Just some pix

It's not only Lions and Leopards which may hide 

in the Adrenalin Grass.

It may also be a couple of Impalas or Pukus.

They, of course, are more afraid of you, than you need be of them.

A wonderful reflection!

Is it as tranquil as it looks?

Look what lurks there.

A submerged Hippo and a Croc!

I just like the Goshawk in the tree.

I like the composition!

The calm of the Kafue river is deceptive!

Would You Believe This?

We had just crossed into Zambia's Kafue National Park, when we saw it: 
This astounding apparition! 
This wonder of wonders.
This never before seen natural miracle: 

"The Two Headed Hippo!"

( ;-  ))

Camouflage

Camouflage!

Can't see the Lion! Can You?

He's dead centre!

It's much too long

Yes, I know: It is much too long, but you don't have to read it all at once.
Take your time. Read a little at a time, and next time a little more.
Or, in fact, if you don't like it, don't read it at all.
This time, instead of posting it in sections, which makes the end come first, I posted it as one single entry.
So, give it a try! You might like it. 
The story is essentially true. I just embellished it a bit when I wasn't actually there.

Bertstravels was there for much of it. 

The Deserters

01

HOW CAN YOU TALK TO ME OF ONE MAN’S DEATH,

WHEN UNTOLD MILLIONS DIED?”

“BECAUSE,” he said,

“THE MADNESS WHICH ALLOWED

THIS ONE TO DIE WAS PRESENT IN THE DEATH OF ALL.”

There it was:

Three o’clock in the afternoon and, as he looked over the edge of the red tin roof, he could see the river, almost blue, foaming past the old city walls and carrying with it the high pitched, hissing sound of the fast flowing water.

Now, that the last shots of the anti-aircraft guns had ceased, the stillness that fell over the town was unreal. He turned on his back and, looking into the sky, he saw the small light-grey puffs, which looked so much like clouds, but which were all that was left of an exploding shell after all the steel had gone.

He closed his eyes for a moment, but the puffs, round and dark, then wind-torn and light, still hung on the inside of his eye lids and could not be wished away. He lay there for a long time and allowed the sun, the brilliant sun, the undisturbed sun, the neutral sun, the sun to make his face feel hot and the skin tight over his nose and cheeks.

The “All Clear” signal of the wailing siren, that long, constantly rising wail, which never seemed to end, and which seemed to carry him and the roof and the city and the river up and up, which seemed to turn and spin everything on an upward spiral toward the sun. Yes, the sun and the river and this town and this girl beside him and this stupid war…….this girl.

He raised himself on one elbow and the tin roof on which they lay gave a hollow bang. He looked at her. She had been watching him and she smiled. A long blond strand of hair, slightly curled at the end, came over her cheek and to the corner of her smile. He wished that she would brush her hair back, out of her face and stop the tickle which he felt in the corner of his mouth.

“Where should we say we were?” he asked.

“Oh, any shelter. The school shelter; the shelter underneath the library….anyway, no-one will ask.”

“At first they used to ask,” she said, ‘but now, they got so used to it, they never bother.” He shrugged his shoulders:

“I guess we’d better go now.”

He stood up and the flat tin roof gave off another loud and hollow sounding boom. She reached up and so their hands touched casually and when he had pulled her to her feet, they stood and found each other in a smile in spite of it. They tip-toed to the edge and with every careful step the roof protested with a hollow boom. The girl went first and he bent down to guide her firmly. As she lowered herself, feet first, and gently down, her right hand gripped the wire of the lightening rod and he held firmly to her left, down past the eaves trough, her breasts pronounced by the pressure of her body against the roof, now both hands on the rim, her blond hair disappeared and then the gentle thump on the grass below. Erich followed quickly.

“I’d better hurry,” she said and waved to him and turned and went away.

He looked upward and saw the last puff in the sky had gone and brilliant sunshine everywhere and then he noticed with surprise that the town had re-awakened and re-appeared from underground.

“That’s the last time I’ll try station IX,” he muttered to himself. “Every move you make, that roof is noisier than the Flack, The best is Station XII…..it’s in the sun as well and the roof is solid stone and even grass and moss grows in the cracks.”

The fact, that Station XII had Jesus on the cross with big spike nail and bloody feet and chest and hands and all, caused them at first to find a different spot to meet. Although they’d never said as much, they’d both been happy to abandon Station XII and secretly they felt relieved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Why are the flags so red? Why are the circles so white? Why are the sun wheels so black in the white circles? Why are the people so quiet? Why do they sit so stiffly almost at attention?

The flowers look so innocent. The flowers say: We are what we are and just as the sun shines over the river and the town without discrimination, so do we decorate and beautify and ask not what. The flowers make an almost perfect circle around His picture which comes up to the very edge of the rostrum.

And the rostrum stands at the very centre of the stage. The stage is draped in flags….horizontally and up and down. What is the name for ‘up and down’? …Oh yes: vertically.

Horizontally and vertically

Horizontally dead, vertically alive….

The stage is draped in flags, horizontally and vertically. In the four corners of the stage are flags in bushels.

Children in white shirts and black kerchiefs ‘round their necks stand at ridiculous attention…their fingers pressed against the seams of their dark trousers,

Vertically they stand.

And in the centre is the rostrum and against the rostrum leans His picture, huge, surrounded by an almost perfect circle of non-discriminating flowers..

There were voices before the curtain had gone up.

Now the voices are dead and the people seem dead in their seats.

Underneath the stage it is dark and dusty. Through cracks and knotholes in the boards beams of light rush in and dance exuberantly and in triumph.

The footsteps are amplified and reverberate and even the light beams shake a little. The foot steps come from behind the stage and cross it surely and come to rest at the rostrum..

The lights are bright on the stage and they dim now where the silent people sit and when it is all dark, except for the flag-draped square of the stage, where the light seems even brighter now, and when all is dark except for the stage, everybody slumps forward a little and slides down in his chair and thinks that she will be able to relax.

Where only yesterday, or was it months ago – at any rate, is seems it was only yesterday, - where only yesterday they were down in the Salzach, swimming in the ice-clear rushing river, swimming, bobbing, sinking, rising, swimming; running along the foot path on the river’s edge, upstream through the bush land, running upstream for miles and their naked bodies sweating deliciously in the beaming sun, where only yesterday the ice clear water of the Salzach cleaned them, bathed them, caressed them, whispered to them, carried them lazily down to where they had left their clothes, where only yesterday that clean water which comes from the mountain springs, cleaned their clean, exuberant bodies and cuddled their free and soaring souls, today they stand under the Klieg lights and their bodies sweat again and they stand stiffly at a stance completely foreign to their bodies, and they absorb with rapt attention and gleaming gleaming eyes and innocent souls and unprepared brains, they absorb the message which is the spoiler, the corrupter, the insidious and secret poisoner.

How many sun-drenched days, how many miles of ice-clear Salzach to clean them? The river will flow eternally and it will be there and it will cleanse and the path will again be opened and the debris will be removed, slowly, partially, slowly, never totally. Never?

And sweating they stand and their attention is so total that the words sink into their souls without ever having touched their minds. They stand sweating and they sit and listen and they melt into one great body which sways and rocks and silently moans in an ecstasy of non-comprehension.

The word was in the beginning and the word will be in the end. And it is Sunday and the 10 o’clock ‘Sunday Morning Festival’ has begun.

The voice booms darkly and there is an echo. The echo cackles from a malfunctioning loud speaker.

Glorious…rious…rious“Sacrifice…crifice…fice…

Reich…Reich…Reich…”

There is a cackling and a high whistling sound.

The whistle swells through the darkness and swells and pierces six hundred and forty ears. The whistle subsides now. Someone told Police Inspector Hartmann not to touch the microphone and to stand back a little. But the broken loud speaker still cackles and the echo is still there.

“Lebensraum…bensraum…raum…

Struggle…ruggle…uggle.,..

Fuehrer…uehrer…uehrer…”

Words overlap and become incomprehensible. Words change into a cacophony of sounds, wrap themselves around pillars, and squeeze through key holes and the tiniest cracks in the doors, bounce from head to head and back again and up up up, up to the crystal chandelier and sit on the drop-shaped glass pebbles.

The chandelier is without light, has been without light ever since the curtain has gone up…the chandelier is dark now and reveals nothing. The words hit against the teardrop shaped glass pebbles of the chandelier, angrily coaxing for light and the longer the light stays wrapped in itself and hidden, the angrier the words become and they pound with their fists against the glass and they stomp on it with hobnailed boots and they throw the whole weight of their bodies against it and curse, foaming from the mouth and they cannot, with all their might, force even one glimmer from the glass pebbles of the stubborn chandelier…

…cannot, though multiplied by three; cannot, even with the double echo.

“Frieden…rieden…rieden…

Freiheit…eiheit…heit…

Und Brot…brot…rot…

Peace…eace…eace..”

Liberty…berty…ty

And Bread…bread…read…

Eventually some-one has the presence of mind and rips the wires which feed the words to the defective speaker. The cackle is gone and the echo is no more.

Only the booming voice of Inspektor Hartmann is left, addressing the women, the children, the half deaf, the cripples, the near blind, the unfit for war, the children, the children, the children, echoless.

“We must sacrifice more and more. As our brave soldiers sacrifice so much in the battle fields, so must we rise to their challenge and do our part and support them with our love and our admiration, our sustaining power. The sustaining power of our pure and Aryan hearts. This struggle for the survival of our race, this pure race, must be fought until the final victory. For our Fuehrer and our Fatherland we offer a triple Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

The brassy, off-key sound of fanfares and the deep rolling of the drums reverberate and keep the ecstasy alive. Inspektor Hartmann stands at stiff attention beside the rostrum. His small frame is stretched inside his spotless uniform. He strokes a small black strand of hair down his forehead, almost to his left eyebrow. His light grey eyes are fixed upon a point above and far beyond the silent crowd. The fanfares then die down and Inspektor Hartmann leaves the stage.

The wooden staircase leads from centre stage to the auditorium. The red carpet muffles the sound of his heavy steps. He stiffly lowers himself into the empty chair, reserved for him in the first row, and during the remaining part of the Sunday Morning Festival he never takes his eyes from the stage.

Poems, Songs, Poems, Slogans, Fanfare Calls.

There is no light at all in the last row of the auditorium, deep underneath the overhanging balcony. There is no light at all in the last row of the auditorium.

Erich Krueger sits alone in that last row of the auditorium. He hears the words and he is glad to be alone. The darkness is a comfort and he pulls it around him. He snuggles low in his chair and he allows his mind to wander. He hears the words no more. His thoughts now float through the narrow streets of this town he calls his home. Along the Guertelstrasse and through the Gate into the Altstadt….jump over to Kalvarienweg and then up to the sun drenched roof of Station XII. Hildegard is there and he reaches out for her. Erich opens his eyes and he is happy that there is no light at all in this last row of the auditorium. Up there, on the stage, Inspektor Hartmann shouts his closing words and Erich still cannot fathom it: “How can such a man have such a daughter?” he thinks and as the lights come on he slowly rises from his chair and the throng of bodies, pushing through the exit, scoops him up and almost carries him out into the street. The sunlight stabs his eyes and for a moment he shields them with his hand.

The ‘Fanfare and Drum Corps’ has lined up in march formation. Their silver instruments sparkle in the sun. They move off down the street and the wind tears pieces from their tune.

Over by the chestnut trees Erich saw Hildegard talking excitedly to a small group of girls. They chattered back and forth. At age 17, they all were in the last year of the BDM, the Corp of German Girls. Black pleated skirts, white blouses and black kerchiefs ‘round their necks are their summer uniforms.

Hildegard shook her head and her blond curls bounced from side to side. She glared at Anna, the red haired girl who always professed to be everybody’s best friend.

“No” she said, “they are not gypsies. Even if they were, what of it?”

Anna rolled her eyes and tilted her head back:

“Everybody knows that Gypsies are first of all not Aryans, and secondly they are thieves. Everybody knows that.” Hildegard stared at Anna:

“You know”, she said with a hard smile playing on her lips, “for an Aryan you are pretty stupid. What’s more, they are not Gypsies; they come from a long line of German stock. They come from the Banat, and we should help them find a new home here.”

“Don’t they have a new home? Up near the old mill, in the old barracks?” Gertrude, the tallest of the girls, asked.

“Yes”, Hildegard replied.

“In the old Barracks. Where you would not even let your dog spend one night.” Anne shrugged her shoulders.

“What can we do” she asked.

Gertrude and the others said nothing, but looked at Hildegard, as if for help and advice.

“There is one woman with her 12 year old son. Her name is Sophia. His name is Kurt. They came from Kudritz.” Hildegard paused.

“I got them a room in the Gasthaus Gans. It’s not much, but it’s better than the barracks.”

“How did you do that?” Gertrude asked.

“There has to be some good being the daughter of the Police Inspector” Hildegard smiled.

“Unfortunately I can’t move them all. Maybe we can all help in improving the old barracks?”

The girls spent the next two days discussing this idea. They accepted Hildegard as their leader in this endeavour and looked forward to the actual work. Since all of them either still went to school, or had full time jobs, it was difficult to arrange it so that all of them could get to the barracks at the same time. In the meantime they tried to enlist their young brothers and their boy friends to help.

“Maybe we could all spend Sunday morning working at the barracks, instead of the Sunday Morning Festival.” Hildegard’s suggestion was roundly rejected since none of the girls was brave enough to explain her absence from this meeting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It seems to me that we had better have a little chat.” Inspektor Hartmann spoke quietly. He knew his daughter well enough and always tried not to push too hard. He walked over to the window and closed it softly.

“It’s brisk outside,” he said.

“I opened it to let some fresh air in, you know you don’t like the cooking smells.” Hildegard stood by the stove. She watched intently over the bubbling pots. The wood fire crackled with a satisfying sound and gave of quick, intensive heat.

Hildegard was willowy and blond and blue-eyed. It pleased her father to look at her. He was glad she had not turned to face him. In her eyes he often saw a hardness which shut him out.

“This is not a good thing,” he thought. “She’s my daughter and still I can’t come close to her in the important things.”

He turned to the window once again and opened it. The fresh, cool air which streamed in through the narrow crack felt pleasant on his face. He allowed the wind to push the window open more and looked out over his garden.

“It was a good idea to let it grow in its own way” he said.

“Let it go to pot, you mean.” Hildegard had turned from the stove and with a quick flip of her wrists she straightened the table cloth. It billowed and the wave slipped silently from end to end and settled. Her father ignored this last remark.

“You know how much mother liked that garden. How she worked in it to keep it looking neat.” Hildegard was not prepared to let this subject slide.

“She’d like it even better now.” His voice was edgy and he abruptly closed the window and turned the handle which let the bolts slip home.

Hildegard brought the steaming plates and placed them on the table. One small pork cutlet each, home fried potatoes and hot sauerkraut. She sat down in her chair. Her face was slightly flushed. The oven’s heat was still reflected on her cheeks. Around her finely drawn nostrils and on her upper lip a haze of perspiration.

“Mahlzeit!” she said routinely and

“Mahlzeit!” answered her father. For a while they ate in silence.

“It’s about that boy,” he said and just before he turned his head he saw her eyes.

“I guessed as much,” she said.

“Why? How could you guess?” He was glad to have found this question. It gave him time to think.

“Easy…I saw you look at us in front of the theatre this morning. To see you look at us, you’d think I was talking to a leper.”

“That’s pretty close,” he answered quickly and, having said it, he felt angry with himself.

“Dam it,” he thought, “I promised myself I’d stay objective and not become emotional.” Hildegard looked level into his eyes and said nothing.

Her father’s eyes twitched slightly and with a quick brush of his hand he brought the dark lock down over his forehead.

“How often did I tell you to stay away from him?” he asked.

“Off hand, I’d say a thousand times”

“At least,” he said. “It makes no difference to you what I say, though, does it?”

“Oh yes it does, when you’re being reasonable.” Hildegard spoke very quietly.

“I am reasonable! But you seem to forget that you’re an Aryan!” Hartmann stood up and turned to the window once again.

“So is he; if that makes any difference.” Hilde said.

“He doesn’t act like one. Goddamit,” he shouted. “It’s in his blood”.

“Don’t shout, father, it’s simply this: Aryan or not, you just don’t like him. I don’t know why and, frankly, I no longer care. It’s true, he doesn’t like to march. It’s true; he’d rather sit down by the river and watch the clouds rush by than listen to your stupid slogans at the Sunday Morning Festival. That’s what’s bothering you. Isn’t it?” Hildegard pushed back her chair and stood up. She faced her father.

“Yes, all of that.” His voice was shrill.

“And what’s more, he didn’t even volunteer. He was drafted. He was drafted.” Hildegard quietly said

“So what! So were a lot of others”

“But that’s what he is like inside. A dreamer, Hildegard, a dreamer. There is no place for dreamers. We need men of action! You hear me? Men…Men! Hildegard laid her hand on her father’s shoulder and he fell quiet, the vein on his forehead still pulsing angrily.

“Sieg Heil,” she said. “Sieg Heil.” And then she turned and walked away and left the room. Hartmann stood there for a while and stared.

“She doesn’t understand,” he thought. “She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand this world. My world, our world…this world locked in this struggle…

Freedom, liberty and bread.

Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Fuehrer

Lebensraum

Blood and Honour

Deutschland ueber alles

“But she just doesn’t understand.”

Before the rains came in the fall and after the long dry summer, the water level of the Salzach receded every year and you could walk along the sandbank on the east side of the river.

Before the rains came in the fall and before the heavy-fisted clouds obscured the sun, they walked on Sunday afternoon along the sandbank on the east side of the river.

The children carried their wooden sandals and felt the warm sand with their toes. Their mothers walked beside them and behind them and in front, and stored the warmth of Indian Summer days. That was before the rains came in the fall.

This was a Sunday afternoon and although the morning had been brisk, the wind had died at noon and they walked in small groups of three or four or five under the sun which valiantly fought off autumn chills. The women wore light knitted sweaters over gingham dresses and most were barefoot in their shoes. The children raced like spinning tops between them in a never ending game of tag.

The children stood by the water’s edge and skipped flat stones against the river’s current. One, two, three, four, five…look here, watch this one:

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…yesterday I had one skipped sixteen times….I did… who saw it?…no-one…doesn’t count…show us now….go on….show us now…skip one sixteen times…ha….sixteen times…show off…prove it.

Before the rains came in the fall.

Before the rains came in the fall this was a great place for a picnic. Whole families, mothers and their children, would find a rock, smoothed by the waves all year, and spread their bread and cheese and thermos-bottled tea.

Out there by the sandbank they would eat. A little sand between the teeth had never harmed a soul.

“I guess you’ll have to go,” she said. “It’s one of those things….you can’t avoid.”

The boy had rolled up his trousers’ legs. He carried his shoes, on knotted laces, slung over his shoulder. He walked with a loping gait. His shoulders were drawn up. He bent down low and picked two pebbles from the sand.

“It’s so stupid,” he said and shook the stones in his cupped hands. His solemn eyes were nearly black and specks of silvery sand glistened in his black curls.

“I don’t know if it’s stupid. You know, your father, God rest his soul, he served his Country in the Great War. He was even decorated.”

The children’s laughter from the water’s edge…

“Stand back…watch this one…this is going to be a good one! Skip, skip, skip. Before the rains came in the fall. The children are still playing tag, racing between their elders, kicking up sand.

“You’re it! I touched you! You’re it!”

“You never did, you liar, you never did.”

“I did too, you’re it. I touched your shirt. I felt it. You’re it. I touched you, I did! Didn’t I Mom! Mom! Didn’t I?”

Before the rains came in the fall.

“Okay, so Dad served”

“Served bravely,” his mother interrupted.

“Okay, so he served bravely, and was even decorated. That was in his time and in his place, with his body and his...Ah...his mind. He fought his war.”

The stones rattled in his fist. He kicked his naked toes into the sand.

“It’s no different now,” his mother said.

“But it is!” he said, ‘I know nothing of his fight.”

“You know nothing of this one either.” Her voice was tired. “Anyway, what are we arguing about? Erich, you have to go. You’ve got no choice. It’s your duty. It’s the law.” For a second or two she closed her eyes. “My God, Erich, you’re 16, you’ve been drafted.”

Before the rains came on the sandbanks of the Salzach.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Only in July and August, when the sun is high, the chestnut tree, which stands in the middle of the courtyard of the ‘Kaserne’, the army barracks, gets a few hours of sun light per day.

It is a stunted, crippled tree and only the best spring seasons bring a few blossoms.

Blossoms like Christmas trees with all white candles. Then in autumn gnarled chestnuts, horse chestnuts, mind you, lie between the cobble stones, the cobble stones pushed upwards by the stubborn roots. From year to year the tree looks as if it is about to give up. Wrapped in shadows, most of the time, no sun, little rain , no hope, no birds, no songs, no love, no sun, no love, no hope.

Swift clatter of boots criss-cross the courtyard of the barracks day and night. The barracks built of grey stone, three stories high, four squat structures at right angles, forming a perfectly square courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard stands the stunted, crippled chestnut tree, still fighting against all odds, still breathing, although strangled, still growing, or is it? Still surviving and still there.

Inside the buildings, for more than fifty years, recruits have been taught the fundamentals of their trade. Sergeants and Officers, spit and polish Officers, loud-mouthed drill Sergeants, suave and gentlemanly Officers, brave Officers, cowardly Officers, comradely Sergeants, brutal Sergeants, in a frustrating effort to teach slow-witted farmhands, lazy, goldbricking small-town boys, some of the dubious virtues, some of the questionable values, they hold so dear.

When really, all they have to do is open the grimy windows and tell their recruits: “Look! Look down there. ..in the middle of the courtyard…see that crummy chestnut tree? That’s a soldier!”

But not one of them, in all the years, has ever thought of it. Not one of them has ever opened a grimy window. The textbook tree just stands there, neither use nor ornament, and still does not give up from year to sun-starved year.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kasernenstrasse leads in a semi-circle around three sides of the barracks. In summer it is a nice and shady road with chestnut trees on both sides. Full grown and thick-leaved trees and in the fall the children come with gunny sacks and four wheel carts and collect the dark brown chestnuts bursting from the pale green thorn-studded, prickly skins. The chestnuts have a wide variety of uses: Propelled from slingshots they are not as deadly as stones and produce a lovely sound on impact. They can be strung on cord and make a necklace of any desired length. They can be hollowed out, so that only the brown, tough, almost wooden skin remains, one small hole punctured from the side, insert a reed, you have a pipe with which to smoke the dried-up chestnut leaves. Best of all: A large, shiny, glistening chestnut can be carried in your trouser pocket and when the loneliness descends, you can rub it gently between your fingers. You can pull it out and look at it, and turn it round and round and look at it and rub it gently with your thumb. Then you can put it back into your trouser pocket and you can walk home, whistling, because you know the chestnut in your pocket belongs to you and no-one knows that you have had it for six weeks and no-one knows it is a lucky charm. A chestnut, rubbed gently with your fingers, helps you think and know things.

On the south side of the Kaserne is a small parade ground. A six foot high wall of brick, joined to the barracks, surrounds it. At the very top of this wall barbed wire is strung on iron rods. No-one in, no-one out.

“Military Area” reads the sign and “Keep Out.”

Erich Krueger can get in. Through the front door, through the dark, round-ceiling, cobblestone-floored, windowless, dark damp hallway. Right in through the heavy oaken, black-nail-studded front door. Right in, across the courtyard, now with the stunted, crippled, sun-impoverished, leave-less, naked branches hopelessly reaching, chestnut tree.

