniesz, potem gaśniesz,
Ot i bajka cała. . .
-
April 11, 1945. 8:30 P.M.
Buchenwald concentration camp.
Alfred hummed Felics’ song to himself as he sat with his back to the crematorium building. He was lost in thought as his eyes searched for patterns in the ever-changing colours of the few clouds encircling the darkening sky, with hardly any glinting stars. His left hand held a handkerchief absently over his riffle.
He had left the other soldiers and survivors while they had been having a very modest dinner and started setting up bunks with blankets to examine each prisoner carefully in the morning.
Toris had woken up at least two hours ago to the delight of Feliks. Soon they would be sent to their respective homes in Warsaw and Vilnius (well, Felics did insist that Toris stay at his home and the other boy agreed).
Alfred heard footsteps behind him and didn’t bother to turn. He already knew it was Kirkland with a tiny tin can filled with warm soup that was more water than soup, anyway.
“Hopefully you’re no longer fuming, princess.” Alfred said with a chuckle.
“Button up! The bastards deserved it. I just can’t bloody forgive them for what they’ve done…” He grumbled shoving the can against Alfred’s cold hands. “And eat the blasted thing, damn it, you’re starting to look gaunt.”
“Yeah, yeah. Starting to sound like my wife now.” He joked as he slurped the tasteless liquid. Better to have at least something in his stomach. It had been a long day and in two more of those, some of his men and him were headed straight to the German capital. Other divisions would join the remaining soldiers here and help with the transportation and care of survivors.
“Idiot…” Mumbled Kirkland who had been in a foul mood all day.
Earlier he had stormed the room where they kept two German prisoners and punched them until they were unrecognizable and his knuckles bled. His aching fists shook and Kirkland glared at them with rage before he told them in perfect German: “I speak to you in your despicable language just because I want this to be clear and because sadly I have knowledge of this tasteless tongue. You must always remember what happened in this dreadful camp, in this dreadful war. These horrid deeds, these massacres... you will never allow yourselves to forget them. The memories will torture you just as you tortured all those human beings. Ghosts of your acts will follow you dressed as nightmares, chase you as your shadows, and God help you if you are ever forgiven by others because you will never forgive yourselves. I will not shoot you, as much as I wish I could, believe me. What happened here, you goddamn bastards, you will always remember that you were a part of and that you contributed to this hellish, sick shit!”
He spit at their dirty boots, caked with mud and dried blood and then left without another word.
It was cold and the place reeked of death. That unsettling feeling that had taken over Alfred earlier was beginning to pluck at his heart, as he remembered those eyes... Those tired, scared eyes shining with renewed life. A hero’s welcome...
“So Berlin it is now?” Kirkland said as he looked into the distance where the first lights of distant bombings lit up the night in an artificial daybreak. It reminded him of London.
Alfred charged his riffle and slung it over his shoulder. His face grew darkly serious and tears ran down his dirty cheeks. “Berlin.”
June 13, 1945.
Berlin.
When Alfred looked up he was greeted with the sight of a bright red flag, billowing in the weak breeze of the morning. He walked in silence through the devastated streets of the German capital. Now that it had come to the end of his battle he wasn’t so sure if he should rejoice or simply drop dead with exhaustion.
Seeing a city in ruins was always overwhelming. The surviving civilians were scattered like lost sheep, wandering aimlessly in the shadow of what had been their home. Rotting corpses, varying in sex and age, were a common sight in every turn. The spots where bullets had made contact with flesh —tiny stains of colour that only artists could recreate after a sudden burst of inspiration— decorated the walls of stores and houses, leaving crimson roads that led to the floor and to the original bodies.
Under his boots glass cracked. The city looked as if it were made of a fragile mirror. Alfred would occasionally cross alleys and find soldiers of the Red Army obscenely close to young girls, fondling the crying children and ripping their clothes with animalistic force. He walked past them.
In battle he had learned that what someone else did was his business and that he only looked after his own hide. He seemed to have lost interest in his surroundings as well. In one of his strolls he’d passed a German woman doing her washing at a cold water hydrant in the middle of the street. He paid no heed to that.
“Soviet soldiers keep ravaging German women.” Spat a disgusted Russian corporate he had met on the streets earlier that day while removing Nazi propaganda from crumbling walls. His name, Alfred had learned, was Ivan —Vanya— Braginsky. Of course, when he said the former to him it had sounded somewhat like this:
"Советские солдаты насилуют немецких женщин."
Alfred nodded. In this war he’d grown accustomed to ‘gibberish languages’, as he liked to call Italian, German, Japanese and Russian. He had heard of the many rapes and mass executions Soviet soldiers had committed during the last two months as well as other atrocities, but then again, didn’t everyone else carry out horrid acts daily as well? He accompanied the Russian whose uniform was draped in flesh blood from an earlier kill. Perhaps from one of his own men? Rumours of the brutal reprimands from the generals on any wrong-doers were beginning to spread and the Red Army had a dwindling reputation to keep. Or maybe from the German soldier he had tortured to death a while before Alfred found him roaming in the deserted streets.