Climb the big chestnut tree outside the south wall of the parade ground. Climb it in the summer and hide in the leaves and watch. Watch the soldiers, dirty green, march up and down; watch the drill-sergeant open his cavernous mouth; watch his face turn red; watch him point with his stiff finger and single out one of the heavily panting recruits; watch the recruit stand stiffly at attention, chest out, stomach in, chin up, eyes straight forward, heels together, toes apart forty five degrees; watch the Sergeant circle the watched recruit; watch him open his mouth and close it; watch the recruit belly-flop to the ground, scramble up, to the ground, scramble up, down, up, down, up round and round the parade ground; watch the sweat mingle with the dirt on his face; watch the wide open mouth desperately gulping air; watch the sergeant’s mouth; watch the other recruits grinning without pity; watch the victim flop to the ground, crumple to the ground, claw feebly into the ground and watch his legs jerk in reflex, and not get up….no more….watch no more; close your eyes and see him still…close your eyes.

But then climb the big chestnut tree outside the south wall of the parade ground, climb it in summer and hide in the green leaves and listen:

Listen to the brass band rehearse, as if they needed to rehearse::

Listen to the big round drum: tum tum tum tu-tum…

Listen listen listen to the crack drill team rehearsing the salvos for the big funeral next Saturday; listen to the Sergeant: “Preeeeeeesent Arms!” Listen to callused hands slap slap slap on rifle stocks and rifle butts. Watch the rifles in one straight line pointing southward, right into the foliage of the chestnut tree; listen to the Sergeant bellow more commands;

Listen to your friend frantically whispering into your ear: listen to yourself say: “yes, yes, yes…great!”

Watch the grin on your friend’s face and listen to your own chuckle deep inside of you.

Look straight down into the rifles, don’t move, watch, listen, watch, listen to the final command, screamed: “Fiiiiire!”

Listen to the salvo split your ear drums; listen to your friend moan, gruesomely, convincingly moan, loud, long moan; watch him let go…down to the lowest branch, where he cleverly brakes his fall, hangs for a moment with one hand, still moaning and then lets go and still moaning falls to the ground, lands on his feet in a crouch, moaning quietly now, he looks up, beckons you madly;.. ”come down, fall down, you promised, you coward…”

Watch the soldiers break rank, run madly toward the exit door at the far end.

Listen to the Sergeant scream: “Which lame brained fuckin’ idiot used live ammunition? God dam you stupid bastards! Blind ammunition I said…

Ambulance…fast…you…private…run…get the ambulance…get a doctor…move you stupid clot…move!

Listen to the pandemonium…

Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden, einen bessern find’st du nicht.” …

The band still doesn’t know.

Climb down the chestnut tree in summer; fast, fast, climb, hurry, watch your friend take off like a rabid along Kasernenstrasse: jump from the last branch now, below the top of the wall and out of sight, hit the ground, ever so slightly off balance, sprain your ankle and feel the pain shoot through your foot, subside;

Run after your friend down Kasernenstrasse, catch up to your friend, hiding behind the big fat chestnut tree; doubled up with laughter, laughing, tears streaming from his eyes and you begin to laugh, helplessly, uproariously laugh.

“Did you see that…Did you? Eh! Did you see me fall? Did you hear me moan?

“You shoulda seen the Sergeant, turned all white, you shoulda seen them scramble in every which direction."

“Yes, I saw. I was up there with you.”

Listen to the ambulance scream down Kasernenstrasse; hide behind the tree in the deep grass in the ditch which runs along Kasernenstrasse;

Listen to the running footsteps of a flock of soldiers; suppress your laughter, roll around the ditch, look at each other and laugh…deep down…your throat and stomach hurting with the laughter;

Watch the ambulance come back, knowing it is empty, slowly, the driver scanning both sides of the road, looking for the victim;

Watch the Sergeant coming back on foot, shaking his head.

Limp home and when the ankle swells and your mother solicitously puts cold compresses on it, forget the pain, lie back and find the chestnut in your pocket, stare up to the ceiling and gently rub the chestnut between your thumb and fingers.

When your mother asks: “Erich, where did you hurt your foot?” you mumble something about stepping off a sidewalk and slip…just like that.

All the while you rub your magic chestnut.

For three more years you rub the magic chestnut.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erich Krueger walked slowly, without a limp, across the courtyard. He followed the arrowed sign” ‘Recruitment Hall’ and joined the line of boy-men which spilled out through the open door into another hallway.

As dank and musty as the hallways are, the recruitment hall is brightly lit and decorated:

Swastika flags draped on the wall behind a long table. Posters, showing rugged faces, steel-helmeted, sombre faces and underneath in bold black print:

“Forward into the fight for Peace, Liberty and Bread.”

There is His picture and again He on a reviewing stand and below Him masses with their right arms raised and underneath in black bold print:

“Ein Volk,, Ein Reich, Ein Fuehrer.”

The line-up moves forward slowly. The room is warm and full of excited voices.

Over, to the right, tables along the whole wall and bundles of grey-green uniforms, held together with a string, and heavy hobnailed boots and grey-green helmets, chipped and dented with sweat-stained chin straps and sweat-stained inner linings.

From far off he hears a voice calling out names; monotonously calling. A curl of smoke hangs over the table at the far end, and in answer to the monotone, a brisk and eager:

“Here!”

The short double pounding of a stamp on inkpad and on document. Two short tap tap in quick succession: Questions, answers, monotone, brisk.

“Here”, tap tap...Questions mumbled:

“Do you ‘Here’ swear allegiance to the Fuehrer, Flag and Fatherland? ….willing to defend them without question and unto death?” Answer briskly;

“I swear.”

And then he hears his name. He stands close by the table and his own name explodes upon his mind. The uniform behind the table never looks up: tap tap…do you?

Is there a choice?

Yes! Instant death;

Some choice.

That’s all – take it or leave it.

What if I leave it?

You can’t leave it!

Then there is no choice at all? Am I a human?

You were. You had the semblance of a human until you came in here.

What am I then?

You are one for all and all for one! You are the mass!

No, I am I, always must be I cannot ever be non-I , cannot be ‘you he she it we you they’, can only be I, forever…happy I am I, lonesome I, laughing I, crying I, warm I, cold I, content I, desperate I, hungry I, thirsty I, forsaken I, raped I, destitute I, starved I, tortured I, murdered I, compassionate I, searching I, finding I, exuberant I, alive I, dead I, loved I, but always, always: “I”

And his own name explodes upon his mind. The uniform behind the table never looks up. Tap tap…

”without question and unto death?” Erich hears himself answer: “I swear.”

Left right, left right, left right. Heavy, nail-rimmed boots on cobble stones. Out, through the dark damp hallway, illuminated by naked bulbs at distant intervals; Out, through the naked bulbs shedding light on sweating ceiling stones. Out, past heavy doors on both sides of the long hallway, heavy doors locked tightly.

Left right, left right, left right;

Feel the boys turned soldiers on either side of you, behind you and in front, surrounded by the left right, left right of nail-rimmed boots on cobble stones.

Out through the ground, the stones, underneath the stones, and out somewhere somehow;

Out through the dark stone walls, through the mortar and cement, through bricks red, square, even, through grey uneven stones.

Dissolve into your parts through the solid walls, osmosis, dissolve and yet preserve the I, preserve your being, do not become a part of mortar, bricks, stones and cement;

Tag and identify each tiny tiny part of you; tag, dissolve and re-assemble in a better place, a better world; Out through yourself, through consciousness present, past and future.

Rub your chestnut gently, tag it too, dissolve it too and re-assemble it.

Cut through the heavy oaken door, yawning into the day. Out, far out, step by step, slowly, speed is unimportant, as long as memory and determination linger. Someday you’ll make it out. Someday you’ll be all out. Dissolved, tagged and re-assembled. For now, ‘out’ is transition from hallways to parade ground. Fresh air, breathe deeply, practice tagging and dissolving. No need to close your eyes, Maybe it helps a little in the beginning. Okay, so close your eyes for just one moment: Dissooooolve…

Draw in, push out. Which way is dissolution? Keep your wits about you: ‘Out’ is fresh air, a breeze, a warm day in late fall.

On the parade ground trucks are lined up with care. Dark grey trucks, heavy wheels, pick axe and shovel buckled on the side, numbers, white numbers stencilled on the side, mud splatters adhering to the sides, tool boxes bolted to the sides and underneath; drivers leaning against the side, smoking. Smoking beside the sign that says: “Caution! Gasoline. No smoking.”

The drivers smoke, negligently, nonchalantly, leaning against the side, smoking.

The motors are still. But the eternal screaming of the engines has become part of the fibre, hangs underneath the hood, is ever-present, even in the silence. Adjustable wrenches click against the motor blocks, hammers hammer, pliers ply, wrenches wrench and slip…curses…and a hand, gashed palm held high, curses, red curses, pulsing curses, bright red pulsing, gushing curses spill down the arm and mingle with the grease on greasy motor blocks.

The chestnut trees outside the wall are bare. Sky through the branches, open sky, a little blue, a little grey, sun comes and goes, dissolves and re-assembles, tagged?

Cloud-blankets, multi-shaped and multi-coloured move slowly, majestically.

The sun stands still, allows the multi shaped and multi coloured clouds to pass? The clouds stand still, allow the sun to pass? I? Do I stand still, events, happenings, passing by? Do I move through events and happenings? Do I create them? Do they create me? Which way lies re-assembly?

Left right, left right, left right…command to halt, command to turn right…who remembers commands? Speech….:”now soldiers of the greatest army man has ever known…judged by military standards”…words waft by, drift back into the hallways, damp and musty, cobble stoned hallways…

become part of the barracks once more; have always been part of the barracks, come out on loan, are spoken, drift back on their own from where they had come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Tonight,” he said. He did not look up.

“So soon?” she asked without surprise.

“Yes, they’re not wasting any time.” Erich leaned against the pair tree in Hartmann’s spacious garden. “At ten o’clock,” he said. His fingers played with a well-thumbed button on his grey-green jacket. He felt ill at ease in his soldier’s uniform.

Hildegard sat on the low stone wall, which terraced their garden’s gentle slope.

“Maybe I should not have come,” he said.

“Why not? And this time it was a question.

“I don’t know,” he said, “maybe it’s just that I hate to say ‘Good Bye’ to you.” He shrugged his shoulders slowly and pursed his lips: “Anyway, I’m here.” She smiled at him, her hands smoothes the porous rock on either side of her.

“It won’t be long,” she said. “You’ll see, it won’t be long.”

“It’ll be too long if it lasts a day. And it’ll last longer than a day.” He smiled. He pushed away from the tree and sat down beside her on the stone. She took his hand and stroked it gently. Erich looked down upon his boots and they looked big and bulky.

“It’ll be too long if it lasts a day” he said again.

Her soft hand lifted his chin and forced his eyes to look at her…and see.

“Don’t think,” she said. “Just for a little while, a few months maybe, don’t think….let things happen all around you and stay aloof. Don’t let them touch you. Stay aloof.”

“How should I manage that?” His voice was husky. “They’re taking us to war. How can I stay aloof? You tell me! How?

“Erich, I can’t tell you how. I only know you’ve got to. Don’t let it change you. Don’t let it make you hard. Don’t let it….for my sake, but most of all for your own sake.”

His gaze went past her and through the darkening evening he saw the old familiar things: the garden, fenced by bushes, the little garden house with all its lattice work, its round and wooden roof, covered with rags of moss, and up on the far side of the ravine, where Kalvarienweg, a tree-lined narrow road, swings around and runs parallel with the river, he saw in the descending darkness the outlines of the Stations of the Cross. The Hill of Calvary.

---------------------------

The children;

Where are the children who played around these simulated scenes out of the life and death of man? Where are the children now? They, who gazed in admiration at the life-size figures, multi-coloured figures, foreboding figures. They, who penetrated the eternal semi-darkness of the half round grottoes, with piercing eyes, with seeking eyes, with questions-and-no-answers eyes, with never-any-answers eyes…

Stay aloof my friend.

Do as they do, but stay aloof; march and stay aloof; shoot and stay aloof; kill and stay aloof, suppress and stay aloof; see the smoke and stay aloof, count the bones and stay aloof; hammer crosses and stay aloof; listen to the trains and stay aloof; don’t ask their destination, stay aloof, see the wide open, pleading eyes between the slats of freight cars, stay aloof, don’t ask their destiny; stay aloof.

Be young and see the world twist out of shape, but stay aloof!

“There is no way,” he said. He withdrew his hand which Hildegard still held in her own.

The children…

The children left the day the grottoes were boarded up. They kept their distance and watched the workmen lift the heavy frames in place. They watched the workmen drive wooden wedges between the wooden frames and grotto stone, and heavy spike nails through the frames and into the soft stones. They watched the workmen unload boards and nail them, swiftly nail them to the frames. Fourteen walls of wooden boards hold no fascinations.

The children left the day the grottoes were boarded up.

A wooden wall cannot stay a wooden wall alone. Blank spaces cannot stay blank spaces. In this world there are no blank spaces.

The paperhangers come. The town has many expert paperhangers.. Wasn’t He a paperhanger? No, He was not a paperhanger. With pail and brush the paperhangers come. With pail and brush and paper to be hung. Blank spaces, wooden walls, dress up and go to the ball. The mask-ball which lasts a thousand years.

“May I have this dance, please?”

“Fuehrer Command, We Follow You” leers at “Strength Through Joy” They dance until “Peace, Liberty and Bread” cuts in. “Strength Through Joy” is such a popular, voluptuous, desirable poster partner.

Muscular, naked-chested “Lebensraum”, he the virile poster with arms raised high and biceps rippling, swings a polka and in his arms, exhausted lies “Blood And Honour” smiling. She is twirled around and round and finally, “Lebensraum”, still laughing uproariously, comes to rest in the lap of “Onward To The Final Victory.”

When this masked ball spins to an end, there will be other paperhangers with pail and brush and paper to be hung; in this world of no blank spaces.

“It’ll always be the same,” Erich said into the darkness which had come.

“No, it won’t” she answered and brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek.

“Anyway, I’ve got to go now.” He stood up. “We’re leaving at 10 o’clock, and I haven’t been home yet. I’ve just got to go.”

“Good Bye” he said.

“I’ll walk you to the gate,” she said.

They walked down the terraced garden hand in hand.

Gate grates on iron hinges, opens inward, and, with the downward slope, clangs shut. Clangs with finality and without a single hesitating question.

Footpath worn smooth and grass-less, angled, rises up the far slope of the ravine and joins Kalvarienweg between two rough-skinned chestnut trees.

Chestnut trees at equal intervals. Chestnut trees line both sides of Kalvarienweg at equal intervals, intervals filled with early, novemberly darkness, cold darkness, wet.

Chestnut trees with dripping, leafless branches, sap-less branches, reaching across Kalvarienweg, tip touching tip; fleshless thousand-ribbed skeleton, lying prone, encircling him, who walks, boot walks along its bumpy spine.

Far ahead, Kalvarienweg, arbitrarily called Theatergasse, same road, same naked trees, but shorter now, two red skull eyes gleam glow light in the surrounding darkness. Beckon him, who boot walks, spine walks, rapidly.

Rib: common, vulgar horse chestnut rib, useless, fruitless leafless, question less, answerless vulgar horse-chestnut rib! Identify yourself!

“Genus Castanea”

“Liar! Thou art not pure; thou art not of genus Castanea! Thou art a pretender; thou hidest behind a forged passport of ancestry! But we, the seekers of purity see through your lies. We recognise your worthlessness. More, we recognise your insidiousness, your slow and creeping poison, waiting for a moment when our guard is down. Identify yourself!

“Aesculus Hippocastanum”

Now you whimper, now you plead, now you show your uselessness, your effort to undermine the pure, the noble, the useful fruit bearing, the pure, and the “rassenrein.”

The chestnut tree is silent, sways in the novemberly wind and sighs. The sighs drip from the branches and speak softly: “We stood here many years before you came. Our roots go deep. This is our land as much as yours. We gave you shade and joy. We told tales, wrote plays and songs. We sang the songs. We healed your sick…our roots go deep.

Reveal yourself! Your Age!

Questions, questions, unanswerable questions. That which we are, we are. We age as you and any answer to your question, as your question even, takes time and when we speak time has gone by and subtle changes….As long as we live, we cannot speak of ourselves, since what we say is part of us, shapes us, moulds us, changes us, makes us what we will be tomorrow. Cut us down and count the rings. Then you will know that, which we were, not what we are, since then we will have ceased to be.

Erich hurries, heavy-footed, along the Theatergasse, and while he swiftly walks he rubs the chestnut gently between his gentle fingers. Two street lights give a reddish glow to mark the intersection of Theatergasse into Adolf Hitler Alee. There the chestnut tree has given way to slender poplar trees.

Adolf Hitler Alee runs one block north of Ringstrasse and circles the town. Off to the left is “Auf der Schanz”, then Burgschlosswiese, with the athletic fields. The goal posts of the soccer field glimmer, white paint slowly flaking, at each other. The crowd’s cheers hang in the past, inaudible. Tonight, the cheers are the electrical transformer’s steady low-pitched hum. Erich can hear the humming sound through the novemberly stillness long before he can see the source, the concrete, crouching-in-the-darkness, iron-fence-surrounded, source; long before he can see the squat “High Voltage Keep Out Danger” padlocked gate, iron-fence-barbed-wire-topped, transformer in the novemberly darkness.

And then, out of the darkness, and before he reaches the transformer, there, on the outskirts of this town, his home; Black-out frames tightly hooked in place, no light permitted to escape, no answers there; and yet he knows this small four roomed house, this atticked house, this damp, but solid-cellared house, this mother housing house, this fatherless house, so many years this fatherless house. He knows it and he trusts it. Like an island he knows it, like the wave-embattled rock he trusts it. A place in which silently to ask the questions. No answers, but at least you may ask questions. How many questions have an answer? How many questions are being answered by just being asked?

No, no answers, but at least you may ask questions.

On this island, on this rock, in this refuge, in this place, in the kitchen, in the bedrooms, upstairs bedrooms, in the downstairs living-room, this unused living-room, this lace-bedecked living-room, this polished, scrubbed, high-gloss waxed, curtained, furniture-crowded, book-lined, behind glass book-lined, doily-covered, unused living room; in this cellar: storm-lanterned, rough-benched, folding-cotted, first aid equipped, axe and shovel storing cellar;

In this attic…In this house questions may silently be asked. Answers are stored in padlocked, shatter-proof, plexiglassed, impenetrable answer cases behind brooding eyes. This is Home.

“Tonight,” he said. He looked at her

“So soon?” she asked without surprise.

“Yes, they aren’t wasting time, are they?” “Are women all alike?” he thought and smiled.

“Where will you be going?”

“They haven’t told us.”

“They should have!” angrily.

“You tell’em Mom!”

“Well, I guess it’s all this secret stuff.”

“I guess it is.” She fussed nervously and brought out woollen socks and warm underwear. “It’ll be cold where-ever…:”

“It’s warm in Italy.”

“The nights get cold there, too. I’ve been there.”

“Bolzano isn’t Sicily, you know.”

“It’s ‘Bozen’! Always will be.” She was annoyed.

“They could have given you a uniform that fit.” She tugged on the shoulders of his jacket and smoothed the sleeves.

“They didn’t have one small enough,” he said, “and anyway it doesn’t really matter.”

“I hope your boots fit better. You won’t march far on blisters.”

“No, don’t worry, Mom, they fit alright.” My God, the multitude of questions.

The water on the stove began to perk and bubble.

“You’d like a quick cup of Linden blossom tea, wouldn’t you” she asked.

“Yes, please,” he said.

“There is no sugar, though.”

“That’s alright, I’ll take some Saccharine.”

“There is no lemon, either.”

“That’s okay; I’ll have it plain, or maybe just a drop of milk.”

My God, the multitude of questions. Of all days! Why today? Why has the refuge changed? The tea was weak, but hot. He raised his cup and blew. Carefully he slurped and smacked his lips. He lied to her and said that he would have to report to the garrison at eight.

They drank their tea in silence. Finally his mother rose and said:

“You’d better run along now, or you’ll be late. You know, your father always said: Punctuality is the courtesy of Kings.” She kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him tightly.

“Listen,” she said, “be sure you wear the long underwear I packed for you. It gets so cold in the trenches. Your father always said…”

“Good Bye, mother, I’ve just got to go now.” With one last wave Erich left the house and ran towards the town and tears flowed down his cheeks. He ran, clutching his mother’s bundle and hobnailed boots rang loudly through the silent evening, rang loudly on November cobble stones.

The parade ground of the garrison was dark and quiet. November wind was in the trees and rattled branches. Rain hung suspended over the river and the town. A haze of dim light glowed from the sentry box. Erich walked toward the gate. He dragged his heels over the stones. He half whistled and half hummed a melody. Hey guard, here I come.

He showed his pass to the armed sentry. The flashlight flickered.

“Okay, move on…”

He crossed the yard and stepped into the mess hall. Among the many little piles of gear he found his own. His gun, his helmet, his square and rigid knapsack. The room was warm. In the far corner three boys had spread their blankets and slept.

“That’s a good idea,” he thought. He felt tired.

“Yes, that would be good.”

He knew there would not be much sleep on the truck tonight. He stretched out on the floor. Knapsack pillow. After a short while his neck began to ache. He pushed the knapsack back and curled his arm. Elbow pillow. Come sleep, come…count sheep…walk slowly along the river and listen to the hissing waves. Pictures came and went: Hildegard, long soft blond hair…”don’t think, just let things happen all around you…stay aloof...” His mother’s face, so old and grey and then her voice: “Punctuality is the courtesy of Kings”…mother, I’m going to war…who speaks of courtesy of Kings…your son, mother, is going to a war…and he’s afraid…afraid! Mother…afraid…

Why is it, mother, that I could never know you? He lay there for a while and tried not to remember. Few memories were bright and cheerful.

He woke up with a start. The room was filled with light and noise. Young men moved carelessly about, sorting their newly acquired and unfamiliar gear. Through half closed eyes Erich saw two boys carefully examine their rifles. They held the rifle butts squeezed tightly under their right arms, the nozzle pointing downward, left hand clamped around the rifle stock, and with a slapping motion of their right hands they opened up the breaches. The one who stood facing Erich had reddish hair, a round and pudgy face and pimples. Yesterday he was an apprentice plumber. Today he had become a rifle-wielding soldier boy.

“I hope I get to use this thing” he said to no-one in particular.

“We will, don’t worry, we will” said his comrade in arms. Erich realized in horror that the long green coat, topped by a steel helmet, covered the sparse frame of the Latin Genius of his class.

“They are in this together,” he thought.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Achtung!” As he called out “Tenshun,” the voice of Sergeant Bauer was sharp and loud.

It filled the mess hall with authority. The boys fell quiet and Sergeant Bauer spoke:

“Soldiers! You’ll be ready to file out into the parade ground in exactly fifteen minutes. You will then line up behind the trucks and wait for further orders. As you were!”

Sergeant Bauer stepped aside and greeted Police Inspector Hartmann who had just come into the hall. Hartmann faced the boys and clicked his heels and raised his right arm in a stiff salute. The boys again stood rigid, at attention.

“Heil Hitler! Soldaten,” he shouted. He hooked his thumbs in the wide belt around his waist. His fingers drummed the rhythm of a march on its gleaming black leather. He spread his legs and for a moment, looking at the boys, he rocked from heel to toe: “This, men, is another proud day for our town.” He spoke of Lebensraum, of Fatherland, of Liberty and Blood, of Freedom from the chains oppressing; of Banners, Kampfgeist, of Honour and of Death..

“And now,” he said, “we shall sing the glorious song of our cause” His voice was firm and sonorous: “Deutschland Deutschland ueber Alles, ueber alles in der Welt.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They sat on wooden benches inside the canvas covered trucks. Their eyes were tired and red-rimmed from dust and lack of sleep. Some hummed the army songs which, beside the care and firing of a rifle, were almost their only preparation for the war; others dozed, their heads bobbing up and down with every pothole in the road. They held their rifles clamped loosely between their knees. The night was dark and cold and snow was in the air.

The six truck convoy drove steadily, their lights dimmed down and screened. They by-passed Salzburg and crossed into Bavaria.

Sergeant Bauer’s orders were simple and to the point: Proceed with utmost speed to Munich, Augsburg, leaving Stuttgart to the left, continue on past Darmstadt and follow along the river Rhine, and were the Mosel river joins the Rhine he was to find the Unit waiting for re-enforcements. Along the way more trucks would join them, all carrying a cargo of young men, bent on the task of freeing the fatherland from foreign massed invasion. The night passed slowly and hour after hour the convoy drove through darkness. The only interruption came when the lead truck stopped to spell the driver and all the others followed suit. They passed through villages and towns, deserted looking in the total black-out.

And then November rain began to fall, hesitatingly and shy at first…the wipers merely smeared the dust across the windshield…and then the rain was mixed with sleet and came down heavily. The headlights only made a glare, the trucks slowed down, while tired eyes probed on ahead.

“We need this god dam sleet like we need a stinking hole in the head.” Sergeant Bauer sat in the cab of the lead truck and tried to peer through the openings appearing momentarily as the wiper blades swished by.

“Goddamit all t’ hell and back again. We have a deadline for getting there.”

The driver turned his head but kept his eyes straight on the road.

“In this here weather we can only go so fast. Deadline or no. Enough of them kids gonna get killed without me helpin’ on the road. Our job’s t’ get them there! Alive!

Sergeant Bauer swore softly under his breath.

“It’s true enough” he thought.

Erich Krueger sat in the back of the lead-truck and heard the rain drum on the canvas.

“I wonder where we are?” he thought.

“I wonder where we’re going…does anybody know? Does anybody really know where we’re going? …or why?

The convoy, swollen to twelve trucks, drove into a new day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the Editorial Page of “The New Watch” November 18, 1944.

“What we saw yesterday on the parade ground of our old and noble garrison left us with feelings of deep emotion, although we have seen similar sights many times before. A group of our town’s young men (their number may not be divulged as it is a military secret) assembled here to volunteer for active service with our Wehrmacht, our invincible Armed Forces. They came from all walks of life. In fact, it was truly a collection of young workers, and young students from our renowned high school. Although all of these young men came from widely differing backgrounds, they all were unified in one great longing: To take part in the fight for their country’s liberty and freedom. They were united under one flag and under one belief: One people, one country, one Leader. Smartly dressed in the battle uniform of our great army, equipped with the latest weapons ( their description cannot here be given since they too are strictly guarded military secrets) they drove out through the streets of our town in a long column of trucks to do battle with the enemy. May the Fuehrer protect them.”

“Herr Inspektor, you know well I cannot print this.” The editor held the sheet of paper as far from his face as his short arms would allow. His watery eyes peered over steel-rimmed glasses. His hands shook slightly and his voice wheezed.

“Everybody knows that these kids did not volunteer, Herr

Inspektor,

too many people saw the trucks leave by the back roads, six of them all told, and this thing about the latest weapons! It’s a joke.”

Police Inspektor Hartmann stood in front of the grimy oaken desk in the editor’s office. He listened to the old man talk. The muscles in his jaw jumped up and down and the fingers of his right hand slowly curled.

The editor was unaware and said: “It just doesn’t make sense. Who on earth would give secret weapons to a bunch of snot-nosed kids? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Herr Editor, I warn you.” Hartmann’s voice was strained through rage. “I will not have you contradict my orders. This article appears in tomorrow’s edition or you will bear the consequences.”

The editor was frightened. “There is no need to threaten, Herr Inspektor. I am a member of the Party in good standing and have always upheld the ideals of our cause. Your threats are groundless.” He fingered the sheet of paper nervously and placed it on his desk.

Hartmann said calmly: “Just don’t forget, the charge of subversive activities covers a lot of ground.” He turned abruptly and left the room.

The editor stared at the white square upon his desk, his watery eyes full of despair and fear.

Ten thousand readers read this inspired piece of prose at breakfast.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the convoy reached the forest it stopped. Low fog was still between the trees. The early day felt wet and grey. The boys came tired from their trucks. The night had been so long and without sleep. Their uniforms were wrinkled and felt damp. Their hands were numb, their bodies cold and hungry.

Sergeant Bauer knew precisely how they felt. He also knew the remedy. Action was what these boys needed. Action, food and hot coffee.

Bauer deserved his nickname well: They called him “Charon.”

Charon of the river Styx. Charon the ferry man of souls. Charon the soul-peddling ferry man.

Bauer was an expert at his task. A convoy leader with knowledge not only of the terrain, terrain in constant change and uproar through bombings and through sabotage, but also with a cunning understanding of young men. He knew the things they loved and those they hated.

One of the trucks which had joined them in the night revealed to everyone’s delight a field kitchen of moderate proportions. They looked forward to a hearty breakfast.

And smoke curled skyward, hung for a moment on the branches and disappeared.

Sergeant Bauer gave orders quietly.

The boys lined up with tin cups in their hands and shortly, man by man, they warmed their hands around the cups of steaming coffee. Their teeth sank hungrily into large chunks of pitch black heavy bread and cheese. Then the burning coffee warmed their guts and raised their spirits.

Erich Krueger sat on the lead truck’s running board, his hands wrapped tightly ‘round the cup of coffee. He sat hunched forward, with his shoulders high, his elbows on his knees. He tried to make his body small inside the bulky overcoat. He gently moved the cup in a small circle to make the coffee swirl and then he stopped for fear it would cool off too fast.

He ground his heel into the soft soil and watched the damp earth fill the little dent with water. The mud-caked boot, intruding in his vision, belonged to Sergeant Bauer. The Sergeant walked around the truck and climbed inside the cab and sat beside the driver. He yawned and stretched his legs.

Erich heard the driver’s voice:

“It’s too bloody dangerous to drive this open road.”

Then Sergeant Bauer: “It’s faster”

“Sure it’s faster, but then you bloody never know if you’ll get there. They strafe everything that moves by day. I’d just as soon wait ‘till it gets dark again.”

“And miss my dead line?” Bauer laughed. “The hell with that. Give me that map. We’ll take this road here. It mostly runs through woods. It’s a winding son-of-a-bitch and a lot worse than this one here, but we’ll avoid a lot of interference from the air. Yeah, that’s the one we’ll take.”

“You’re the boss. You call the shots,” the driver said. The truck door opened and slammed shut and Sergeant Bauer walked around the truck. He sat down on the running board and said to Krueger: “Hey soldier, get me another cup of this brew.”

The boy got up and ran along the trucks. The motion made his body warm and he ran faster. He held the filled up cup in his left hand and pressed the right palm over it so he could run back without spilling. He handed the cup to the Sergeant and wiped his wet hand on his coat. Bauer grinned up at him.

“That was a fast trip you made. You’ll make a damn good soldier.” He slurped some coffee from the cup. “Except, you didn’t say: Yes Sergeant! before you left. Remember that now:

Always, when you get an order, say: Yes Sergeant! Or: Yes Lieutenant! Or whatever bloody rank gives you the order. Understand?”

Krueger clicked his heels: “Yes Sergeant!” he bellowed.

“You’ll make a damn good soldier.” Sergeant Bauer laughed. “Sit down, soldier.”

The boy sat down and said: “I doubt it Sergeant.”

Bauer turned his head and looked at him. “You doubt what? You doubt you’ll make a soldier? It’s easy, son. Just do as you’re told and shoot a lot and when you’re told to die, then die.! Bauer laughed uproariously: “Yeah, that’s what makes a good soldier.” He drained his cup and pored the dregs slowly between his boots. He was still laughing. “Yeah, when you’re told to die, then die.” With his palm he slapped the cup.

“Yes Sergeant! But you see, last night, driving in the truck I sat there wondering what it’s like to kill a man…even in war. I mean…I mean, how should I feel? I mean…how does any soldier feel? …what’s it like to squeeze the trigger and watch a man fall dead?”

Bauer looked thoughtfully. “Tell me, lad, do you always think?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s the first thing you’ll have to stop. A soldier never thinks. Officers sometimes pretend as if they’re thinking. But soldiers just absolutely never think! A soldier simply does as he it told.”

For a moment Erich hesitated and then he said:

“But even if I do as I am told, I’ll still have to think.”

“No, m’ boy, you mustn’t. Not even I think any more.” The Sergeant stared into his empty cup.

“Oh, yes, six years ago I thought...nearly drove me nuts. That’s when I stopped. First Poland, then France, then Russia. No, I no longer think.” The Sergeant slowly shook his head. “No, boy, stop thinking. And with a rueful smile he added: “That’s an order”

And then, as if to help, he said: “You almost never really see a man fall dead. You just shoot in the general direction…and if you do see one go down, how would you know it was your shot that killed him? It might have been anyone that hit the mark. All kinds of guys shooting all around you. It could have been anybody’s shot that hit him.”

Erich looked puzzled and said nothing for a while. He drove his heel into the ground and looked down at his toes.

Then he said: “If it might have been anyone…that makes it even worse.”

“How’s that?” asked Bauer in bewilderment.

“Anyone…includes me too, doesn’t it? Erich spoke slowly. “And if all the rest believe it wasn’t them, but might have been anyone…” he hesitated and looked up into the Sergeant’s face and, finding him attentive, he carried on: … “and if I accept that it might have been me, then I end up the killer of all the soldiers ever killed. Don’t you see?

“What the hell,” said Bauer and stood up. He took a step away, then stopped, turned round and then sat down again.

“What the hell,” he said again, “you could say the same about me…I’m anyone…what the bloody hell…everybody could be anyone…”

Erich looked baffled. The Sergeant had carried his own thought further, quicker, then he himself had ever done.

“I guess that’s right” he mumbled. I guess that you could say that we all are the killers of everyone.”

Sergeant Bauer stood up again. “How old are you?” he asked the boy.

“Sixteen come March.”

“Sixteen..!” the Sergeant mused. “Godamn you…I had done real well for six long years. Sixteen…” he laughed out loud. “You know,” he said, “I think I changed my mind. I think you’ll make a rotten soldier.”

The convoy was on the road again. They drove through forests and raced a top speed along the open stretches. All that morning, their trip was uneventful and to Bauer’s great delight they made good time. The Sergeant sat beside the driver in the cab of the lead truck. His eyes probed the sky relentlessly. Each tiny speck in the clouds could turn upon a moment’s notice into disaster for the caravan. They would come down like buzzards…machineguns spitting death…their bombs could rip the road and tear the trucks as easily as any killer bird’s talons could rip and tear its victim’s throat and belly.

He had lived through one attack about six weeks ago. Just by a stroke of luck they’d lost no lives. But six of the hastily abandoned trucks were smoking, burning wrecks. The Sergeant smiled, remembering the triumph of this feat. All men delivered to the front in fighting trim and hale…much needed re-enforcements. It fortified his reputation as Charon, the most reliable ferryman.

“You know,” the Sergeant shouted over the din of the truck’s roaring motor,

“now I’ve heard it all.” The driver glanced at Bauer quickly and turned again to stare ahead onto the winding road.

"Somebody just told me that all of us are to be blamed for all the killings ever done." He paused...

"I mean every single one of us should bloody well blame himself for everything that's ever happened…ah shit,...that doesn't sound the same any more...for a moment there it seemed to make sense...and now I lost it."

The driver looked at Sergeant Bauer." You need a break," he said, "They oughta send you for a rest. Christ, that's the worst damn case of shell shock I ever saw."

"Ah, shut up^-," Bauer shouted. "I tell you it made sense."

"It sure as hell don't now," the driver said. He shook his head and watched the road again.... the winding, curving, dirty road through country side stripped naked in the fall and now preparing for the winter. Bauer returned to scanning the skies.

"Just for a moment I had something there," he thought,

“Just for a moment, that made sense. I must talk to that boy again."

They drove on most of this day until the afternoon.

The rain had come again. It soaked the roads and saturated them and little streams ran in the ditches. The earth looked black and hostile. The heavy wheels ground deeply into the roadbed. The heavy-coated soldiers in the trucks felt damp and cold. They chewed the pitch black, tasty rye and longed to fill the long since emptied thermoses with coffee.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Goddammit, why the hell do I get stuck with all the dirty jobs? Of all the filthy dirty rotten luck! As if it weren't enough that I bring these kids as far as that. Oh no, I have to take them by their god dam hands and lead them to the stinking battle line...what do they need me as a bloody nursemaid for? Didn't I do bloody well enough? Six god dam years and all I got are Sergeant Stripes „ „and now look what..."

Erich Krueger did not hear the Sergeant rave. He lay there on the ground, pressed hard against the soaking earth, behind a fallen tree. His mouth tasted the rotting leaves; the pungent smell of rotting leaves was in his nose. His fingers clawed the soil ... he wanted to dig in... deep down into the ground to be shut off and safe from flying steel, to get away from all this sudden and infernal noise.

The advance guard of the platoon had entered Treves, which was thought to be a town in German hands.

They walked across the little bridge and many died before they even saw the enemy's small force.

Krueger had seen them fall ... without a sound, their eyes so unbelieving. Many had died quickly, their bodies torn by screaming bullets smashing through the flesh. It went so fast.... they never found the time to raise their guns or think of death.

Erich dropped to the ground behind the bridge and crawled to the large oak tree.

He lay behind this wooden shield and could not understand: Why must this be. What makes us kill? and die? what drives us to this manufactured hell? He felt alone and fear crept in… this giant blob of fear ... so black and strangling.

The shooting then died down and action ceased and time stood still.... the world was empty but for fear ... this all-engulfing threat to sanity ... what sanity?

He felt the cold steel of his rifle by his side. He slowly pulled it up and aimed across the little brook. The shots rang out and seemed like thunder. Six single shots in slow deliberate succession...tore into trees, harmlessly spent...

"I did it now." he thought,

"now I belong to this gigantic brotherhood of 'Anyone'...I killed them al1...I killed the first and killed the last of all the men who ever died in war.... now I belong to anyone...part of the brotherhood of Man." He let his head sink to the ground and tears ran down his cheeks and mingled with the rain.

The moans of pain came from his right and penetrated slowly to his awareness. He raised his head again and crawled to the concrete abutment of the bridge. He crawled past lifeless bodies of his friends, their glassy eyes raised to the clouds, their limbs so crazily contorted. It seemed to him he crawled for miles and miles of muddy road and over untold thousands of bodies rigid in their patient wait for burial. The air was still and without motion and rain fell straight down from the sky and washed the blood from Sergeant Bauer's face. Erich slid down the embankment and saw the Sergeant's form crumpled on the ground. He crawled closer and saw the pleading eyes.

"What can I do? Sergeant, help me." Erich whispered.

"What can I do to help?"

The Sergeant slowly raised his eyes and Erich followed them and saw the soldier's body, arms dangling, hanging over the steel railing of the bridge, his broken leg caught in the rungs. The dead boy's helmet had fallen off, revealing reddish hair. His face was round and pudgy and full of pimples. His mouth and eyes were open wide as if preparing for a scream.

Bauer raised his head: "I have to tell you something." His voice came barely audible in bursts of pain..."..must tell you something ... but not in front of him... tell him to go away..."

His hand pointed feebly toward the dead soldier, hanging head downward as if suspended from the sky...a reject... Erich felt fear again engulfing him.

"He's dead," he said..."they all are...there's none left to hear a thing of what you want to say."

Bauer's hand sank down again and his pained voice was full of fear.

"...ever heard of Charon? You know… the ferryman?" Krueger nodded his head, surprised.

"They call me that..." Bauer paused..."they call me Charon the soul peddler.

"Why would they call you ' that."

The Sergeant looked at Krueger.

"You shouldn't have to ask ... you shouldn't ...I took you along with the rest and brought you to this God-forsaken place."

Krueger said nothing. He felt the fear. Bauer's head rolled to the side and Krueger lay down close beside him, as if to keep him warm and stop the life from ebbing. The Sergeant seemed to gather every ounce of strength remaining in his dying body and whispered hoarsely:

"....change it for me… get back alive...this war...it'll be over soon...you run and hide... stay alive ... for me ... that’s an order, soldier, stay alive…" Then he was quiet.

Krueger turned and looked up to the heavy clouds. The rain still fell and had long since soaked his coat and uniform. He did not feel the cold wet cloth clinging to his body.

---------------------------------

Hildegard came toward him, untouched by the rain. with blond hair flowing in the wind. They both stood still but could not touch. Nor speak. They stood behind the old abandoned mill. The water wheel still uselessly turning... eternally ... uselessly turning. He saw her and she shook her head and made him understand that she could not come closer. The water wheel turned uselessly...eternally. God’s message on its blades ... and prayers... prayers no-one read. The wooden blades, time worn and moss bedecked covering the Word with slimy green. Turning, timelessly, uselessly turning. Hildegard stood still, her shoulders hanging in despair. Erich knew that he would never touch again.

----------------------------------

The ugly contorted face of Sergeant Bauer grinned up at him as if he had witnessed Erich's sorrow, and had found joy in it. His eyes stared straight ahead. Charon, the ferryman, was dead.

When dusk was falling he crept slowly from the under­brush. This had been a good and warm spot. He really hated to leave it but he knew that he still had a long way to go. He was glad now that he'd decided to travel by night and sleep in hiding through the day. It was warmer to sleep by day and even through the nippy late ­autumn nights he could keep warm by walking. It was also a good deal safer to move through the darkness and stay out of sight in some deserted hay-loft or in a thicket, snuggled up against the roots of a tree by day.

Erich stood up and brushed the leaves and dried ­up grass and little clumps of earth from his heavy coat. He was thirsty. It was important that he find a brook, or better still, a spring. He stopped just inside the tree line and cautiously he looked left and right. There in the distance, across the field, this ridge must be the railroad's right of way. He’d heard the slowly moving trains, the whistles, the clanging all through the day, penetrating his light sleep.

When he saw no-one he moved on a little. Then he stopped again and listened. He more sensed than heard it. He crouched low beside the thin trunk of a tree and closed his eyes and listened. His nostrils opened and quivered, animal like. Then he heard it: Another train approached. A sightless, lightless train. Its rumbling could be heard long before it came into sight.

Erich opened his eyes and saw the train in the distance. It crept along, much like a giant prehistoric scaly worm, belching smoke, reddish glowing smoke from a stubby horn on its bulky head. It slowed down, now almost to a crawl, and dimly, in the darkening dusk, Erich saw the figure of a man slowly rotating a red signal lamp. Now the monstrous worm was beside the figure and still the red eye of the signal lamp circled. When the last section had passed, the man flicked a switch on his light. It turned green and he held it still and high. The worm speeded up and quickly the two red visored lights on its tail section blinked off and the apparition was gone.

Erich rose from his crouch and listened to the silence. He left the cover of the trees and crossed the narrow meadow. He stopped in front of the steep incline which cut across the land. He knew that from up there, on the railroad tracks, he could be seen by anyone who happened by. But who would be out there when evening was here and night about to fall?

He climbed and halfway up he went down on hands and feet and crawled to the top. The grass was damp and the tracks and railroad ties looked dull and dark. He glanced in both directions and it seemed as if the night was closing in from both sides and that he stood in the middle of the remaining day.

His thirst was burning in his throat and he felt it deep inside of him. He looked down and below him he saw the small shack. Its door ajar, it let some light spill out. Erich dug his heels into the embankment and carefully he came down the slope. He slipped and nearly fell, but caught himself and half slid the rest of the way until he stood on level ground again.

Even close up the shack looked small. More like a double sentry box. The light within flickered unevenly and Erich stopped beside the door. The voice which came from behind him was soft and deep and sonorous:

"Who are you? What you doing here?"

Erich forgot his thirst for just a moment and tasted fear.

"Quick now, answer both, what's your name and what you doing here?"

"I'm thirsty," Erich said and his voice sounded strange to him. "Yeah, thirsty and hungry too...I was walking along the track, missed my train, you know, so I was walking along the track, when I saw this shack."

"So you figured you'd find a drink and maybe some grub as well?"

"Yeah, that's what I figured."

Erich had turned around and with the light from the partly open door behind him, he could see the man. He wore a heavy dark-brown coat with two rows of gleaming buttons down the front. A woollen, hand knitted scarf around his neck. A dark, checkered, visored cap was totally inadequate to hide grey hair which curled out from underneath. The man carried himself erect, with shoulders squared. He was slightly taller then Erich.

"Well, come on then, step into my castle and we'll see what the servants can come up with." He chuckled deeply and, reaching around Erich, he pulled open the door and with a motion of his hand he bade him enter.

The inside was somewhat larger then Erich had imagined. There was no fire in the potbellied cast-iron stove in the far corner. A lamp burned brightly, with a hum, on a sturdy table which stood against one wall.

“Where're you from?" he asked.

"I missed the train," Erich said. He studied Simon' s face intently,

"Yeah, you told me." Simon nodded his head slowly. His grey hair was disarrayed and his grey-blue eyes sparkled Erich sighed deeply and lowered himself carefully upon one of the chairs beside the table.

"My name's Simon." The old man pulled a parcel, wrapped in brown paper, from a shelf, placed it on the table, along with two glass mugs, which he half filled with a honey-blond liquid from a jug. Erich reached.

"Hold it, hold it...,this one needs a little thinning down," Simon topped the mugs with water from a can and stirred both with a spoon.

"Now there, Cheers' "Simon said.

Erich felt the cool glass on his lips and drank in long and greedy gulps. It was a good drink. Smooth and tasty. Erich felt refreshed. He smacked his lips.

"Makes me feel human again," he said. Simon looked at him.

"It’s Most, fermented pears,” he said,

"more potent than you'd think. Creeps up on you, sly-like”. Erich pushed his jug across the table and Simon filled it up again.

"Less Most, more water this time, eh?" he smiled.

Erich nodded his head. "My name is Erich," he said.

He watched Simon unpack the cheese and bread and bacon from the brown parcel. For a little while the two men ate in silence.

"Where^’re you heading?" Simon chewed lustily on a square of tough lean bacon which he had cut and speared with his stiletto knife. His fist, the blade protruding, rested on the table.

His wide cheek bones moved in ripples as he chewed a hard rind of dark bread.

"Where was this train you missed going to?" Simon was stubborn.

"Munich," Erich said.

"You going to Salzburg from there?"

"How'd you know?" Erich was worried. Simon shrugged his left shoulder.

"You talk like one." He smiled.

"It's pretty hard to hide, you know." Erich pulled his lips between his teeth and turned his head from Simon's probing eyes.

"It's a long walk from here to Munich. It'll take you weeks."

"I wasn’t going to walk it all the way." Erich knew his was a flimsy story and would not stand up under questions.

"'Where'd you sleep this afternoon?" Erich looked up again. Why does he ask? How does he know? He thought.

"You didn't brush the back of your coat. It's full of grass and twigs." Simon answered as if Erich had asked the question out loud.

"All right, you win." Erich said.

"I don't want to win anything. I’d like to help you, though, if you let me."

"He means it!" Erich thought, "He really means it.”

“If I could only talk to some one...maybe I'll be able to talk to him. Tell him everything... talk about it." Simon speared a square of cheese with his knife and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly and quietly.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked.

Erich felt the driving urge to talk to some one and yet the fear sat in his chest and tightened tentacles around his throat. Simon swallowed the last of the cheese and cleared the wrapping paper off the table. He refilled the mugs and leaned back in his chair.

"You needn't worry," he said, "it's happening all the time. It's the times we're living in."

"I wonder, how close you are," Erich said, in an effort to talk and yet say nothing.