Ivan, Alfred noted, walked with a casual air, humming folk-songs from his motherland of snow and castles and the desolate surroundings didn’t seem to bother him at all.
Alfred decided to leave the man to his business after they were surprised by a child, not even past the fourteen years of age handling a gun and proclaiming loyalty to “The Führer and the Fatherland!”
Ivan, practiced in the ways of killing, drew his own gun with a quick flex of his wrist and blew the youth’s head off without blinking.
When Alfred turned his back on the man, he barely registered his baritone voice humming in gibberish: “Полюшко-поле, полюшко, широко поле…”
August 6, 1945.
Hiroshima. Aioi Bridge.
Honda Kiku headed home after helping the local priest of the nearby shrine. He prayed there for hours, hoping to quell the maimed the spirits of his brothers who had fallen in war. Their honour was intact so in his solitude he reassured them of this and asked them to rest in peace, with the respect they deserved as brave warriors true to their people and their Mikado.
He stopped, lost in thought as his brown eyes took in the beauty of the glassy surface of the Motoyasu River beside him.
He thought of war. He thought of death. There truly seemed no point to it. He couldn’t see how it worked but perhaps if he fought and grew in it, he would understand its necessity.
He saw something in the river.
Kiku frowned and squinted. It was an odd silhouette, growing over the water. A reflection? Of what? He looked up and was unsure of what he was seeing. He gasped and for an instant a bright, violet light blinded him.
Soon, it was over. Like a picture is carved on the artist’s subconscious: it flashes into a spark of inspiration, and in some cases, like Kiku’s, into destruction.
-
Kiku lay with his face to the sky, where bomber planes sped, leaving behind a hazy trail and never to return. He didn’t feel when the first drops fell on his face, soothing the scars as ointment.
There was black rain that day.
Across the Pacific, a golden haired man flew amidst white clouds and cold, clean rain. Before him, his home was unveiled in movement and blinking lights.
As he landed, the man hoped the war was over.
August 12, 1945.
Washington D.C., United States Of America.
"Just let this war be over..."
It was raining over the Abraham Lincoln Memorial. Alfred turned his back on the statue, repulsed by the sole image of his country’s heroes. Lincoln bore holes on his back, but he didn’t mind. He’s seen three bullets do the same to Kirkland’s back before Berlin fell.
Staring at the grey sky he wondered if, on the other side of the world, another person had stood just like him, looking upwards before fire rained down on Japan.
‘Those are funny names for things so dangerous: Little Boy and Fat Man.’ He had thought over the static of the radio.
Alfred had heard of the catastrophic (he dared call them apocalyptic) events one week after his discharge. With those silly code names, though, Alfred couldn’t imagine the blazing crowns of fire that had smouldered both cities and their people with one agonizing sweep.
The war ended with the charred silhouettes of the Japanese people imprinted forever like twisted mockings of the Pompeii victims.
“They had it coming,” someone said. “What with Pearl Harbour an’ all.”
That’s when Alfred turned away. He swore it had looked as if Lincoln had said those words. He spit. The mere implication, as valid as it could seem to some, was downright wrong and frightening.
He was shocked, to say the least. He even felt sick. And looking back, that feeling reminded him of the bile as it climbed up his throat when he faced that dreaded beach, one cold morning in Europe before all hell broke loose.
--
Footnotes:
-The Buchenwald concentration camp was the first camp that was liberated by American troops on April 11, 1944 at 3:15. The clock on the Buchenwald monument is permanently set with the liberation hour.
-What England tells the German guards in Buchenwald is actually another anecdote of my grandfather. I forgot in what concentration camp this exactly happened but the basic moment that an English soldier shouted to the German prisoners in perfect German that “he had the misfortune of knowing their language and that he spoke to them with it to make the meaning of his words clear and that they should always remember they were a part of this and should never forget they participated and corroborated in this war and massacres” is actually true. Go, make them feel bad, England!
-The child Russia kills was one of the "Hitler Youth".
-“Bajka Iskierki”, translated as “An Ember’s Bedtime Story” is a lovely Polish lullaby originally written by Janina Porazińska and here’s a lovely version sung by Polish pop singers Grzegorz Turnau and Magda Umer with lyrics and translations: http://matchingtracksuits.com/2006/12/29/bajka-iskierka/ .
-Ivan sings the famous Russian civil war song “Полюшко Поле” transliterated as “Polyushka Polye” and literally meaning “Oh Fields, My Fields”. I’m sure you all have heard it by now if not… shame on you! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRAylJmKXIo .
-Mikado=Emperor.
-"Fat Man" and "Little Boy" were the codenames for the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagsaki on August 6 and 9, 1945.
And that’s it! Happy D-Day anniversary!
[EDIT] A big
thank you to
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helisse for the corrections of Russia's line.
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