"I don't really want to play a guessing game. I know you're troubled. If you'd rather not talk, that's all right by me." Simon stood up and pulled a watch from his jacket pocket. He studied it closely, ran his thumb over the glass and stuck it back into his jacket.

"There'll be another train through here in about a half an hour… A freight. When they come to the repaired section of the track, they drive awfully slow. Would be easy for some one to jump on." Simon walked to the door and looked out.

Night had fallen and a chill was in the air. He pulled the door shut tight and pumped the lamp into a brighter glow. Then he sat down again. He took a drink from his mug and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"I might as well," Erich said. Simon looked at him.

“If it helps." he said.

"I ran away." Erich said.

"I was afraid of that," said Simon. "Jesus, I was afraid of that."

"Is it that bad?" Erich asked.

"Bad? What in hell does that mean: It's dangerous, that's all. You know, they shoot deserters. Why'd you run?"

"Afraid, I guess. Just plain afraid. "

"Afraid of what?... afraid of getting killed?"

"That's a funny thing. I don't remember being afraid of getting killed." Erich's voice trailed off.

"Oh, maybe I was."

"We all are." Simon said. " I really don't know if I was more afraid of getting killed or of killing."

"There's quite a difference, though." Simon wrapped his hands around his mug and ran his thumbs along the rim.

"The old saying 'Kill or be killed' holds especially true in wartime, doesn't it?"

"I can't buy it," Erich said quietly. "I don't like either. We're all strangers, really ...I did no harm to him and he did none to me."

"You're putting it in a very personal way, my boy." Simon said.

"There's nothing more personal than that, is there?" Erich asked.

"No, I guess there isn't." Simon pursed his lips and raised his glass and drank.

"Did you kill anyone?" he asked.

"No! .. at least I don't think so....I took six shots in the general direction .... I was so scared."

"And now you feel guilty as all hell, don't you?"

"I guess I do. Everyone around me got killed." he said. And then he thought: "This really doesn’t matter"

"You were in a state of shock ... it's like a trance... you really didn't know what you were doing." Simon's voice was gentle.

"Are you pleading me innocent by reason of insanity?" "No, by God, maybe innocent by reason of humanity!"

"It won't work, though," Erich said. "It's not human to kill, is it?"

"This is war time," Simon pleaded. "We all share the same guilt. We're all to blame…Don't carry it alone!" Erich had raised his hand to take a drink. He stopped in mid-air and slowly lowered his glass again.

"I want to go home," he said and his voice was thick. Simon looked at his watch again.

"By God, five more minutes...come on."

He took his signal lamp from the rusty nail behind him and together they rushed out of the shack and through the darkness to the railroad’s right of way.

"This will be a freight train...get on a flat car, find a hiding spot somewhere. I wish the hell I could help you more."

"You've done enough...more than enough....Thanks" Erich said.

The train slowed down. Simon moved the red lamp in slow slow circles. Erich swung himself on the flatcar and, lying on his stomach, he looked out. He saw the green light held high and steady and felt the train gathering speed.

"Good bye, Simon," he said and then the night swallowed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first thing he felt, really felt, felt with his entire unclouded consciousness, was a cool, wet cloth on his burning face. His body was numb and beneath the numbness was the ache. It oozed through his bones and seemed to consume his flesh. He opened his eyes slowly and shadows danced and circles of light interlaced. He closed his eyes and opened them again and tried to force the picture into focus.

The long black hair cascaded toward his face and between the dark strands he saw the pale face of a young woman. Dark, melancholy eyes under a smoothly round forehead; a finely chiselled nose. Her lips were moving slowly. Erich watched her mouth and then the sound of her voice penetrated.

"There now, there now, lie still....don’t move...no, don't try to get up."

She gently pushed against his chest and with the water-soaked kerchief in her right hand she continued to soothe his face. Erich tried to think back. He remembered the train. A long, dark, cold night on a flatcar and then morning had come. He had been stiff with the cold and the hard cold metal had held off sleep even against the rhythmic pounding of the rails.

When dawn had come, Erich had sat up and for a while he watched the country hurry by: tall trees in clusters, a winding road, a lively brook, a low-slung split-rail fence and in the foreground, travelling fastest, the naked masts with wires rising, falling, rising and in the distance, almost still, the mountains.

The freight had rumbled on and, with the day approaching, Erich had feared discovery.

His mind groped back and then he did recall. The train had slowed down at a curve and he had jumped. Still in the air he'd known the trains speed was too fast.....

The first thing he felt, really felt, felt with his entire, clear, unclouded consciousness was the cool, wet cloth on his burning face. His body was numb and beneath the numbness was the ache. He looked at the girl, her face in focus now and he returned her smile. "What happened to you?" she asked. She pursed her lips and slowly shook her head.

"I stepped off a train and the ground came up and hit me." Erich's attempt at humour, however lame, coaxed a high giggle from the girl.

"I checked you over, while you were still out cold. You don't seem to have anything broken ... all I could find wrong with you is this goose-egg lump on your head."

"I must be a pretty lucky boy." Erich said and sat up. He felt the world turn round and round. He reached for his head and then the pain stabbed through him and made him wince.

The swelling was just above his hair line and felt gigantic. He tried to stand up and found his knees were made of rubber.

"You'll have to rest up somewhere," the girl said. She sat beside him on the ground. Her knees drawn up tight, her arms were wrapped around her legs. A man's grey coat, too large, by far, covered her entire body.

"You better come with me...I live on this farm behind the ridge." She pointed over her shoulder but did not turn her head. Then she quickly added: "I work there..."

"Where are you from?" Erich asked.

"Hamburg.." she said and then fell quiet.

------------------------------

They were called 'Evacuees', and the word was always used with either pity or distain. The street on which Veronica had lived had been a peaceful one. A quiet, middle class street. During the first, the very first air attack on Hamburg the last house on the street had been hit by a bomb.

Veronica sits in the cellar of their house. Her mother hugs her tightly, almost desperately and in fear... They hear the high pitched screaming of descending bombs and then the bellow of the Flack; they hear the deep, throaty roar of bombs exploding in the distance.

The buildings shake and Veronica's mother is in tears; hysterically crying, moaning. She rocks Veronica, who sits beside her, rocks her slowly back and forth, digs her face into Veronica's shoulder and Veronica can hear her voice over the whistling and the screaming and the roaring and the bellowing, can hear her voice over the thunder of explosions and it sounds like the voice of a child.

"Oh baby, my baby, Oh baby, my baby, Oh baby, my baby..." on and on beside her ear and Veronica would like to scream, but she sits still and stiff and rocks with her mother back and forth and back and forth.

And then it stops as suddenly as it began. The whistling stops and the roaring stops and the thunder stops, and all that is left is her mother softly, softly sobbing: "Oh baby my baby, Oh baby my baby, Oh baby my baby...." And Veronica stiffens still more and stops the rocking and her mother draws air through her nose.- loudly.

"It's over, mother ... it's over.." she says and stands up and takes her mother's hand and leads her upstairs and from their shattered window they can see the burning glow of fires. Her mother pulls the shutters and then they clean the glass off the floor. Fully clothed they lie on their beds and fall asleep.

Next morning they go out. Her mother seems back to normal now. They see the heap of rubble which was the last house on their street and they hear a man say: “No, not in this one….this one was a bull’s eye…” Only then do they remember hearing the question: “Any survivors?”

That’s when Veronica becomes an “Evacuee!”

“I’m not leaving you alone, mother,” she says. “I’ll go, if you go…if you stay, I’ll stay.”

“Oh, baby, my baby, you must go…you must got…you must… you’ll be safe…on a farm…in the country… in Bavaria. Later on, maybe, I’ll come too.”

The train is packed with youngsters…children with name tags on a string around their necks. Veronica helps to look after the younger ones. They cry and their mothers cry. Veronica’s mother stands beside the train, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Write to me as soon as you get there,” she says and, “be a good girls, you hear?” she sobs.

Veronica kneels beside a blond child with big eyes and comforts it. And she says: “yes mother, I’ll write. Yes, mother, I’ll be good. Then she stands up and looks at her mother and her young chest feels ready to burst with the sorrowful ache and she lets go…

“Come soon, Mommy, don’t leave me alone…”

The train’s whistle blows shrill and long and deafening. Steam leaks from the open valves and “All aboard!”

They are shoved and pushed aboard and then the train starts up with a jerk and white handkerchief's are waved frantically and kisses are blown and children cry louder than their mothers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erich carefully explored the outlines of the swelling on his head. He touched the skin around it tenderly and then looked at his fingers.

"It's not bleeding, anyway," he said.

Then he remembered that some time ago she'd asked him to come with her to the farm behind the ridge. "You know, I think I’d better not," he said. "Why not? Have you done something bad?" she asked naively. Erich shook his head. "No, nothing like that ...it’s just that I can’t pay for anything. I haven't any money and nobody likes a beggar."

"Are you hungry?" the girl asked. "You look it."

"Yeah, I could do with some food all right," he said. "Can you bring some out here?"

"Look here," Veronica's voice was certain, as if she considered any contradiction as pure nonsense, "you need some rest...you probably have a slight concussion. Look at that lump. You also need some food.....I can see it in your eyes. You’re hungry. If for any reason you don't want to be seen, you can slip into the barn. There is a ladder up to the hay-loft. It's warm and comfortable up there and when the time is right I can bring you something to eat."

The girl stood up and pulled on Erich's hand. "Come on now."

Erich got to his feet slowly. With every step he felt the throbbing in his head. They approached the farm from the back and Erich found the barn door open and the ladder to the hay-loft was rickety and long.

The blanket had a horse smell. It was dry and warm and comfortable. Erich waited for the girl. He tried to picture her in the kitchen:

Now she is cutting some bread and cheese and from the larder, a piece of smoked bacon; a glass of buttermilk directly from the butter churn and a huge piece of 'Apfelstrudel', still warm, from the oven.

Just thinking about it brought a smile to his face and he swallowed. For such a meal he could wait. He snuggled in the horse blanket in the hay and closed his eyes.

"Another day and one more night and I'll be home," he thinks. “It's best now if I rest awhile. It's been one hell of a trip. The last two days were all right. But before that. How many days was it before the last two? I must be getting drowsy ...I can't remember how many days...Agh, what the hell ... it is days and days and days. Hungry days and thirsty days and tired days..,. footsore days...My God, were they footsore days and My God were they hungry days .... not even by night can I steal some food .... remember the god dam dogs...

bark bark bark...riding the stolen bicycle down that winding gravel road .... I can hear those goddamn dogs bark bark bark ... right into the night....and those goddamn dogs wake other goddamn dogs ... riding that bike along that country road and always accompanied by that bark bark bark bark ...... Walpurgis night....

Jesus, they were miserable nights. And the days: Jesus, Maria and Joseph!

But this is a good day. Soon she'll come with the food. I never asked her name. I must do that. Yes, I must ask her name. Oh yes, this will be a fine day.”

Veronica returned and nimbly she climbed the ladder to the hay-loft. The small gunny sack on a draw string over her shoulder banged against her side with every rung.

When she reached the top she looked for Erich, and found him asleep curled up on the blanket. She sat down beside him. The drawstring of the gunny sack was knotted. She pulled impatiently and finally it slipped through the metal eye. The smell of cheese and home-baked bread floated from the open sack. She reached inside and with­drew a slab of dark bread, four fingers thick, a hunk of cheese and two red-cheeked apples. She placed the food on the empty gunny sack. She shook her head, displeased. "It looks drab," she thought. She pulled the apron strings on her back and placed the bright yellow apron on the sack and then she arranged the food symmetrically on the apron-table cloth.

"That's a little better," she said quietly and Erich stirred but did not waken. She leaned back beside him and found the warmth and the comfort of the lonesome quiet morning. For a long time she looked up at the rafters.

"He could become a friend," she thought. "Someone to talk to...someone to confide in...someone to love and care for..." But then she knew that she'd only found someone to lose again. It had been that way, always. "Whenever I find someone, I find them to lose them. That's the way it's been, always."

Even in her childhood, all she remembered of the good times was the sense of loss when they ended.

'You must remember the good times,' she'd been told and told herself. 'Think of the fun you had...' But ­every time she thought of a good time she remembered most clearly the sadness when the good time ended.

"A really good time should last forever," she thought. "There should never be the silence after laughter. But there always is.."

She remembered her mother's letters:

'If this keeps up, I'll be leaving Hamburg too.

Then I'll come and pick you up and we'll go somewhere together...where it's quiet.

The bombing is getting worse. Ours is the only house on our street that has not been severely damaged.'

And then the announcement of her imminent arrival: 'I'll be leaving here on Monday or Tuesday of next week...really looking forward to hugging you again....'

That was joy. Then came the long silence. And then, for the first time, she heard the expression: "Carpet bombing."

When she asked, she was told it meant that bombs covered an area just like a carpet. Not a square inch would be left. That happened on Friday. After that she always imagined her mother's body underneath a gaily coloured Persian Rug.

She closed her eyes and followed the intricate pattern of the heavy weave and fell asleep.

Erich knew that the voice which came from far off was challenging and held a menace. He fought again at the suction which tried to pull him back to that deep sleep and struggled to the surface.

The voice was nearer now and louder and even before he opened his eyes he could hear it:

"Hey you...you...wake up."

Erich tried to sit up. As he moved he felt the sharp points of a pitch fork on his chest and he slumped back.

"You just stay where the hell you are."

Erich felt the gleaming prongs of the fork again, and then he saw the man looming over him. Burly and red faced, with reddish hair underneath a narrow-brimmed hat. A torn and grimy jacket and from leather shorts protruded incredibly filthy knees. A pair of rubber boots came to just below the naked knees. The fork handle rested in the bend of a sharply pointed hook which stuck out from the left jacket sleeve, and further up a beefy right fist was wrapped around it.

"What you doin’? Trespassin' on me property ... eh? Speak up."

"I was tired and hungry; Erich said and noticed with amazement that he was without fear.

"I meant no harm... I just slept a little, and…" He stopped and turned his head and saw Veronica. She sat upright and her eyes were open wide. Her hands were in her lap, curled into tiny white fists. Her face was even paler than he remembered.

"Just slept a little..." the farmer mimicked Erich.

"Just slept a little..." his voice rose to an ugly roar. "Don't lie to me, you god dam virgin bustin’ bastard... You come up here to screw that girl...didn't you ...I got here just in time."

He twirled the pitch fork in front of Erich's face.

The prongs glistened in the light. Veronica moaned deep in her throat. Erich shook his head.

"I came up here to sleep. That's all."

The farmer looked at Veronica. "She'd be a nice piece for anybody,," he said quietly and swallowed. And then he shouted:" But not for any old virgin bustin' gypsy.. not for the likes of you ...So, get the hell off me farm before I change me god dam mind and run this pitch fork right up your arse!"

He flipped the fork out of the hook which had substituted for his left hand for so many years that its dexterity was almost unlimited. He stepped aside and with the hook he pointed to the ladder. "Move...move fast.." he snarled.

Erich ignored him and knelt down in front of the girl. "I’m sorry I got you into this,” he said.

"I'm truly sorry. Thanks for trying to help me."

She looked at him with so much pain and longing, that Erich felt the tears behind his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," he said again. And then: “What's your name? I'd like to remember you."

The girl was silent and slowly shook her head.

Erich got up and reached for the bread and cheese. He dropped them into the gunny sack and slipped the apples into his pockets. He expected the farmer”s objections.

But when the man said nothing, Erich gripped the ends of the ladder and started down. As he left the barn through the wide open doors he met a robust round-faced angular woman. She looked at Erich and then she yelled: "Erich. . . . Erich. . "

Erich stopped, startled. "Looking for your man?" he asked.

The woman nodded. Erich pointed with his thumb over his shoulder and said: "He's up there in the hay-loft."

The back roads were quiet. Erich felt safe enough to travel. The countryside began to have a familiar look, There were the rolling rolling hills, the mountains in the background. The split rail fences and the meadows strewn with huge boulders.

Erich tried to whistle while he walked.

But then he thought of Hildegard and of the girl whose name he never knew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the hazy distance Erich saw the steeple.

A high and slender structure. The cross on top still pointed to the sky and just below the onion fashioned dome he sensed the black face of the clock. The distance made it seem a small dark dot. But Erich knew it well. He could imagine clearly the clock's hands; ending in two iron hearts, one larger than the other, pointing out the hours and the minutes of each day. Erich stood numb and stared and tears were in his eyes.

"All I must do is lower my sight along the steeple's walls and I should be right in the middle of the square. ...and all these days of flight, of fear, of hunger and of cold would be forgotten ... forgotten in the past... all these days would never have existed. Oh Lord, allow me just this once to turn back time and change my fate and bring to life those who have died around me.

Oh Lord, allow us all another chance to undo all the things that all of us let happen."

The wind was cold and brisk and angrily nipped at his coat. For just a moment it calmed down to gather strength and whipped his face again and then raced through the trees and whistled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Erich knew well that he could not return by day. The thought that he must wait and stealthily sneak into his home town at dark and hide, made him quite angry.

He quickly walked along the little foot path where fields and forest met.

“I must find a safe spot,” he said out loud. “A spot, secure from people and from the wind.” He then walked back among the trees, and out of sight, began to run.

The leaves were slippery beneath his shoes and thorny naked stalks of the familiar blackberry bush clung to his sides. Too weak to hold him, they tore some tiny threads of fabric from his coat. He ran in anger and then he slipped and fell. Face downward he fell hard. His mouth tasted the rotting leaves …the pungent smell of rotting leaves was in his nose. Before his memory of bodies and of blood returned , he scrambled up and ran. The blood felt warm upon his cheek and a red stain was on the back of his hand as he tried to wipe the burning hurt from his face.

A tiny stick had gashed him under one eye. He pressed his dirty handkerchief upon the unimportant wound and soon the bleeding stopped. He walked more slowly then and found an almost circular depression in the ground. A dense and heavy tangle of leafless bushes grew up the south slope and on the very brink, facing due North, there stood a thick and gnarly willow tree. Its roots, reaching down along the slope, v-shaped and partially exposed, pro­vided perfect shelter. Erich sat down, prepared to wait. He laid his arms upon the roots, his fingers stroked the moss. He then leaned back and closed his eyes and felt protected.

"Where should I go," he thought, "Whom could I ask to hide out a deserter? ...There is no place but home.. no other place to go ... no place but home ... Mother would never understand me ... she wouldn't understand my fear... She'd say “Millions of soldiers are afraid and still they don't desert!”.. she'd say: “ running away has never solved a problem, son.... you cannot run away from life or death!” ... she'd say: “you cannot run away from your duties as a soldier.

It just isn't done, my boy. We all have problems, we all have our fears .... but running away from them doesn't make them disappear…"

He spoke out loud and said: "You know, Mom, in a way, you're just like Inspector Hartmann...you both spout slogans. He, the party line and you the 'wisdom of the sages' ...I wish I knew if either one of you has feelings.. or are you both automatons who only know to say what you've been programmed for. Is it your lack of thought, your lack of feelings, besides fear, which is the cause of Treves? Is it you two, who have appointed Charon to his job? I wish I knew if either one of you has feelings.. I wish I knew.."

He thought of hiding behind the boards which covered the Stations of the Cross. But who would feed me?

Who would come by night and know my needs and bring me food?. and answers? It must be home. There is no other, better place. It's on the edge of town...a house alone... and warmth and food and in spite of all, motherly protection.

The chill of night rode in on clouds of greyish mist and rattled on his bones. He woke up feeling stiff and frozen. He stood up slowly and left the frigid womb, the willow's roots' embrace and carefully he felt his way from tree to fog-enshrouded tree.

The gash an inch below his eye was sore. His fingers explored the edges of the wound where little clumps of scab had formed. "I'll have to bathe it when I get home," he thought. "I'll have to wash it clean and use some iodine." He almost felt the anticipated burning and suddenly the healing of this cut became important. He walked much faster and reached the fields beyond the forest.

The fog lay low upon the ground.

Above, the sky was clear and starlit. It was much lighter there than in between the trees. "I must be careful," Erich thought. "I don't want to be seen." He scanned the fields as far as he could see but nothing moved and carefully he made his way across the stubble to the gravel road.

He stopped just on the shoulder of the road and forced his ears to probe still further than his eyes could see. The sound of a bicycle with grating chain on slipping gears came clearly through the night. Erich dropped to the ground and lay down flat in the wet ditch.

The rhythmically grating sound came closer and Erich cursed his thumping heart. The Bicyclist began to whistle and Erich recognized the tune:

"Ein Kampf ist entbrannt and es blitzt and es kracht and es tobt eine blutige Schlacht."

The song described the battle of the Boers against the English forces.

The whistling stopped and Erich heard a hacking cough... the crashing of the chain ... a hacking cough...the crashing chain...and then it passed the spot where Erich lay,

The whistle started out once more, continuing the song: "The youngest was just fourteen years and feared not death for his country's sake..."

For the first time Erich gave a face and feelings to the youngest of the Boers.

"I wonder if he was scared? As scared as I was in Treves? I think that song is just another lie..."

The whistling now grew faint and disappeared and when the grating of the chain had ceased to penetrate the early darkness, Erich stood up and crossed the road, and jumped a fence and ran across a meadow and leaped an irrigation ditch and streaked across another stubble field and ran bent over as in combat and then he saw the concrete house surrounded by the wire fence and heard the steady hum of the electrical transformer. He stopped behind this structure to catch his breath and gather strength. And then the final hundred yards which lay between him and his home.

He stood still and held his breath and listened to the night, But when no sound, beside the hum, disturbed the night, he slowly, step by step, his back against the wire mesh, rounded the corner and then he saw his home.

He could not see the light behind the black-out curtain but knew his mother would be sitting in the kitchen by the stove.

"She either reads the paper or she knits." At this time of day, the work around the house all done, he had never seen her doing anything but this.

"This is her form of relaxation." He smiled. "I wonder what she was like when I was very young and father still alive?" Once more he listened deep into the night.

The sounds that came were far away: the distant rumble of a truck, a lonesome airplane’s heavy drone, the hoarse cry of a night bird on the prowl, the whining barking of a dog and then the bitch’s answer from the other end of town.

The sounds were safe, and walking leisurely and upright, Erich reached his home and quietly he tried the door. As he’d expected it was locked; and keeping in the darkest shadow of the house he walked along the wall until he reached the kitchen window.

The thinnest line of light along one edge betrayed the presence of his mother in the house. "It's unlikely that she has visitors," he thought. He pressed his ear against the glass and listened.

Nothing...

"She is alone, as always," and he knocked gently on the glass. The scraping of a chair and then the thin strip of light went out.

"Always careful, Mother, always careful," he chuckled to himself. "Never open a window or a door before you switch off lights...Your contribution to the Effort: Switching off lights and I.... Your^- contribution to the Cause."

"Who is there? Who is it?" His mother sounded a little frightened. '

"Poor Mom," he thought and then he whispered: "It's me, Mom, it's me ...Erich...open the door, Mom ... It's me... I'm home again.."

Erich was in his room. He peeled off wet and filthy clothes. His mother sat on his bed and worry made her sick and joy was in her heart..

"Tell me what happened." She jumped up and crossed the room and held his face cupped in her hands. Erich smiled up at her and she released him.

"Tell me, how did you get here? You are not wounded? Are you?"...the doubting fear...

"psst, Mother, not so loud. I told you, Mom, I ran away." He hesitated and then: "I just ran away..."

He smiled again. "Mom, someday I'll tell you why.

I'll make you understand. But now, Mom, I am so hungry."

"Erich, what are we going to do? They'll come and get you. They’ll say that you deserted. Erich what shall we do?" Her voice was pleading and her eyes were frightened.

"You cannot hide forever."

"Mom, this war won’t last forever. A few more months, maybe, and our armies are defeated."

She stared at him and then she asked: "Are you alone? Where are the others? Did they run too?"

"Which others?" Erich asked.

"The others ...all your friends and all the boys that left with you."

"They are dead, Mother! Dead."

She clamped her hand over her mouth. Her face went pale, her head held rigid.

"Dead?" The question filled the room.

"Yes, Mother, all of them”. He thought: Shot dead before they ever saw the war. It jumped at them and clawed at them and ripped at them and killed them all while their young eyes showed only curiosity and maybe just a little fear. Dead, before they knew the purpose of their trip." Aloud he said: “Yes mother, all of them are dead.”

His mother asked in disbelief: "Georg? the son of Mrs. Schnee?"

And Erich answered quietly:" Dead, Mother."

"And Siegfried?"

“Dead.."

"And Otto, too?"

"Yes mother, Otto too.."

"And Karl, the blond boy from the shoe store Rentz?"

"Yes, Mother, he's dead too.." his voice rose with impatience.

"Don't you believe me? I told you....all of them are dead." Erich almost shouted the words in frustrated anger. "I told you, Mom, they are all dead... I saw them die!"

He sank down by the foot end of the bed and cupped his hands over his face and cried.

Then she believed him. His mother sat down beside him and memories of years gone by came back. She put her arms around his shoulders and pressed his cheeks against her face and kissed him softly and rocked him gently. "There now, Erich, don't cry, there now..."

She stood up and pulled him up beside her.

"You finish dressing and I'll go down and fix a meal for you.

"Mom, please remember we must be careful. Nobody must find out that I am here."

"Don't worry, son, nobody will..."

She turned and walked down the steep flight of wooden stairs, seeking support with outstretched arms on both sides of the stairwell. She reached the kitchen in the dark and moved unhesitatingly around familiar chairs and table to the window. In her excitement she'd forgotten to replace the black-out frame.

She moved it into place again and pressed it firmly against the window frame. Her hands found the little hooks and slipped them into the small eyes.

The black-out frame was now securely placed and Mrs. Krueger turned around and pulled the string which made the ceiling lamp light up. She squinted for a moment until the few old pieces of furniture in her kitchen lost their blinding glare and came into focus. A handful of dry shavings from the wooden box beside the stove, a few sticks of kindling and three squares of peat brought back to life the dying glow within the stove. She listened to her son moving about above the kitchen. Each step came clearly through the wooden floor. She heard him open drawers and slam them shut. She heard the water splash from the pitcher into the wide and shallow bowl.

"It's just as it always was," she thought. "I'm in the kitchen fixing a meal and Erich is at home and I can hear him roam around upstairs."

She tried to recapture the feeling of unconcern and quiet calm. The water on the stove began to steam. It would be boiling soon and one cube of Knorr soup mix would transform the bubbling water into a tasty, spineless, gutless soup. She opened up the cupboard door and sighed.

A quarter of a loaf of bread, some margarine, a bag of cornmeal and a tiny bowl of sugar.

"Hoarding again, eh?"

She whirled around. "Oh Erich, I didn't hear you coming down. You scared me."

"I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't mean to." He sat down by the table. "Mom, I couldn't find the iodine. Is there any in the house?"

"Oh yes," she said, "there is some in the 'First Aid Kit` down in the basement. I'll get it right away."

She turned around and left the kitchen. "Strange, nothing has changed," he thought. "But then, why should it? I've been away not quite two weeks. It seems that only I have changed...or have I? I'm still the same and all the people of the town...they're still the same. Nothing has changed. Except that I've become a deserter. Except that now I have to wait until we've lost this war. Oh yes, something has changed: Death had come in Treves...and Death in Treves has changed my town."

He heard his mother's footsteps on the cellar stairs. "Here Erich," she said, "here is the iodine. It's just as well I looked at it. It's drying up and needs replacing. Here, lean back, let me..."

Erich leaned back and held his face up to his mother. Her hands were huge before his eyes. The little brown-­stained cotton swab came close and Erich winced, anticipating stinging pain. But nothing came...

The wound had closed; the scab on top had hardened. "It's all right," he said, "it's healing."

"It doesn't look too good," his mother said. "I'll ask Dr. Fechter to have a look at it tomorrow morning."

"Mom, you still don't understand." He smiled a weary smile. "Nobody must know that I am here."

"Not even Dr. Fechter?"

"No, Mom, not even Dr. Fechter. Please try to under­stand: I ran away. I did what's called 'deserting from the Army'. If I'm found here"...he hesitated and then continued: “If I'm found here, I'll get the firing squad." They both were silent then and Mrs. Krueger moved over to the stove and stirred the boiling water and mixed the instant soup.

Erich had finished eating. His mother sat facing him at the kitchen table and watched him scrape the bottom of the pan for the thin layer of Polenta adhering to the metal.

"Tell me,” she said , when he had slurped the last drops of tasteless coffee "how did it happen? Why did you have to run?"

"Mother, some other time, I'll tell you."

"Why can't you tell me now?" she asked. "I'll under­stand. I know you had good reason; just tell me how it happened."

"Please, Mother, some other time. I'm tired now. Maybe tomorrow I will tell you."

"And what you said before, about the other boys all being dead ... is it really true?"

She looked at him and tried, to find his eyes.

"Yes Mom, I didn't lie." His voice was edgy and his hands played nervously with fork and spoon. He stared down at the chequered table cloth and traced the squares on it with the handle of his spoon. He suddenly got up and walked around the table to his mother.

"I'll tell you everything tomorrow," he said. "I promise. Everything." He bent down and kissed her on her cheek. "I'll even tell you about Charon. I'll even tell you how scared I was crawling among the dead. I'll tell you everything tomorrow. Good night, now, Mom."

"Good night, my boy.," she said and with her eyes and ears she followed him upstairs and to his room.

Erich undressed hurriedly. The room was cold and dark. He went to bed and pulled the covers up and tucked them underneath his chin.

"How will I tell her? I'm not so sure myself why I am here alive tonight and not in Treves, dead. How do you tell your mother why you are alive?"

He closed his eyes and saw the podgy pimply face, mouth opened, ready for a scream, hanging suspended from the bridge. He saw them die again, amazement in their eyes.

He heard the vicious bark of light machine guns mixed with the pop pop pop of rifle fire. Six shots rang out like thunder. He crawled on hands and knees over the muddy road, creeping snake-like over bodies. He saw the Sergeant in his boat...with bodies stacked from stern to bow, with bodies stacked up to the sky...

he heard him cry out through drifting mist: Come Krueger, come: You too belong to me. I'm Charon...

and then it was Hilda’s face...the only one alive... she said: “Just let things happen all around you and stay aloof...don't let it change you ... stay aloof.

He woke up with a start and thought: "I must see Hilda. She will understand. I must see her tomorrow."

He turned around to face the wall and moments later was asleep.

Anna Krueger sat at the kitchen table. Her back turned to the stove to draw the last ounce of warmth to soothe her weary bones. She sat there quietly, her elbows on the table, her thumbs hooked underneath her chin, her fingers folded prayer-like before her face.

There she remained, two hours more and uncertainty and numbing fear stayed with her in the dark.

Finally she rose and went to bed.

The morning dawned and came with light. A thin sheet of snow lay on the ground; torn in spots, it let the earth show through. The town woke up and stirred to life. The line-ups grew for bread and milk and farmers had opened little stands with vegetables for sale without a ration card.

"A whole night without an air raid alarm. It’s almost unbelievable. "

"Yes Lady, that it is. 'What will you have."

The farmer pointed proudly to his array of greenery. "Very nice celery stalks, or carrots, or maybe a few Kohlrabi?"

The woman's eyes scanned carefully the offered ware.

"A little of this celery, two carrots and two Kohlrabi, please," she said. "Maybe I can get some soup bones from the butcher, though there's no meat stamp called up for today. Maybe the butcher will give me a juicy soup bone, maybe with a little meat on it, or maybe some good marrow bones..."

She talked incessantly, more to herself, as the farmer wrapped the vegetables,

"Yep," he said, "them is sure fine ingredients for some mighty good vegetable soup ... good and solid ...a good and solid meal. It’s not healthy anyways to eat too much meat.” He grinned at her.

He hated town folk and if the prices for his ware had not been set by rules and regulations, he would have charged them twice as much.

He hated them especially when they came begging to his farm. They offered money, silver, radios, linen and anything they thought a farmer would want to own. They wanted meat and flour, potatoes and butter, milk and cheese and eggs.

Let the bastards starve a little...

When they came to his farm he would charge them anything he wished. They knew well that they broke the law, expecting him to do the same.

Those stupid city slickers.

He remembered just the other day he gave five eggs, five pounds of old potatoes and half a pound of lard in exchange for a full set of sterling silver cutlery. The spoons and knives and forks were all lined up in little slots inside a beautiful black wooden box with blue velvet lining, and when you opened it, an extra. shelf rose up, revealing more sparkling silverware beneath it. It was the box more than its contents that caught his eye and made him act so generously.

"Stupid city slickers," he thought again. "That war sure did turn things around. This time it'll be the farmer will be well off and the city people poor, no matter what the outcome."

He twitched his mouth and grinned. "Here you go," he said and named the price. The woman's skinny fingers groped for the coins inside her apron pocket under a heavy coat. She held her shopping net spread open and nodded thanks. The farmer dropped the few assorted vegetables, wrapped in old newspaper, into the net..

"Thank you," she answered, turned and walked away. She had some luck at the butcher store. The red-faced little man, who ran the store alone was in the slaughter house. He heard the double 'clang-clang' from the rusty bell atop the door as the woman entered. He left the narrow slaughter room and limped into the store. He knew the woman and was well aware that all her ration card was spent.

"Good morning, Frau Krueger. What'll it be?" he said and smiled.

The woman looked at him and paused. And then she said: "Maybe a little bone, huh? Just enough to put some taste into potato soup. I have no stamps left, you know, but my son…."

She stopped and brought her hand up to her mouth. She coughed a little, nervously, and then continued: " I mean, my son always said that a soup without a bone to boil in it is just so much hot water."

She giggled. " I think he was right," she said. The butcher smiled broadly: "Dot's ride," he said. "Dot's ride…" He had a devil of a time with his thick Russian accent.

He'd stayed behind from the Great War, a Prisoner of War, and spent these many years as butcher in this small town.

It was bad enough to be called Pavel Radishchev and to come from deepest Kazakhstan. Not to have mastered the German language flawlessly after so many years, however, was downright dangerous.

He remembered the night in '41, when it was said that Russia had invaded Germany's possessions in the East and Germany was forced to go to war against Stalin's Bolshevists...that much he knew from all accounts in newspapers and on radio.

He could still hear the voices and the fists hammering on the steel shutters of his shop. It was midnight and he had been asleep for quite some time. He woke with all the noise and, nightcap on his head, the white night­shirt fluttering about his knees, he hurried down the stairs. The pounding on the shutters-had increased and he tried to hear and understand the shouts. He felt some danger and thought the town was here to warn him.

He was excited and flicked the light switch in the store and hurriedly he forced the heavy shutters up.

He stood there in the night. A little, limping man, a nightshirt hanging loosely from his shoulders, a nightcap pulled down well below his ears.

The light was bright behind him and he squinted in the dark to see. He was about to ask the cause of all this clamour, when a bony fist lashed out and caught him in the mouth and sent him sprawling across the tiled floor of his shop. He lay there, stunned. Too stunned to move. The mob pushed into the store and clutching hands grabbed for him in drunken violence.

The beast was loose and had a thousand hands, and eyes which glittered madly and triumphantly.

They ripped him to his feet and held him close and liquored breath engulfed him. They shook him and more hands came forward from the teeming, screaming mass of bodies and fists, clenched in the fury of the cowards, shot out, glanced off his head and caught him squarely in the face.

Terrifying fear caught in his throat and he cried out in pain. They lifted him unto the counter and sat him down with force. They all stood closely bunched around him and held him up,

"Radishchev..."

He heard the voice as if the caller were far off. "Radishchev, you Bolshevik pig."

The man stood right before him and stared at him with glassy eyes.

"Radishchev," he yelled, "You god dam Russian Bolshevik dog. "

And someone else called from the mob:

"Kill the bastard, before he has a chance to poison all of us with his rotten Bolshevik meat."

Pavel Radishchev tried to focus his eyes.

"Why you do dis to me?" His voice was weak: "I live here twenty five year....twenty five year I been good butcher to your people .... why you do dis to me?

He felt blood running over his lips and down his chin. His head sagged to one side.

"You’re still a god dam Russian," the man before him screamed. "Your army murdered our people in the Sudetenland and our soldiers in Poland ... We'll kill you all.... Ev'ry god dam Russian must be killed."

The mob began to scream and almost chant: "Kill him ... kill him...kill him..."

They grabbed him up again and dragged him into the slaughter house. The floor was slippery and one member of the mob fell down. He dragged the butcher to the floor with him, and others, none too steady on their legs from many mugs of beer and wine, piled up in general confusion.

A pair of hands caught Radishchev's throat and squeezed. The little Russian struggled for his life. The weight of half a dozen bodies held him down. But finally he tore his head aside and rolled from underneath the crushing weight of sweat-soaked, oozing bodies. He rose to one knee and painfully he pulled himself erect.

He clutched the edge of the chopping block and his fingers found the meat axe. The blade was sunk deep into the wood. He pulled in desperation on the handle, but strength had left him and the axe could not be moved.

His body ached and blood ran from his mouth and cheek and dripped onto his hands. His fingers curled around the smooth handle of the useless axe.

"He's setting to butcher us." The men had scrambled up and more of them came pushing in the slaughter house. A vicious blow caught Pavel right between the eyes and dropped him to the floor, unconscious.

"Let's hang him like a Russian pig,.." the yell was hoarse. "Let's hang him on his own meat hooks like a pig.”

The screaming bell of the police car penetrated even their dull senses. They left him lying and instinctively they bolted for the door.

Police Inspector Hartmann stood inside the store..., a Luger in his hand.

Yes, it was bad enough to be called Radishchev at a time like this. To have an accent, almost any foreign accent could under circumstances well be fatal.

"That's right," he said again and this time it came out nicely. "A nice bone I have left for you...yes, yes... a nice bone with marrow in it yet."

In four long years Pavel forgave. The town had long forgotten.

The woman nodded gratefully and fumbled with her purse. She took the bone and dropped it in her shopping net where it came to rest atop the vegetables.

"Thank you, and call again," said Radishchev. "Goodbye ... yes, soon," the woman mumbled. The bell atop the door rang twice as she went out.

The day was bright and had become a little colder. She wrapped the shawl tightly around her shoulders and hurried down the street.

Around the corner, by the Apothecary, she walked quickly down a block on the town square and joined the line-up which had formed in front of the bakery. The women moved forward step by little step. Their conversation varied rarely from the accepted norm:

"And how are you?" "Quite well, thank you." "Have you heard of your son lately?"

"Yes, just the other day. He writes that he is well."

"As long as they're well looked after, one doesn't mind so much to do without so many things."

"Quite true, quite true ... and how's your man?"

"It's been three weeks since I received a letter."

"Oh well, don't worry. It often takes much longer still. The mails are not as fast as they used to be."

"Yea, and often, mail gets lost."

"Yes, I know. I always tell myself that very thing. Sometimes it helps ... and then the worrying creeps through again."

"Don't I know it. I was without mail once for eight weeks, and then I got a letter and he asks me why I don't write."

Mrs. Renate Rentz was a tall and stately woman.

There was not a grey hair under her kerchief to betray her age. She ran the town's largest shoe store by herself. Her husband had died somewhere in Russia and she had great hopes for Karl, her son, to follow in his father's footsteps ... once he came back after the war...whenever that would be...and he so young.

"A shoe store," she thought, "is a very certain enter­prise. People would always need shoes and especially in times like these it enabled you to do a little trading with the farmers. "

She stood in line to preserve appearances only. She was shrewd enough to know how people would begin to talk and speculate if she were not to buy her food through normal channels. She sometimes had a pang of conscience but then she reasoned that if she did not trade with the farmers, the greedy pigs would find another shoe store to peddle their wares.

"It's they," she thought, "it’s they who are to blame. I just drift along in all this mess. I do the best I can. If any harm is done at all, it could be anyone who started it. There is no sense in putting any blame upon my house. If anything goes wrong, or better still, if anything has gone wrong it could be anyone that is to blame. The whole thing is too intricate and too involved to figure out who is to blame."

She looked around her, bristling for a challenge.

The line-up moved forward briskly now. The women talked of daily worries which had loomed large in the beginning, but after years became the commonplace. It was a thing that just was there and time conditioned them to almost casual acceptance.

The absence of their husbands, sons and friends, who all had gone to fight a war, the lack of food, the daily air raid warnings, had all become a commonplace; a common worry, talked about in voices void of passion.

Mrs. Krueger shuffled forward. She much preferred to take three tiny, rather than one normal step. It gave her a feeling of activity and effort. She listened to the other women talk with new-found interest and fresh-discovered passion.

"It can't last much longer now, you'll see," Mrs. Rentz said. And when she saw the angry and suspicious looks in other women's faces, glaring, accusing, she added hastily:

"No, it won't last much longer...you heard about the secret weapons, the V3 and the V4 ?

A few months maybe and we’ll have won the war. Then Kar1, my son, will come back and run the store for me."

She looked about and probed the faces. But Mrs. Rentz could find no softening, no trust.

"I overdid it once again," she thought,

Anna Krueger's lips trembled. If only I could say what I know. Oh God, I know… I know so much. So much more than all of you." And fear rose in her throat, lest she speak up. Here you stand talking of your sons .... and I'm the only one who truly knows.

Around her the voices babbled on and on. But she heard nothing more.

"The stamps, please, money alone won't do, you know." The baker's voice was impatient and cold. He was an old man and his legs began to ache and burn when he was forced to stand behind the counter more than an hour at a time.

"Mrs. Krueger…the stamps,"

"Oh yes, of course, I'm sorry...how absent minded can I get."

She held out her ration card and with two deft snips of his scissors the baker clipped the little square which was almost more important than money.

Anna Krueger took the loaf of bread and squeezed her way past other women back out through the door.

For just a moment she stood on the very edge of the sidewalk. She was confused and frightened and when she saw Inspector Hartmann leave City Hall and start across the square, it was too late to turn and run. Panic feeling made her heart pound loudly in her chest and she felt her blood rush upward through her veins. She stepped down from the sidewalk and felt as if she'd left the solid ground and waited for her body go hurtling downward through black and empty space.

For an instant Inspector Hartmann and the row of houses across the square seemed on a slant. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, the world around her had returned to normal.

"Good morning, Herr Inspector!" the woman said. Hartmann raised his arm and said: "Heil Hitler!" "Oh yes," she said, "Heil Hitler, Herr Inspector."

Another day....

Hartmann sat at his desk and idly sorted through the mail. 'Der Stuermer' lay beside him unopened. He usually read 'Der Stuermer' first. It brought him news and most of all it brought him inspiration. A paper which really needed to be published.

"It places things into their proper perspective," he often said. It gave the lie to all those filthy rumours of battles lost and Wehrmacht units in retreat. Retreat, of course retreat; but a strategic retreat. A strategically corrective measure ordered by the Fuehrer himself who saw that one of his Generals had blundered badly. Advanced too far without consolidation. A retreat can be a move to streng­then your position, avoid unnecessary losses. Retreat can be borne of strength and wisdom. The wisdom of the Fuehrer and the Wehmacht's strength. It was hard to understand why, in the fall of '44, even his close friends fell silent when he expounded on these theories of warfare.

There was a letter from the Police Presidium in Linz. Hartmann opened it first. It looked official and superior and seemed to demand attention. As he read it, his disappointment grew. A meeting of Chiefs of Police, which had been called earlier in this year in Salzburg, had now been cancelled. No reason was stated. Just a cold notice of cancellation.

"I wonder why?" he thought.

"That's too bad ... too bad.." The voice came from behind and Hartmann whirled around. He hated it when people stood behind him without his knowing. He hated it when people sneaked around and pried into matters not of their concern. But most of all, he hated this man who in spite of his handicap had entered quietly and now stood peering over Hartmann's shoulder and read the cancellation note.

Johannes Zinkler was a member of the 'Hilfspolizei', the Para Police force. He had been borne without a left hip and his left leg was shorter, much shorter than his right. He looked incongruous when he limped, so strongly limped, walking down the town square. His crippled legs enclosed in pitch black boots, his wrinkled uniform ill-fitting, black and oily hair curling out from underneath his policeman's cap.

"Ersatzpolizisten" was the name of degradation which Hartmann liked to use. All able bodied men were in a soldier's uniform. The cripples left behind. The useless ones for all-out war stalked city streets and wore a badge ...enforced the laws they did not really know.

"Zinkler," Hartmann said quietly, "you do this once again; you sneak up behind me like a creeping slimy snake once more and I will break your neck."

Zinkler vainly tried to click his crippled heels and raised his hand up to his visored cap and said: "Jawohl, Herr Polizei Inspektor."

And Zinkler sneered.

The inkpot rattled as Zinkler on his way to leave the office bumped his hipless hip against the corner of the desk. Hartmann reached across and steadied the teetering volumes of Laws and By-Laws fastened in two bulky ring binders. He reached for the letter opener. A lovely, slender piece of steel, sharpened on both sides and ending in a wrought-iron Swastika. He looked at it and fleetingly remembered moments of a happier, more satisfying past.

The next few letters were from private citizens. One was a complaint from Kaberle, a farmer on the outskirts of the town, complaining that the city folk had taken to stealing from his farm. Now, that they had little left worth trading they took to thievery.

Kaberle, the letter read, could no longer protect his farm alone and wanted some police protection. Hartmann read the letter carefully. "That fool," he thought, "he doesn't realize that his admission of having traded with the town's people was enough to convict him of black market dealings and could send him to a concentration camp or jail. He placed this letter in his desk for further action.

"This afternoon, maybe this afternoon," he thought.

The other letter was unsigned. He disliked those; but still he often found them useful. He disliked them with the same impersonal vague feeling he had for those informers who did not wish their names involved.

He well remembered that day in '38. The 'Anschluss' had been glorious. The tanks and trucks and guns and men had crossed the bridge from Germany and flowers amidst happy faces of the citizens amidst the flowers and arms raised high and 'Heil’ from thousand throats.

The soldiers smiled and waved and proudly sat upon their tanks which rumbled heavily on cobble stones and tore them up but all was laughter and we can repair those cobble streets much faster than it took to repair this rift between two German speaking nations.

The soldiers smiled and waved and proudly marched beside their vehicles and women of all ages hugged them close and kissed them on their cheeks and kissed them as you kiss a long lost cousin or a brother who had just returned.

And flowers strung in garlands were wrapped around the soldiers' necks.

And flags .... flags of red, an inner circle white and black the swastika and thousand hands waved thousand flags .... and cheers ... and thousand throats were hoarse with 'Heils'.

They sat upon the rising, falling, rising arches of the bridge and cheered and blew them kisses and threw them flowers and smiling, waving soldiers marched proudly through their town.

Oh yes, he well remembered that day in '38.

An incident, so small and insignificant that most forgot it within a day or two amidst this exultation. A little-pebble which scarcely caused a tiny wave in this river, stream, ocean of the proudest of excitements. Among the flags, the thousand flags which bore the swastika and graced the town, there, on the outskirts, where the flag poles ended and meadowland began, there was one more flag which also fluttered proudly in the wind.

But this one had three horizontal stripes of equal width, the centre white, the outer borders red. It flew at half-mast and a tiny scrap of silken black was fastened to one corner near the pole. Someone here bemoaned the fate of Austria and found a way to show it.

An incident so small and insignificant that most forgot it soon after the 'Red White Red' was torn and trampled underneath the hobnailed boots of smiling, waving soldiers, soon after it had lost its look and meaning with an army moving over it and tiny bits of red and white stayed lodged in rolling panzer chains and travelled along the highway, only to finally fall off and lie there, torn and beaten. An incident so small and insignificant.

Hartmann remembered too the day which followed. It was a rainy day with dark clouds hanging low. So low, they seemed to touch the steeple of the ancient gothic church.

He had just left his office and had turned right to take the shortcut, which he always took at noon to hurry home for lunch. The rain came down, a steady, gentle, penetrating rain. He hurried through the iron gate, left open at this hour, and was about to move along the roadside, well underneath the chestnut trees which offered some protection from the rain, when he heard his name:

"Herr Inspector!...Inspector Hartmann!"

The voice was quiet with an urgent quality.

"Herr Inspector:" The voice was low as if the speaker did not wish to be heard by anyone but Hartmann.

He stopped and turned. The man stood underneath the chestnut tree; the first one in the row.

This day, at noon, the light was dim. It seemed that dusk had fallen. The rain soaked branches of the tree hung low, and rain, collected on the leaves, dripped heavily. But closer to the tree the ground was almost dry.

Hartmann peered closely and then he recognized the man beneath the wide brimmed hat and with the collar of his rain coat turned up high.

"Um Himmels Willen," he remembered saying, “For heaven’s sake, I almost didn't know you."

The other smiled an embarrassed smile.

"Herr Hartmann," he said, "I wonder if I could speak with you in strictest confidence."

He paused and cleared his throat. "I mean, I know a thing or two you might be interested in." He hesitated and turned his head from left to right.

"But my name must not be mentioned."

Hartmann remembered too the strange feeling which that day had come over him. He knew what was to follow. Here was a citizen, a well respected man, a father, a businessman, a member of the 'Liedertafel'.... a man who ranked high in this community. Hartmann had been told that things like this would happen. He had been briefed in the ways these things must be handled. Therefore he said nothing but let the other continue in his own way.

"As you know, I am a businessman, depending on the good will of all the town's people." His voice was husky and his sentences came fast and clipped.

"...and though my sympathies, of course, lie with the Third Reich, a Greater Germany, there is no question about this, you understand, I must, of course, also make a living."

"I'm sure you understand. Well, I'd much appreciate it, if I could have your word of honour, that nothing I will say..." he hesitated once again and coughed. "Herr Inspector, before I go on I must have your word as an officer that you will never tell who told you."

Textbook: Inspire Confidence.

Hartmann held out his right hand and as the other gripped it nervously, Hartmann said firmly:

"You have my word of honour."

The other breathed a deep sigh of relief:

"Do you want to know who raised the 'Red White Red' at half-mast yesterday?"

Hartmann felt a wave of disappointment come over him. He'd heard about this flag with the black band of mourning. He'd heard about its fate and had shrugged it off. An incident so small and insignificant.

"I saw him do it. I was on my way, late, from the warehouse...that's when I saw him with my own two eyes." He raised his hand up to his face and with two fingers spread he pointed to his eyes.

"It was dark, but not so dark that I could not have seen him raise that flag to half-mast.

I saw him clearly. As clearly as I see you now. He didn't notice me, though. He was too busy with his nonsense. Right then and there I knew it was my duty as a citizen to inform you."

His mouth twitched nervously: "It was Joseph Krueger. I saw him clearly. Yes, Joseph Krueger...the one who has the house out by the transformer. I saw him with my own two eyes.”

Hartmann looked steadily at the other's face. He stretched out his hand which the other one grabbed in a hot and sweaty palm.

"Never a word," he pleaded.

"Never!" Hartmann said. "You have my word of honour."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joseph Krueger laughed. "Of course I did it." His close cropped hair shone silvery under the light in Hartmann's office. His wide, square jaw just quivered with amusement. His eyes shone brightly and were laughing too.

"Of course'. Somebody had to do it.... so why not I?" He leaned forward and pointed at Hartmann with a stubby finger. "No law has yet been passed to replace the flag of our nation."

"Our province," Hartmann said.

"So, since no-one planned to fly it, I raised it up. Could be I did not raise it high enough," he chuckled. "It's strange," Hartmann thought, "how clearly I re­member what others said and never what I said in reply."

He remembered that his dealings with the Gestapo were unpleasant. They treated him as if he were a country boy. They did not even permit him to be present at Krueger's interrogation. They were as cold as fish, he thought.

When they left they took Krueger, no longer chuckling, with them and Hartmann remembers but two words: "Concentration Camp”

No-one in the town saw Joseph Krueger again. Inspector Hartmann clung to a feeling of pride for never having mentioned the name of his informer...

Yes, that was 1938 and now, in 44 so many things had changed. Or had they?

His thoughts returned from then to now and touched on the tomorrow.

"No-one knows what comes in future days. No one knows tomorrow."

He idly played with the letters still unopened on his desk. He picked them up and counted them. "Five more to go," he thought and fanned them like a stack of cards. His eyes fastened on an envelope which up to then he had not seen. In the left hand upper corner it bore the raised seal of the Army High Command. An eagle with wings spread wide, his head turned to the right and strong talons clamped 'round a wreath of oak leaves. Inside this oak leave circle a swastika and in a semi-circle underneath appeared the wording:

Oberkommando der Wehrmacht.

"From the Army High command: That's easily the most important letter of the bunch," he thought, "and I waste time with all this other nonsense."

His double sharpened letter opener quickly slipped behind the eagle and found the flap and as his hasty motion slit the paper, he scanned the front and saw it bore a rubber stamp which classified it as 'Strictly Confidential.' And then he saw that the letter was not meant for him but was clearly marked for’ Franz Tanner, Kreisleiter.'

Franz Tanner was the County Party Chief and his far more elaborate offices were one flight up the marble stairs. This letter had been delivered to the Police Inspector's office by mistake.

"The envelope is open now. I might as well just read it ,"

And Hartmann read and read again.

He stood up slowly, pushing back the heavy chair and slipped the letter in his breast pocket as if to keep it out of sight. He walked through the outer office into the hallway and up the stairs and knocked onto the glass panelled doors which bore the legend: ' Kreisleitung.'

Franz Tanner read the letter slowly.

His sullen lips silently formed every word. He placed the letter on his desk before him and with his right hand he produced a silken handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his shining, balding head. With a short and stubby forefinger of his left hand he rubbed the broad saddle of his nose, up to his forehead and down again until his finger lay flat against his nose. He pinched his drooping lower lip between his thumb and middle finger and so, grotesquely, sat in silence for a long long time.

Finally he spoke: " All of them..."

His voice was low and satin smooth: "It's unbelievable... how could it have happened .... all of them...less than two weeks ago they left from here ... so full of spirit... and now the whole lot of them ... it's unbelievable."

Hartmann drummed with his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

"And now it's all dumped into our laps. Now we are supposed to go and see the parents of these boys and tell them ... It used to be that they wrote a letter to the parents," he complained.

"Yes, it used to be...but there are many things which used to be and are no longer so." Tanner spoke quietly. "We will make this a beautiful joint funeral service. Everybody will be there...thousands....

...maybe we can get the Gauleiter to attend... there'll be flags and speeches and drum rolls. We'll turn this into a victory...Hartmann, you'll organize it. You're good at this sort of thing. First, make copies of this letter…

…it's beautifully worded... and inform all parents personally."

Hartmann rose from his chair. A wave of enthusiasm came over him. He would start right away and work all night if needed. He would turn this into a most triumphant funeral. He wished he could have a Viking ship and burn it on the river. He had always liked the Vikings. And the Spartans too. Yes, the Spartan's mother who said to her son about to go to war: 'Return with your shield or upon it.' That was the spirit which must be re-awakened in the people.

Hartmann hurried down to his office and began to plan. "Notify all parents," he wrote on a sheet of paper and then he proceeded to list the names:

Georg Schnee, Siegfried Oberbauer, Otto Hoegel, Karl Rentz, the list continued on... Erich Krueger…

"It's strange", Hartmann thought, "I was thinking of his father only an hour ago. Well, that's the way it sometimes goes. That's the way a family ends..

..none left to carry on the name. At least I'm still alive. I could marry again and have a son. Hildegard won't carry on the name. She'll get married some day and that will be that."

Erich Krueger...of course, now he remembered: Hildegard was sweet on him. Thank God, that's over now. Krueger...he never seemed a German boy."

... oh well, that's over now and no longer any source of worry and concern.

The list went on... names... names... calling pictures into memory...

..but Hartmann's thoughts kept coming back to Erich Krueger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her shopping done, Frau Krueger hurried home.

"It's going to be hard," she said.

"How am I going to get food for two with ration cards for one?"

Erich smiled. "We'll make out, Mom, we'll manage."

"How?" A whine was in her voice.

"Somehow...I'll eat very little. You'll see, we'll manage."

She silently stored into shelves the treasures of her morning's trip. Erich sat on the kitchen table, his long legs dangling, and watched her.

"You know, Mom, I've been thinking.."

She turned from her cupboards, a small bunch of carrots tied with a string still in her hand. "All last night I've been thinking. There's one person in this town I want to know that I am here." He smiled at her.

"Don't do it, Erich," she said, "it's dangerous. Don't do it."

This time he laughed.” Just yesterday I tried to explain to you that no-one here must know. And now, the role’s reversed. Now you teach me."

"I know who you want to tell. That's why I say it's dangerous."

"No, Mom, she's the only one in this town I can trust. You' 11 see....she’ll be on my side.

I know her well. She'll never tell. Besides, she could help us with some food now and then."

Frau Krueger slowly shook her head.

"You're being foolish," she said. "I saw her father today. He walked across the square...

I was so frightened, I nearly fainted. I said 'Good morning, Herr Inspector. He shot his arm up and said 'Heil Hitler' .... and his voice ... he's a fanatic. He doesn't even walk. He struts. Don't do it Erich. Whatever you may think of her, she’s still his daughter. Don't ever forget that."

"I have thought about that too." Erich became stubborn.

"But what you don't know, Mom, is that we're in love. He paused. "I know that she^’ll stick by me. What's more, she hates the stuff her father stands for. She'd never give me away...never. She loves me."

Anna Krueger knew defeat and fell silent.

Erich eased himself off the kitchen table and walked to the window. He stood by the window's edge, making certain that the skimpy curtain would hide him from any stray glance of any accidental passer-by. But there was no-one to be seen.

The morning was still grey, although it was almost noon, and here, by the edge of town the world seemed still asleep.

There was the wire fence, there were some trees, now naked, and way off in the distance, across the meadows, he knew the forest which had sheltered him. When?

Yesterday? The day before? Or was it all so long ago that no-one in this town remembered?

If he went out today and walked along the streets he might never be remembered and he himself might not remember anyone.

All strangers with strange and immobile faces, looking straight ahead, unknowing and unknown.

Is this the world? A place inhabited by strangers?

Strangers walking, sitting, lying, talking, crying, shouting, breathing, hammering, welding, building, breaking, building, breaking, filing, honing, pulling, pushing, sitting, writing, adding, milking, pitching, cursing, praying....

each stranger, unknown and unknowing, assigned to his specific task, directed by some super­power, doing the steps, determined by some super-­ballet-master... and he, the only one with thought and feeling, with love and hate, with hopes and with despair?

Or did he also play a predetermined part in this show of marionettes?

"Am I a puppet on a string?"

Who squeezed the trigger there, in Treves? "It was I. I could have chosen not to join." Erich turned from the window and the greyness it had revealed and from the answers it had not given. "Will you go and tell her, Mom?" he said.

"I still think it’s foolish."

"No, it isn't. Mom, believe me, Hildegard will help us. The more I think of it, the more I realize we need her help."

Hildegard was alive and independent. If all the rest were puppets on their strings, Hildegard was alive. It was important in a world of lifeless dolls to have one living, truly living being.

"This afternoon, Mom, when her father is still at work. I'd like you to go there and tell her that I'm here. Please."

Anna Krueger shrugged her shoulders and began pre­paring for their lunch.

Erich went upstairs and to his room.

He kicked off his shoes and, fully clothed, lay back on his bed. His fingers laced behind his head, he stared at the ceiling.

"Soon now," he thought, "I'll be seeing her. She'll be up here with me alone…. she'll be lying on this bed and I'll bend over her and kiss her lips...."

...and then he felt his hand search for the buttons of her white blouse and open them ... and there would be her breasts so smooth and round and firm ... and he could feel it on his fingertips .... the pulsing blood beneath her breasts and in the dream then he caressed her and he loved her.

When his mother quietly looked in his room she found him lying face down upon his bed. The Eiderdown lay on the floor, the blankets disarrayed.

The boy was sound asleep.

She gently closed the door and went downstairs. She quickly wrote a note: "Back soon," and placed it on the kitchen table. She slipped into her coat and mitts and left the house.

The day was damp and grey and cold. Wet-cold and windy. Anna Krueger made her body small and cuddled in her coat. She walked along the Holzerstrasse, but instead of turning left toward the main square, she turned right into Bachgasse. Along the narrow street between grey, ancient houses she walked briskly until she came to Guertelstrasse. Belt street ran in a circle around the town. Newer, smaller houses, each with a garden of its own were to the right and on the left, a row of Chestnut trees and fields beyond. Anna walked slower now.

"If anything goes wrong with this, I'll not forgive myself, ever..."

...but then, what could go wrong? Hildegard would never tell. Or would she? and even if she did not deliberately betray her friend, one slight mistake, one word, one accidental word could be disastrous. If she were someone else's daughter ... maybe..

but she's a Hartmann...whatever Erich said ... she's still her father's daughter.,. and her father is the "Polizei Inspektor"....

..,Inspector Hartmann...and Erich's father's name was Joseph .... and where was he?

"Where is Joseph?" she said out loud and walked on against the wind.

Guertelstrasse is a long street which at its southern end, down by the river, narrows into Kalvarienweg, which in turn spills into the main square down by the bridge. Kalvarienweg runs in a zigzag course almost completely covered by a canopy of branches from the chestnut trees which line the street and over on the riverside there were the Stations of the Cross.

Anna slowed her walk still more. She was getting very tired and when she came to Station XII, she sat down on the concrete ledge and leaned back against the wooden boards which closed off the grotto,

The slight recess had kept the concrete dry and also gave protection from the wind. She hugged the coat around her but found no warmth. Even out of the wind the very air was wet and cold.

"I need some time," she thought. "I have to make the right decision. Whatever I do now, it has to be the proper thing. I can no longer afford to try and 'leave the rest to God.' I tried that once before... 'Go and tell the truth'. I said, and leave the rest to God'...Go and tell the truth...he did..

He went and told the truth. He smiled as he left the house: "Sure, Anna," he said..."Sure I'll tell the truth." they had left the rest to God.

Where was he now? Where was Joseph, her man, and where was God?

Where had God ever been? Joseph, her man, had been here...in the good old days. That's when they laughed and worked and played; when they had youth...

"We never asked for God then. Maybe this is why I am now alone. Joseph did not come back. Where was God? Where is He now?

Oh God, I need you now ...I need to know... But then, where was this God in Treves?

"Oh God," she said aloud, the words wrung from her chest. "Oh God.."

and then she placed her hands upon her face and cried in deep despair.

What's happening? The world is in a maelstrom... spinning deeper into chaos...and God just standing by watching. How can He watch and let it happen?

...and God stood by and watched the struggle and the dying ... a stupid grin upon his face.

A stupid grin on the face of a moronic boy who stood and watched the kicking of the kittens tied in a burlap bag and doomed to drown...

Somewhere there must be a different God and He will make it up to us when He finds out.

The tears were hot upon the cold skin of her face. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands and looked through the blur.

A mongrel dog had appeared on the street, moving with a canter. He stopped at every chestnut tree and sniffed and crossed the street and sniffed on chestnut trees and came upon the tree trunk of his choice and raised his right hind leg and pissed.

Anna searched in her coat pockets for a handkerchief and when she found it she dried her face and gently dabbed her eyes.

"I must think carefully," she thought. "We are alone with our fate." Her thoughts came tumbling and it was difficult to come to a decision.

If she told Hildegard and Hildegard betrayed­…

but not telling Hildegard and someone else finds out…­but telling Hildegard and all goes well­ but going it alone without the daughter of the Inspector in the know- and all goes well- or might it not?

She leaned back against the wooden boards which closed Station XII from view. The boards groaned with the unaccustomed weight and bent a trifle and let a crack of daylight in. Grey daylight riding on a beam which for the barest moment glanced off a Roman soldier's sword. Anna then leaned forward and darkness came once more on Calvary.

"No," she said, "I can't do it. It would be truly stupid. I must find a way to explain to Erich. Somehow I must convince him. I'll have to think again." Anna rose and walked along Kalvarienweg.

The mongrel dog just turned a corner and disappeared from sight. But Anna Krueger could not yet go home. She had to find a place of quiet and of solitude and gather up her strength. She walked faster now. She knew a place where she could sit in warmth and feel secure.

Burgenlaender Marie owned an inn right on the main square of the town. It was a popular place. Clean and quiet it was and Marie, who, with her man, had long ago come from the Burgenland, and who was alone now, was a fine cook and the Steins in which she served draft beer were clean and the tables were scrubbed almost white.

Her man had left in the First Great War and had never returned. She had a Hungarian name which nobody could pronounce and everyone had forgotten and so they simply called her Burgenlander Marie. "Sit down here in the kitchen by the stove.” she said and dried her podgy hands on her black apron.

"My God, you're shivering. 'Wait till I make you a hot glass of 'Gluehwein'. It warms you from the inside out and the warmth stays with you."

"No, no, please don't go to any bother. Just let me rest a while."

"Hush now, hush, don't give me no argument." Marie from the Burgenland stood by the stove and stirred the bubbling wine and put two cloves in it and served it to Anna in a tall glass, straw-encased. "Watch out now," she said, "it's hot. Don't burn your lips."

Anna held the glass in both her hands and gently blew on the hot wine to cool it down a little.

"Marie, how long have you been alone now?" she asked.

Marie allowed her heavy bulk to slowly descend upon a sturdy stool. Her hands were in her lap, inactive:

"Twenty seven years," she said.

"And never heard a word?"

"And never heard a word."

Marie rose slowly and asked: "You been alone since '38, right?"

"Yes, six years. And never heard a word."

Anna took a tiny sip from her hot wine and blew some more.

"Just sit a while," Marie said quietly,” I’ll be right back, soon as I look after them outside."

She walked through the door into the public room from where the impatient shouts of 'Marie''. had come and 'Frau Wirtin', another beer...

Burgenlaender Marie, the ‘Wirtin' of her inn, was kept busy for some time with orders for drink and food.

Anna Krueger sat in a corner by the stove and tried to think and plan. But warmth and the hot wine had made her drowsy and for a while all she could do was reminisce.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"This list should be in alphabetical order," Hartmann thought. He licked his pencil and ran his finger down the paper in search of a name beginning with an 'A' or failing this, a 'B' or 'C' or 'D'. "Yes, Dingerle...that's the first one: Hubert Dingerle, he wrote. But then he realized that this would make a list with no order as to streets and would compli­cate the process of notification.

He crumpled up the paper and tossed Hubert Dingerle into the corner of his office beside the waste basket. He took a fresh sheet from his desk and began anew. "I'll start with the farthest out and work my way back to the centre of the town."

His finger, followed by his eyes, scanned the letter and stopped at Erich Krueger. The last house. The farthest from the river.

"That's where I'll start," he thought.

The rest went quickly. The list took form and order and was drawn up neatly.

One last quick glance into the mirror behind the door assured Hartmann that all was well. The top button of his heavy overcoat, although a little loose, would hold another day. He placed his hand, with fingers straight and stiff, thumb tucked in, along his nose; first finger closest to his face and little finger farthest out and with satisfaction he saw that the line of his hand, extended up, would meet precisely with the eagle on his cap. His visored cap was at the proper angle.

Hartmann left his office and walked along the main square. He took the first turn to the left and with determined strides he walked along the streets.

Cobble stoned streets, cold and windy streets, narrow streets, streets with names of trades and streets named after men. Streets^. which had seen Napoleon and many other, lesser conquerors. Streets on which the children played and streets over which the dead were carried. Streets now shrouded in the early dusk.

Few people hurried along these streets tonight, their collars turned up high, hunched forward.

A wet and chilly dusk had fallen on these streets. The cobblestones abruptly stopped, the street was hard-packed earth and gravel. The houses thinned until there was but one, its outlines washed out and indistinct and almost blending in the grey of dusk.

Hartmann walked with determination. Somehow, he knew, he'd find the right and proper thing to say. In his mind he composed the opening line:

'My dear Frau Krueger, I am afraid that I come with a task which weighs heavily upon my heart..."

He listened to his thoughts and rejected this opening line.

'My dear Frau Krueger, I have been commanded to in­form you that your son Erich has given his life heroically for his Fuehrer and his Fatherland...' Yes, this sounded much better. More military, more to the point. More German.

Yes, this was it:....'commanded to inform you that your son, Name, has given his life heroically for his Fuehrer and his Fatherland.'

He would use this opening line each time. He looked forward to experiencing the Wagnerian sound and subsequent emotion. He remembered the photo static copies of the letter in his pocket and pulled one out to hand to Anna Krueger. For her to keep as a lasting memento.

He came to the front door of Krueger's house and knocked in a precise and forthright manner.

Almost at once the door opened wide and sudden light framed Erich Krueger.

And silence fell upon the world, the wind died down around the house and Hartmann stood and stared in disbelief.

And Erich held his hand extended with his mother's note and stood as stone and listened to his heart explode up to his throat and outside it was dusk and stillness and the two stood looking at each other for an eternity.

And then the wind sprang up again and swirled around the house and in the distance a dog barked hoarsely. The moment moved back into this world and into that time.

Hartmann, still staring, almost whispered: "What are you doing here? Why are you here?" Krueger tried to answer but no sounds would come. "'Where are the others?" Hartmann asked. "Are you alone?" "Where are the others?"

He pushed Erich back and walked into the house.

He looked about him. This was all wrong. He had the official notification and yet, there was Krueger. Alive:

"Where are the others?" he asked again.

Erich had backed into the house and now was leaning against the kitchen door. The peak of panic had given way to a great and soothing calm. He looked at Hartmann and tried to understand the man. And then he tried to make him understand.

"I am alone," he said, "the others are all dead... all killed in ambush...I alone escaped."

Hartmann moved closer to Erich.

"I understand," he said, "I understand...the others stood and fought and died for their Fatherland. But you, Erich Krueger, son of Joseph, you ran...you deserted."

His breath came heavily and his words came clipped. A vein appeared from the saddle of his nose straight up his forehead. A pulsing, angry vein. His eyes turned strangely crystal clear as he kept staring at the boy.

"You coward:"...he spat the words at Erich's feet. "You god dam stinking coward ... you left them all alone to die, so you might save your rotten Jewish skin." Erich slowly shook his head. There was no use in disclaiming the Yellow Star of David. Hartmann knew full well that the Kruegers were of as pure an Aryan stock as he himself.

"That's not the way it was," he said. "There was nothing I could have done to save them...Nothing!"

"You liar ... you godforsaken liar." Hartmann's voice was quiet now, but brittle, with a waver. ,

"What could I have done?" Erich challenged. "All I could have done was die...yes, I could have died as well."

"You could have fought and died...instead you ran, deserting from the Army. You ran and turned traitor to your friends.”

The web had layers, each stronger, denser than the one before. "Maybe," he thought, "I've been heading in the wrong direction. Maybe I was on the very edge and fought my way deep into the centre."

His body ached; his spirit pained.

"Have I done wrong?" his mind demanded. "If so, where did I go? Where did I come from?

There were no guidelines. No road signs, no illuminated Exit lights... only this never-ending labyrinth in darkness; and this web.

The centre of this labyrinth, he thought, houses the Beast. Am I confronting the Beast now? Or have I been defeated by the Beast already? In Treves? 'When I took six shots? Was this my final battle with the labyrinthine Beast, with me the Vanquished? Where is the Beast? Here? In the uniform of a Police Inspector? Or is it in my guts? Have I been fighting in the wrong direction? Have I looked outside and around me and all this time the Beast inside my belly grew and grew until it ate my heart and soul in Treves?

Where is the Beast? This must be the important, the all-important question. Where is the Beast. .and: have I lost?"

The tiredness came over him again and also peace. He felt his knees turn into jelly and as he slowly slid along the door frame, he looked at Hartmann and ask him in despair: "Where is the Beast?"

"What?" said Hartmann.

"Thump" said the body as he hit the floor. Inspector Hartmann bent down and grabbed for Erich Krueger's body. He raised him up and slapped his face.

"Oh no, you don't, you bastard.. Oh no, you don't, you faking coward."

Erich stood limply and looked without much comprehension. Hartmann had pulled his service gun.

"Come on," he said, "we're going for a walk."

Handcuffs snapped around young wrists and bit.

The wind was blowing hard again and dusk had come still more. Hartmann walked one half step behind the boy and prodded him with his Luger, whenever he slowed down.

"Walk on, you traitor."

and as they walked they left the town behind and crossed the meadows along the brook.

“Walk on, you traitor”

and as they walked, they saw a mongrel dog, stiff­ legged, sniffing. He followed them a while.

"Walk on you traitor."

and as they walked they crossed the brook and neared the forest.

"Walk on you traitor."

and as they walked, the trees closed in behind them and made the town leave time and space.

„Walk on..."

Erich stumbled in the half-dark, almost fell and then he remembered: The pungent smell of rotting leaves... Have I come back to Treves? was there a slip-up in the scheme of things? Or was this the way it was meant to be? Why then did I get these days of grace? What was I supposed to do? Achieve? Correct? Experience? Forgive?...or be forgiven? By whom?

It seemed so long ago....

That Sunday morning, right after the Sunday Morning Festival, when he, along with many other members of the Hitler Youth, came to the sports field, they idly kicked a soccer ball. They had no plans, no scheduled game until that afternoon. But in the morning, on Sunday morning, the Prisoners of War, encamped nearby, played soccer.

'Let's break it up'...the youths, most of them still in their uniforms, invaded the field.

'End of game' ... the tall one yelled, a broad grin on his face.

'End of game!' they all shouted.

Erich had remained on the side line, standing beside the guard...not knowing what to do..

He heard the guard's remark: “The little bastards...” One of the prisoners, who had played Centre Forward, walked up to the tall one:

"We Just started." His voice was not a challenge, not recrimination, nor a plea. His voice was of sur­prise. It seemed to say: This is not happening...

" That's where you are wrong," the tall one sneered, "you just finished."

The laughter rang from end to end.

"Yeah, you just finished," the echoes came.

The prisoners walked off the field and as the Centre Forward passed, he looked at Erich. His well-built body stooped a little and pitch black hair still dry and without sweat but disarrayed. His eyes were dark under full dark brows.

Erich wanted to say something, to apologize, to commiserate, mostly he wanted the Centre Forward to know that he felt shame and sorrow. He wanted to shake his hand and hug him tight. Erich turned his head. His lips stayed silent. He ambled onto the field and joined the group, still in their uniforms and listlessly he kicked the ball when it happened to come his way. The prisoners climbed on the truck which took them back into the camp and as it turned the corner, the boys meandered off and the playing field fell silent and deserted.

“Someday” Erich often thought, “I'll meet this Centre Forward, and I'll apologize .... I will explain it all to him and he will understand and love me as a brother.”

----------------------------

"Forgiven," Erich thought..."I came back to be forgiven. To suffer when we trespass ... is almost like forgiveness.

"I wish that Centre-Forward could see me now," he said out loud.

"Walk on you traitor," Hartmann said and jabbed the Luger into Erich's back..

Erich stumbled and almost fell and once more he remembered:

Hildegard...that's why he had come back...she still owed him an answer. How do you stand aloof when man's face shows suffering? How do you stand aloof when mankind which is your kind which is my kind which is mankind has gone mad with pain and in this madness creates more pain and suffers more and gives more pain and feels more pain and suffers painful, pain creating madness?

Or is it Innocence? Is mankind not aware of its creation? Then he who knows must stand on mountain tops and shout his knowledge. Warn the man.

Does Hildegard know? Does she suspect?

How do you stand aloof when over the millennia the hammering of nails through flesh to crosses has never ceased? What does Hildegard know? Does she know that I am here? My mother went to tell her and then she came....No...

No ... she did not come. But Hartmann came, her father. Why had Hartmann come? How did he know?

Hildegard, why have you betrayed. me?

And tears came from his clouded eyes and ran along his cheeks.

"I am alone.." His sob was strangled.

"You're damn right," Hartmann said and jabbed. "You're damn right...but not for long...you'll soon be with you buddies...only you'll be in Hell and they're not..."

Erich stopped and felt the jab and trotted on. "Does he mean that? About Hell...Does he believe in Heaven and in Hell? There's nothing in the Party­ line that speaks of Heaven or of Hell. The man is mad ... he believes in everything: The Third Reich of a Thousand Years and the Everlasting Kingdom... He's like a machine gone wild...I have come back for nothing...Nothing.

I have come back to be exterminated by an insane and dead automaton .... I should have died at Treves.

I should have died at Treves...I should have died at Treves..,I should have died at Treves... Together with the rest I should have died at Treves... With Sergeant Bauer I should have died at Treves. With pimple face, suspended from the bridge, I should have died at Treves...that moment, when I became part of them, I should have died at Treves. When I joined up at Treves I should have died. Oh Charon, why did you take my soul at Treves...yes, my soul died at Treves...with six shots from my gun I killed my soul at Treves....That's when I died. Yes, that's when I died.

Oh what a fool this Hartmann is: marching behind me with his gun and handcuffs on my hands behind my back...If he just knew. Hartmann! you fool... you never-ending stupid, lousy, rotten fool. Oh, what a sight this must be: two corpses marching one behind the other. Two corpses marching...why don't we goose-step? Two corpses, lifeless, soulless, bloodless corpses...blind, mute and deaf...no feeling. Blind and mute and deaf ... no feeling. They can no longer see the things worth seeing; they can no longer speak the thoughts worth saying; they can no longer hear the sounds worth hearing.

Oh, what a sight...we march...where do we march? we march to battle... one behind the other...lost. Two dead men marching on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hartmann’s eyes were clouded, fixed to the nape of Erich's neck. Hartmann's eyes were clear and blue as steel and clear and clouded. His footsteps sure and never failing. His clouded eyes had fastened onto Erich's neck and the Luger had become a steel extension of his hand. The document, the piece of paper in his pocket, had turned into his soul.

When the shot rang through the dusk, Erich Krueger's mind had been a blank.

The bullet tore through the stream of nerves running through the neck and upward it travelled, lightning fast, into and through the brain and opened up the bone just above the left eye and lodged there. Erich Krueger's body pitched forward, and face down lay on the ground. But no more could he smell the pungent smell of rotting leaves. The fine and curly hair on the nape of his neck was singed.

The sound, the short, quick, final sound, that single bark of death hung for an instant from the branches of the trees and fell upon the ground and left this earth forever and yet it stayed, it lingered on, repeating itself soundlessly and grew, crescendo-like and joined all other final sounds around the world, lodged there forever in the minds of men who heard. The body lay where days before young boys had dug the ground, had dug the trenches along the riverbed for one more final stand to thwart the enemy in his relentless sweep across the land.

Austria will fight to the last drop of her blood, and for this fight children had dug trenches... men sized trenches. One had been started too far back in direct line with one in front and had therefore been abandoned just after it had been begun. In this shallow grave the body lay - face down. Hartmann leaned forward and knelt down. He quickly inserted the small key and deftly he removed the handcuffs from this lifeless form.

The little mounds of earth on both sides of the grave were easily pushed in with sidelong, sweeping motions of Hartmann's black booted foot.

And thus ends Erich Krueger. Ends and yet lives on forever.

THERE CAN BE NO DOUBT WHATEVER,

THAT, IF THE DAYSTAR OF JUSTICE,

WHICH THE CLOUDS OF TYRANNY HAVE OBSCURED,

WERE TO SHED ITS LIGHT UPON MEN,

THE FACE OF THE EARTH

WOULD BE COMPLETELY TRANSFORMED.

Baha’U’Llah

On his way back to the town Hartmann's thoughts were jumbled. Although darkness had fallen, he paid little heed to the terrain. He left the forest and scarcely brushed a tree. He crossed the meadow and jumped the little, narrow brook and walked on towards the town.

The first sound penetrating to his mind was the transformer’s steady hum. The concrete block behind the wire fence sat like an animal inside a cage. A constant purring deep in its throat.

Hartmann stopped and listened to the greyness. There were no other sounds. Right there in front of him stood Krueger's house. A tiny crack of light shone along the edges of one window and suddenly Inspector Hartmann smiled.

The thought was good. Yes, and why not? That's what you came for in the first place. Pretend this last hour never happened and finish what you set out to do. His hands searched in his pocket for the document while his mind searched for the sentence.

There it was: ...'commanded to inform you that your son Erich, has given his life heroically for his Fuehrer and his Fatherland.'

A copy of the letter in his hand, he knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" The voice was quaky and full of fright.

"Open up, Frau Krueger, it's me, Inspector Hartmann. I have something important to tell you." ....commanded to inform you”...his mind alone was laughing, although his face was set in stern and tragic lines of sorrow.

The door opened slowly and Anna Krueger peered through the crack. She recognized the man and pulled the door open wide. Hartmann stepped forward but stayed outside.

"What happened,” she asked. "Where is he?"

Hartmann ignored this telling question and launched into his oft rehearsed preamble:

“....commanded to inform you...”

Anna Krueger took the proffered document and listened: ..

“…heroically for his Fuehrer and his Fatherland.”

Hartmann spoke more words which Anna could not understand. He then saluted smartly, turned, and walked away. Quite against his expectation it had been an unpleasant thing. The woman had not played her part. She stood so rigid and in silence. Her face showed no emotion. Maybe fear...a little fear.

Anna Krueger slowly walked into her kitchen and sat down heavily upon the chair nearest the stove.

She slowly raised her hand and held the letter at arm’s length from her eyes. She squinted just a little and then she read. When she had finished, she read the letter once again. Then she stood up and opened up the kitchen cupboard where, on the bottom shelf, her glasses lay. She cleaned the lenses on her apron and with shaking hands she hooked the steel bows over her ears and pressed the glasses firmly astride the saddle of her nose.

And then she read again and understood.

She read the names of all the boys who searched for honour on the battlefield and found but death.

She read the names surrounding one name. She read the name of Erich Krueger and then she truly understood what Hartmann had come to tell her.

Erich had died in battle for Fuehrer and for Fatherland. Somewhere the dream must end and reality begin.

Was there reality? Which was the dream?

Anna Krueger slowly climbed the stairs. Up there in the small room she knew she'd find the answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I'll do it tomorrow," Hartmann thought, “tomorrow I'll finish it. First thing tomorrow morning I'll notify the rest. This Krueger woman would not jump the gun. She wouldn't run and tell the world."

The streets were dark now as the dusk had dropped quickly into the early night. Hartmann walked care­fully, guided only by his knowledge of his town and the rare slip of light peering through ill fitting black-out frames.

The streets were wet now from a slight drizzle and now and then a puddle glistened between cobblestones. Hartmann walked carefully but swiftly and as he came nearer to the square, he stopped and held his breath and listened.

The streets were quiet now and when he stopped and held his breath and listened he could faintly hear the rushing and the hissing of the river in the distance. Or did he hear his blood which rushed and hissed through his veins? His heart was pumping stronger now. It had been an eventful and exciting day„

The streets were full of memories.

As Hartmann walked through dark and wet and quiet streets one memory kept coming back:

He clearly saw the nape of Krueger's neck and then he heard the shot and saw the boy pitch forward, hands cuffed behind his back, and then the face, so unprotected, hit the ground. Hartmann flinched.

Hartmann flinched in his shallow sleep and tossed and turned and fought the dream which strangely showed him Krueger's face.

He was down, deep in the ground with wet and slippery walls of clay surrounding him and, looking up, he saw some tree tops and specks of sky and suddenly the face appeared, pitching forward ... slowly forward and down and panic came with vain attempts to scale the slippery walls and squeeze out from the grave before the body ... coming down...the face...coming down ... tumbling down ... growing larger, ever larger... coming closer...filling all the emptiness above, closing off the grave ... before the face ... shutting out the world outside ... before that face could bury him forever.

He tore himself out of his shallow, tortured sleep and slowly raised up from his bed.

Blindly he groped for his clothes, dressed hurriedly and fled the house.

The air was cool and yet he could not feel refreshed. A low fog had crept up from the river and hung deep in the narrow streets. And then, in front of him, there at the end of this fog-damp street, he saw, he thought he saw a man. A man clad in a flowing robe, a rain skin, a flowing robe.

Hartmann followed the strange figure down the street. He seemed unable to close the gap. When he quickened his step it seemed that it walked faster too. Several times he stopped and listened for foot steps. But there were none that he could hear and when he started walking slowly again, he could still see that man in the strange flowing robe, vaguely outlined in a tear of mist in front of him. Hartmann felt a strangeness come over him. After midnight darkness, except for the moon, and the town so still.

Around three o'clock in the morning you could expect another air raid alarm. "About as regular as clock­work," he thought. But that was still more than two hours away.

The river's hiss was part of the stillness which still engulfed the town. He had one last glimpse of the robe turning left into the street called Calvary. He walked faster, but when he too turned the corner, the robe had disappeared. He crossed the street over to the river side. the hiss was louder now.

Along the street a row of chestnut trees loomed darkly. The moonlight tore their silhouettes out of the sky. The sidewalk there is wide and on the riverside, the Stations of the Cross.

Hartmann moved quietly now. He left the sidewalk and stopped. He thought he heard the footsteps again, hesitating footsteps, and moved back into the recess of the grotto. His back against the wooden boards which had sealed off the figures in the grotto for all these years ... or was it days?

How long was anything? When did Erich Krueger die? He strained his ears and tried to listen…Silence...

That roaring kind of silence everywhere.

Hartmann sat down upon the concrete ledge and closed his eyes. As he leaned back, he felt one board give way. It swayed and then it fell back into the grotto. The sound of soft and rotten wood on stone was swallowed instantly and became part of the stillness.

The moon, almost full, behind the chestnut trees, somewhere in the sky and on its way into oblivion, threw light and shadows. Hartmann looked into the grotto and his being became paralyzed.

Christ stood bound securely to a post so low, his back was arched, his head bend forward and his crown of thorns had slipped over his right eye.

And Pilate stands erect., facing the crowd and speaks:

"I find no fault in this man. He has done nothing to deserve to die."

Hartmann pushes his way through the silent people until he stands squarely in front of Pontius Pilatus.

Hartmann:

"Has he not spoken against the crown?"

Pilate:

"When? and where?"

Hartmann:

"Anytime, and in the temple, in the garden, in the streets!"

Pilate:

"What did he say against the crown?"

Hartmann:

"He claimed to wear it! He claimed to be superior: He claimed his conscience takes precedence over that which is right."

Pilate:

"What is right?"

Hartmann:

"That which Caesar has decreed is right. Or have you forgotten that it says:” Caesar, decree, we follow you!"

Pilate:

And what did he say? Did he not say: “Give unto Caesar that which is Caesar's'? "

Hartmann:

"But he limits that which is Caesar's."

Pilate:

"Limits it? What are these limits?"

Hartmann:

"The tax, the coin, that yes. But body, soul and conscience ... that no."

Pilate:

"What did he say in this regard? I've never heard him speak."

Hartmann:

"He claims his father's love, for he lays down his life that he himself might take it up again. He said: “No man taketh my life from me but I lay it down myself. I have the power to lay it down and I have the power to take it again:"

Pilate:

"A most strange thing for any man to say."

Hartmann:

"Most strange indeed. Traitorous! Insidious:

And traitors, those who undermine their country's health, defy the edicts of their Caesar and bring shame upon their brothers ... those must surely die."

Pilate

"But is he really traitorous? is he concerned with Governments and edicts? Or did he speak as man to man? Challenging man deep at his centre?"

Hartmann:

"Man's centre? (he laughs) Man's centre is his instinct to survive. And those who wish to divide us are our enemies. In Unity we stand. United we stand for Caesar, our people, our fatherland.... Yesterday Rome ... today the world."

Pilate:

"What is it that you say, with pearls of sweat upon your brow? Man, calm thyself."

Hartmann: (breathing hard)

"There must be Justice....are you not Caesar’s man? Go and know thy duty ... Give us Barrabas. " Chorus:

"Give us Barrabas...Crucify the King of the Jews. Give us Barrabas:"

Pilate: (turning sadly)

"Justice, thy name is expediency'. Honour, thy name is compromise. Truth? Oh Truth, what is thy name?"

Pilate leaves the stage between two columns of Dorian design. Two soldiers untie Christ, who has not spoken, and take him off stage, pushing and beating him soundlessly and dispassionately. The dim lights are dimmed still more until the stage is dark and stark and empty.

Hartmann looks around him and finds himself surrounded by faces hewn of stone, their eyes without the light of pupils, their cheeks without the life of blood, their mouths half opened in silence and yet he still can hear the echo of their cries: 'Barrabas..."

One face though, lives and stirs a memory.

"Judas Iscariot," says Hartmann in a whisper and then again: "Judas Iscariot."

Judas speaks:

"Hartmann, don't look at me as though you found a friend. Don't look at me approvingly, with pride. I loved him and still do. Not even he could understand my kiss. It was not just a sign to finger him...not only meant to identify him, for whom the soldiers came. I loved him. Don't you under­stand? I loved him...as you must in order to betray. That which can be betrayed must first be loved. My kiss said more than: This is he...

My kiss said: Sorry, man, I love you, but I love my country more and for her sake you must go. But not even he could understand. It is this which causes my despair. This and the gnawing fear that he is more than just a man full of ideals; the torturing dilemma of my mind: Is he, might he be, who he claims to be? Yes, I betrayed him.

If I betrayed him, what did the others do? Did they defend him as they secretly had pledged to one another? Did they defend him with their swords? Did they defend him with their words?

Where are they now? Where do they hide themselves? Where is their witness for this man? Is their betrayal any less than mine? Calvary, I swear, could not be Calvary without the people who glance up and down the street, catch sight of boldness and brute strength, then tiptoe quickly back inside and lock the door and say: “I have no part in this,”

Judas lowers his voice and points a finger straight at Hartmann.

"Hartmann, remember that day in 38? Remember Joseph Krueger?

He found his Calvary. His final station, not the cross but the gas oven in a Concentration Camp.

And your name was J. Iscariot.

Iscariot without redeeming love.

...remember the millions who have found their Calvary and walked the Stations of the Cross.. .in greater suffering and greater pain than Jesus ever knew?

Remember the thousands of Judases,

the thousands of Pilates in every town and particularly remember those who glanced up and down the streets, caught sight of the majority and quickly tiptoed back inside and shot the bolt to lock all doors and swore to God they had no part in this?

Without them, Calvary could not be Calvary.

Hartmann, remember too: Just yesterday, Remember Erich Krueger. He found his Calvary. He bore his cross from Treves to the woodlands of his home. His Station XII came instantly when steel tore through his brain. What was your name then?"

Long Silence...

Hartmann:

"Am I lost?"

Judas:

"Ask not another man...Ask thyself."

The day came slowly as the river, rushing by, took on a silvery glow.

Hartmann stirred and raised his aching body upon his elbows. His face felt wet and then he saw his hands spread in a pool of puke.

He felt the waves of nausea come on again and staggered to his feet.

A rusty nail, protruding from the fallen board had cut his right hand and blood had crusted.

He wavered again and placed his hands high on the stone pillar, leaning slightly forward. His head sank down until his chin rested upon his chest and spittle hung in a thin thread from his mouth. He cleared his throat and spat upon the ground. As he turned away, he caught a glance, one fleeting glance of the inside of Station I. The figures were dark and indistinct. They were old and in poor repair. Paint had flaked off and chips of stone were missing here and there. Hartmann violently shook his head to clear his groggy, sleepy brain and hurried home.

"I must have passed out there," he thought. "Good thing nobody saw me."

He reached his home and quietly he climbed the flight of stairs to his apartment. He undressed in the kitchen and stood naked in front of the half round cast iron sink and washed his hands and face and chest with ice cold water. He brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth and scrubbed his body until it shone red and he felt tired but invigorated. He wrapped a towel around his waist and was about to tiptoe into his room, when Hildegard opened the kitchen door. Her eyes were sleepy and her long hair dishevelled around her puffy face. Her pink night gown was too tight across her breasts.

"My God," she said, "what a racket you make. What time is it?"

Hartmann felt foolish and tightened his loincloth. "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

"It doesn't matter. I didn't sleep well anyway."

"Go back to bed. It's six o'clock in the morning. You'll be able to get two more hours of sleep. I'll go to bed myself now. Wake me when you get up."

He turned out the kitchen light and groped his way to bed in darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was one of those rare autumn days which sometimes descend upon this part of the country. The air was clear and very few white, wooly clouds rode high up in a bright blue sky. The breeze was gentle and held out a promise for a warm and pleasant day. Old men walked briskly and women smiled, and wore their kerchiefs jauntily around their necks. Small, barefoot boys rolled wooden hoops and girls played hopscotch and their wooden sandals clattered. Their laughter rang from street to street. Inspektor Hartmann left his house. He was a little late. He would have liked to have postponed this day and had taken twice as long as usual with his morning routine. While he shaved and during breakfast he thought about the women he would have to see today:

"How should I tell them?" His little speech, which yesterday had sounded perfect for the occasion had suddenly assumed a hollow ring. He had felt unhappy and dissatisfied after having used it on Frau Krueger. It lacked impact..."what the devil.." he cut himself while shaving ... can such a thing be rehearsed? Or do you say whatever comes to your lips and take your chances? How do you prepare for a day when you must tell sixteen mothers that their sons had died? ...goddamit he burnt his lips with tea in which he had forgotten to put sugar and lemon.

"What a day this is going to be."

He looked around and sniffed the air. "Oh well, maybe everything will be alright. "

His uniform was immaculate as he strode along the square to the town hall and to his office.

Franz Tanner's smile was tired. The deep wrinkles bordering his paunchy cheeks were etched deeper and shadows hung beneath his puffy eyes. His voice was tired too: "You'd better get started," he said as Hartmann entered his office. He had been waiting in the police inspector's office, impatiently pacing triangularly between the desk, the door, the empty hatrack.

"I wish the hell I didn't have to do this." Hartmann felt anger welling up inside of him.

"Why in hell do we get saddled with this mess? They used to send telegrams to everybody."

He felt helpless and frustrated and let himself fall heavily into his swivel chair.

Tanner had stopped his pacing and stood before the desk, leaning forward and resting the knuckles of his fists upon the lacquered surface.

"You'd better get started," he said again. His voice was dull.

For Christ's sake, has this asshole nothing else to say? Hartmann thought. "Yeah, I think I better get started," he said out loud.

He rose from his chair, nodded curtly to his party boss and as he left his office he saw Tanner, still leaning slightly forward, standing in front of the oaken desk.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mrs. Renate Rentz was in the sales room of her shoe store. Wooden soled sandals and synthetic rubber boots half filled the shelves which lined each wall. She was checking invoices against bills of lading and found no errors. In a way that was a shame. It meant that this bill would have to be paid without delay. When she found a rare mistake such payment could be postponed for months by correspondence, demanding explanations, back orders, new and revised invoices. In such a case it was good to be vague. If the infor­mation you supplied was incomplete and sketchy, the factory would have to write and ask for details.

It was a lovely game to see how long payment could be postponed. But today everything was well. The woman shrugged her shoulders and sighed.

She looked up when she heard the door bell ring and she saw Police Inspector Hartmann. His face was grave. Graver than usual and his voice sounded a trifle hoarse and shaky.

Renate Rentz listened carefully. Hartmann used simple words: "…this clearly is my hardest job.

I could just cry...I would rather be out there avenging him...but sorrow­fully I am here, groping for words, to tell you that Karl, your son is dead."

Renate Rentz still listened. Hartmann was very quiet and looked into the woman's eyes and tried to tell her of his sorrow. She understood. She sat down slowly and placed her arms upon the countertop and cradled her proud head and then her body was a sob.

Hartmann placed a neatly folded document beside her elbow and left the store.

The door bell rang again but no-one listened. Hartmann walked along the bustling street. He hardly heard the many cheerful sounding greetings and only now and then would mutter a reply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just for a day, the town had lost its autumn greyness, The sun dipped everything in colours, bright.

Wide, rolled down canopies of red and blue and multi­coloured stripes should have protected merchandize from fading in the sun. Should have protected merchandize which was not there.

But no-one cared that day. No-one bemoaned this utter lack of goods. Because today the sun was shining, the sky was blue and canopies were red and multi­coloured stripes, The worries and the cares which war time brings, and no-one ever gets conditioned to, were lifted for today, because today the sun was shining and canopies were blue and multi-coloured stripes. The women smiled and held their heads up high although most did not know in which trench, or behind which tree or in whose gun sight or in what grave their husbands, lovers, sons or brothers lay. They smiled and held their heads up high because today the sun was shining, the sky was blue and canopies were red and multi-coloured stripes.

This was the kind of day it was.

And Hartmann made his rounds. This was the kind of day it was. And mothers heard the news...their eyes wide open... panic ... their minds so slow to comprehend ... fear and breath sucked in and held so long and then the tears. This was the kind of day it was,

The sun still shone, the sky still blue, but canopies looked shabby, torn, their colours faded.

The news spread through the town like fire does through tinder wood.

And then the knowledge of this life came down again upon this town. Reality returned and reality was death. Death every day and every hour. Reality was hunger for all things.

This was the kind of day it was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was no gathering on the square. There was no open protestation. There were the women who withdrew into their homes and took their pain with them and suffered there in silence.

Hartmann did not know it but he had performed with valor. He had felt the sorrow truly and the women knew it, sensed it. He had spoken simply, as a friend. "Maybe I should have told them something about the Fuehrer and the Fatherland. I wonder why I never did." He strode briskly through the huge doors of the town hall.

"Oh, what the hell," he thought, "it went all right without it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winter came and brought less snow than normal. Christmas was meager and January bitter cold. Icy winds came up the frozen river and tore across the bridge and whistled in the iron superstructure. Life was unpleasant. Supplies in food stores ran an alltime low and freezing mothers stood in endless lines for food of any kind. A few potatoes and some frozen cabbage heads. Three ounces lard. Half a liter milk, so skimmed it had a bluish tinge. The' 'Blue Miracle' they called it. It was blue and it also was a miracle if you could get your share. They had not lost their sense of humor yet.

"Mommy, can I have a piece of bread?"

"No, child, you had your share and mine at dinner time."

"That was at six o'clock, mommy... I'm hungry now."

"Hush child, go sleep ... don't think of food. there isn't any...tomorrow for breakfast, child, ..go sleep now. Don't think of food." That's where their sense of humor ended.

February brought more snow and less food. March was much the same. A little worse maybe.

And all the time the Wehrmacht made strategic withdrawals and German lines of defence were shortened. Rumor had it though, that much of this withdrawal was a helter-skelter panic flight. Rumor had it that the war was to be over soon. Just a question of time.

The battles were now on German soil. It was an eerie feeling to hear familiar sounding names: Gladbach, Enskirchen, Kaiserslautern, Zweibruecken...

Newscasts spoke of battles bravely fought, enemy attacks repulsed. Each such attack was beaten back deeper inside the Fatherland than the one before. Oh God, please give us another Counter Stroke in the Ardennes. Another Rundstedt's Offensive. What a General this Rundstedt is. He makes your heart beat high.

Give us another Aachen and one more Division Hitler Jugend. Give us something to be proud of once again. From the East and from the South and from the West... War, war, war, closer to the heartland. Closer, inexorably closer. Day by day the news:

Waiting for the big weapons. The V3 and V4.

Weapons which would make the rockets V1 and V2 mere fire crackers by comparison. Weapons so awesome and gigantic, the world would be stunned and victory would still be ours. Victory snatched in the last and dying moments. Series of defeats, endless series of defeats turned into one final, unquestionable, unalterable, indisputable victory.

The Germanic mind was dreaming.

If the overpowering assembly of the world cannot be defeated on the battlefields, let it be defeated in the laboratories, in the test tubes, in the German scientist's imaginative, creative brain.

But time... time ... time was needed. Hold out, oh Germany. Hold out just six more months, and maybe less...

Hold out until tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Without openly confessing it, the people were divided.

"Salvation for this world can only lie in Germany's defeat. Many believed this strongly and in their hearts they urged the armies from the West and bade them speed and hoped that they would occupy their country and not leave it prey to the armies from the East. They listened to their radios on wave lengths most emphatically forbidden and what they heard could make them glad and also it could make them shudder.

And March drew to an end.

April came and no-one talked. Those who had been silent all along said nothing as their hopes came nearer to fulfilment. Those who had been loudly prophesying the big reversal crowned by final German victory had fallen silent.

Too often when they had spoken, they could see it in their neighbours' eyes: That look of patience and of waiting. As time went on those looks were veiled no longer, but open and with challenge. How can you go and denounce a look?

"I said that final victory was ours and he just looked at me...yes, he looked at me and there was a question and a challenge in his eyes."

So both were silent and no bitterness erupted. In years to come they were able to forgive each other.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

April 1, 1945.

"Hey, you know what? There are six big fat bombs lying on the bridge and there are soldiers and they've got the bridge closed off."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, and they're gonna blow it up."

"Yeah?"

"It's the truth.". '

"Who you kidding? This April Fool's crap don't work on me."

"No, it's the truth. You shoulda seen them bombs.. Holy Mary, they're big ones...they got the bridge all closed off and on the side where them big sidewalk slabs is lying they got some o'them slabs lifted and they got ladders. They're gonna put them bombs in each o'them pillars and they're gonna blow up the bridge."

"Why the hell would they do that?"

"I dunno, I just seen them bombs ... Holy Mary they're big ones."

"You kidding me, an' I go there an' there ain't nothing and you start jumping up ant down like crazy, hollering April Fool, April Fool, you do that an' I'll knock your blooming teeth out."

"Honest, no fooling, I seen 'em."

"Let's go and watch."

"I don't think they'd let us close enough."

"Let's go and see anyway."

The soldiers had the bridge closed off to all traffic. They were too busy turning back people to see two boys slip past the hastily erected barricades.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph...you ain't kidding. Them's big ones alright."

The chains rattling over the block and tackle made a satisfying sound. A big sound. A strong, iron­fisted sound. The officer directing operations knew his work well. His commands were sharp and precise.

"You, Private, move one meter to the left. Be careful.. Push...push...six centimeters more ... come on... push."

The private strained with his shoulder against the bomb which hung in a harness from the block and tackle. The block and tackle was fastened to a tripod straddling the opening in the sidewalk of the bridge. Beneath the open square, under the road bed of the bridge, the pillar held six more soldiers ready to guide the bomb deep down into the innards of the concrete bridge-support.

"What's it gonna do to that bridge when them babies blow?"

"It's gonna blow it to Kingdom come. That's what."

"It's gonna blow the whole bridge to hell. That's what."

"Seems a shame. Musta took a long time to build the damn thing."

"Yeah, wont take near as long to blow it all to hell."

"I wanna see it when she goes."

"Better see it from far off."

The officer suddenly had become aware of the two boys.

"Who let these kids in here?" he bellowed. "I said nobody on this bridge until we`re finished.

And I meant nobody." He shouted in the direction in which the boys had fled:

"One more civilian on this bridge, corporal, and I'll have you on report...understand?"

"Jawohl, Herr Leutnant!." in a roar; and quietly he said: " Why the hell don`t you fall in the bloody river and drown?."

The boys ran past the barricades and stopped a safe distance away and watched intently the mining of the bridge.

A crowd had gathered. Curiously they pushed against the barricades and strained to see.

Inspector Hartmann directed four of the town's constabulary in an effort to hold the people back. "Hey, Hartmann, what are they doing there?"

"They're finishing the bridge." Hartmann laughed. "You know, no bridge is really finished until it's good and mined and ready to be blasted."

They laughed. That Hartmann is a card. Boy, when he is in the mood, he's always ready with a wise crack. Yeah, he's a card. Boy, he's a card alright.

"Alright, move back, please, all of you ... come on now.. Move...there's nothing to see ... come on ... move back." They moved and talked among themselves excitedly.

There is but one reason why anybody would mine a bridge.

"But why the hell would anybody want to blow it up?"

"To win the war," someone said. And someone tittered nervously. And for a moment no-one spoke.

"They'll make a final stand here. You saw the placards, didn't you?"

"Yes," the old man said, "I seen them placards.... "Austria will be defended to the last drop of our blood... I seen them placards." His voice came in a whine.

His eyes were blue and firm and he looked at no-one.

"Whose blood are they talking about? Any of my blood gets spilled, I want to have a say in it."

He spat upon the ground and walked away.

They all froze in their tracks. Women, old men and children. They keenly felt the edginess of it. They knew that Hartmann must have heard the old one. Hartmann smiled. His voice mimmicked the old man to perfection: "It's not going to be your blood, grand dad... you ain't got but beer in them veins of yours."

The people who had held their breath burst out in laughter.

"Man, that Hartmann...get a load of that guy...what a card he is."

One lonely figure stood in the cold square.

A man or woman? The sun which had not yet risen cared not and neither did the air, the nippy air of early morning. The question was not asked by any thing. There could never more be questions: Single, isolated, small, unimportant questions could never more be asked. I mean truly asked with a pause after the question mark. A pause for listening for an answer. Never again could there be an answer to any single question.

The large, the huge, the smothering, the all-engulfing question asked itself. It was there. It was everywhere. In every nook and cranny of existence. And if there are more worlds than this one, if there are a thousand worlds, this question could suffice to drown them all. It was everywhere.

It is everywhere. It is not known to any man. It was not known to this single isolated figure in the empty square surrounded by the nippy morning breeze. Stiff breeze,

It was not known by any man. All men and all of man was part of this question so totally surrounded and engulfed that recognition stopped .... had stopped so long ago, or may never have existed in human knowledge. Only because I stand outside, looking in, can I see the question, can I know that it is there. But even I cannot know what the question really asks and no-­one knows the answer.

Answers must be so large and powerful that they eliminate the questions. The question is the cause, the answer the effect. There are no answers without first there having been a question.

How far back in my life do I go until the day on which I first understood the existence of the question?

Oh, not the meaning of it, no, just the existence of it. How far back must I go?

To the day of my first confession? Was it this day which I remember so clearly as if it is happening now, and I in the middle of this day? So clearly ... not like yesterday, not hazy like an hour ago, not indistinct as anything in the past. No, this day is forever in the present. I can recall it at will and live in it. Live in the Now...not the Then.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Was it this day?

Oh, what a clear and warm day it is. White clouds surround the steeple.

I can see the clouds. I can see them changing with the breeze which must be up there.

Down here, though, it is still and warm. And people milling around the church.

Sunday people with solemn faces. Solemn people with Sunday faces. I know them all, but will not tell their names, This day may be of such importance that names, although known to me, are of absolutely no importance. Of no more importance than the names of the stones over which my wooden sandals walk.

My wooden sandals, fastened to my feet by leather, black leather straps; a small buckle on the one which winds around my ankle. The wooden soles are in three parts cleverly slotted and fastened with leather straps, one to the other, so I can walk and roll my foot from heel to toe. Walk noisily upon the flat marble slabs around the church, with figures and inscriptions chisseled. Latin words and Roman numerals and childlike, simple figures with arms held sideways .., in the marble slabs around the church, and wooden sandals clatter.

White knee-length stockings with a snake like pattern intertwined, knit one, purl two, knit two, purl one...

...and just below the knees, the stocking has a seam and in that seam elastic bands impress a pattern in the flesh which stays for hours after and you can feel it with your finger tips ... knit one purl two, knit two purl one.

The scar upon the knee always a little blue. It too can be felt with my finger tips .... the skin so smooth and sensitive and thin and almost transparent. Darkblue short trousers, just eight fingers above the knee. Heavy cloth and four buttons up the fly. A leather belt around the waist, through loops. Blissful absence of suspenders. A snow-white shirt with a pocket on the left breast. Two marbles in the pocket and a chestnut. Short sleeves and open collar. A blue jacket, much too warmly made of the same heavy cloth as are the shorts. Face scrubbed and washed until the skin shines red and a haircut from the day before.

Now, not then.

The church square fills with people. Smiling men and smiling women, somber men and somber women and earnest boys and girls in white and pink and green and blue and navy dresses with wide collars with white stripes.

The church bells ringing constantly and then we all go inside and three boys hide behind the 'Old Church’ which is a ruin now and not in use and their fathers go and fetch them, holding them firmer than necessary by their arms, and lead them into the 'New Church' which is two hundred years old or more.

Now, not then.

Line-ups to the confessionals. Here the boys and there the girls. Familiar faces in my line-up and now and then an understanding grin. Familiar faces, I say? Yes, familiar and yet different. We are all different today. Even my closest friends around me and preventing my panic and I preventing theirs are somehow different today.

But wait,..not yet ... the big difference will come after the honest confession and the forgiving absolution and the rueful prayers of penance and then the Host... My God, we'll be so different.

The church is dark, almost dark and this almost darkness seems to dampen the hymns the adults sing somberly.

We stand in line and move gingerly, slowly closer to the booth with lattice work and velvet curtains. Closer, to be cleansed of our dreadful sins.

And candles flicker and throw shadows.

Then I close my eyes and try to think of sins and remember how often I had done each one. How often...? that is the hard part to remember. What sins? We stole pears from Kaberle's farm..,

But how often? What sins?

Ten minus one ...I had never coveted my neighbours wife. I try hard to remember ... but no...never.. I had never coveted my neighbour's wife.

Ten sins minus two: I had never killed. Frogs with bellies bloated from a straw don't count.

I know for certain I had never killed.

Under my eyelids fiery rings are dancing. Then green rings ... why always rings, never a triangle or a square... always rings ... all colours of the rainbow...but always round.

Ten minus two...

I get shoved gently from behind.

My turn. Now I go behind the velvet curtain and kneel down and wait and listen. I cannot see the priest behind the lattice work. It is very dark in here. Much darker than outside.

Ten minus two...

the darkness swirls. I close my eyes again to make it stop. The swirls continue behind my eye lids. Black swirls.

"Yes, my child?"

"Oh father, I have sinned, so gravely sinned. I came for the forgiveness of Jesus."

The words spill out ... learned by rote ... their meaning lost in panic.

Ten minus two...

Darkness. . .red rings behind my eyelids ... always rings.

Ten minus two...

And then we wait. Can he see me? Does he know I am here? Am I here? I believe I am here. Must I convince him? Ten minus two and still he waits and still I wait and panic rises.

What have I forgotten?

And then he speaks: "Is that all?" The question looms heavily and flattens the rings but does not help the darkness.

"Is there nothing else?" Ten minus two?

"How often did you masturbate?"

The word ... the meaning of the word. I search behind my eyelids for the meaning of the word.

Ten minus two.

"Eight times, father."

"Jesus will forgive you.Have you been unchaste in any other way?"

"Oh yes, father, I have." "Describe it."

"I have looked at a girl, father."

"How, child?"

"Behind the old mill, father."

"Did you touch her, child?"

"Yes, father, with my hand I touched her."

"How often did you do this terrible, terrible thing?" I feel like shouting: "Never...”

’Never’ would be the truth. There was talk about it that girls were different and why.

But then I would not get the all important absolution.

"Twice, father, twice."

"Is this all?"

An eternity has passed. When I come out from behind this curtain, this velvet, mouldy curtain, the church will be empty. Everyone will have. gone home and tomorrow all will ask me: “What took you so long?”

Shame ...shame..the most shameful outcast in this town. Ten minus two plus enormity.

I open my eyes... the rings have gone...

"Absolvo Te..."

"Go child and do pennance. Pray fervently nine Holy Maries and six Our Fathers and try to be a better child from now on."

I kneel and know not what to say or do. My knees have locked in the right angles for ever. Riveted to the wooden stool. The darkness and the rings which have returned are frozen in eternal ice.

"Go child, you are cleansed."

I stumble out and as I leave the velvet drape behind me, I hear him mumble and another sinner falls on his knees and I know his panic.

Nine slurred Holy Maries and six Our Fathers later I kneel again and open my mouth and place my tongue just over my lower teeth and so I receive the Host and gently press the round white thin body of Jesus Christ between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Gently, not to hurt the Lord, Our Saviour, Jesus Christus.

Now, not then.

I go and sit alone behind the old church. Sit on the grassy slope which falls down to the brook and wait for God to strike me dead. I lied in my Confession. Deliberately lied and thus invalidated all my absolution and then received the flesh of Jesus Christ and committed the greatest sacrilege of all. The Lord, Our Saviour besmirched in a foul and sinful body of a mortal.

Ten minus two...

I wait for lightning out of the blue sky. I look and see a few white clouds still swirling harmlessly.

Maybe God does not need a lightning. Maybe He can cause my death without a thunderclap and when they find me, no-one will ever know.

Now, not then I sit and wait.

Now, not then...nothing happens and when the birds still sing and fly about I get up and slowly walk for home.

Does He not know? Does He not care? Or does He know and smile and raise His hand behind me in the sign of blessing? White long beard flowing around a gentle face, His lips drawn in a smile and blue eyes laughing? In either case the man behind the velvet curtain does not understand.

Is not aware ... should not be here...should not exist .... need not exist ... should not ask 'how often and with whom?'

Need not say: 'Absolvo Te..'

Now, not then.

Was this the first time that I realized that all the world and all the worlds are one question?

Was this the first time I stood outside looking in on Mankind, staggered by the riddle, by the question, the unanswered question?

---------------------------

The lonely figure in the early morning light, before the sun came up, turned slowly and looked toward the bridge. He saw where the bulky forms had been, which he now knows to be in the very innards of the bridge. He knows what they will do and sees the fiery cloud rising and in his mind he asks one single question: "Whatfor?"

But it is a single, isolated question, swallowed by the larger, all-engulfing question and therefore will not ever have an answer.

Police Inspector Hartmann walks slowly toward the bridge and the wind is cold up the river and when he knows that he has reached the place below which rest the bulky bombs he stops and looks into the swirling silvery water.

He feels his body shrink into his soul and once again, as he had done so often through these long and lonely winter months, he ponders.

Air raid... wailing sirens... Air raids .. .sirens wailing .... up and down...up and down ... endlessly wailing...sadness, resigned sadness, not anger ... come what may…fears and hope in balance.. delicate balance.

3AM..air raid.... 10AM...air raid .... 4PM...air raid.. 3AM...air raid.

Mummies rise and dress without hurry…silently… grip suitcases already packed and descend damp stone stairs ... down ... down into the arch-ceilinged cellars ..lonely bulb off center ... dim light...children play with flash lights…beams of light criss-crossing… search-light fashion...criss-crossing dampness.

Women and children in damp cellars ... hours ... mumbled conversation...silence...the low hum of aircraft.. low hum penetrating down into damp cellars ... dampness penetrating blankets ... children now asleep ... aircraft hum receding easterly ... bypassed once again. Waiting...waiting...life is waiting ... waiting for so many things. Waiting for things to begin .... waiting for things to end. Mostly waiting for things to end... and then waiting for new things to begin again ... waiting. Sirens...All Clear.

Mummies rise and glassy-eyed they ascend the stairs again.

Slowly, ponderously, tired ... step by step they climb from the darkness on winding dripping stairs of stone between narrow walls...up to the light once more.

3AM is not only darkness. 3AM is also light. Returning from the cellars is always into light ... though the moon has gone and clouds black out the stars.

The eyes see but darkness then ... but returning from the cellars, your very being feels the light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What is your name?

Why do you want to know? and who are you?

I am the air raid warden.

Where is your armband which says you are the air raid warden?

On my other coat.I forgot to change the armband.

You forgot?

Yes: I forgot. Now will you tell me?

Tell you what?

Tell me your name.

Sure I'll tell you my name. But why do you want to know?

Because you're supposed to be downstairs ... in a cellar.

Sheltered?

Yes, sheltered.

Man, are you completely deaf? The All Clear sounded ages ago. I have a right to be outside.

Did it really? Did the All Clear really sound? Has it ever sounded? Will it ever sound? Are we All Clear? Are we out of the woods? Or is the day yet to come? Will this night last forever?

I don't know.

Who knows? Is there anyone who knows? I don't know. I just don't know.

Relax ... you are not the only one who does not know. Nobody knows.

Nobody?

That's right. Nobody.

Not even He?

Who the hell do you think He is? Why should He know more than we know?

He made us what we are! Didn't He?

Maybe He did, maybe He didn't. Even if He did, that gives Him no more knowledge than we have.

He made us in His image.

Now you are talking.

Yes, I am talking. That's all there is left. Talking. There is no more doing. We've done all we could. We have gone so far that we can go no further.

Can't we back up?

Of course not. There is no way to back up. We scorched life behind us.

What do we do now, then?

We just stand there and ask each other's name.

What's yours?

What's yours?

I am the Warden.

I don't want to know what you are. It's who you are I'd like to know.

I am the Warden. What is your name?

I am the waiter.

The waiter?

Yes, I wait.

What do you wait for?

I wait for the All Clear.

You know it'll never come.

I know, but I am still entitled to wait.

It's futile, though.

Great! You got it. It's futile. Are you sure?

If I were sure, it would no longer be futile. It's that I'm almost sure. That makes it futile.

Do you wear a scar?

Are you not only deaf, but blind as well?

It's too dark out here.

Sure I wear a scar. Don’t you?

No. I don't.

You will soon.

Maybe I will.

We all will. In fact we all do already.

Will it be removed?

If He survives it won't.

Are you sure?

Of course I'm not. Who is?

Does anybody know if He'll survive?

Can He ever die? Now really, ask yourself: Can He ever die?

I guess not.

Some of Him will always live. Yes, I guess so.

It's too bad, really.

In a way it's just as well that He ever lived.

Why?

It's our only chance to see ourselves. He brought everything to the surface. For all to see. Specifically for us to see ouselves.

Is that important?

It's the only thing that is.

But now, that He lived, He'll never die! It does not matter now. Not any more.

You've made a lot of statements.

You've asked a lot of questions.

Have I?

Yes! But not the one I could have truly answered. Nothing of importance.

Haven't I?

No! Goddamn you! You haven't:

What was the question I should have asked?

You would not understand the question even. How could you understand the answer? Providing always, there is an answer.

Monstrosity. Caricature.. Obscenity... I cry for you.

Save your tears...cry for yourself.

I cry for all of us.

And for Him?

No, there are no tears for Him.

None for Him?

No, none for Him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Inspector Hartmann sat in the armchair reserved for visitors in Franz Tanners office. The Party Chief sat facing him, behind his heavy desk. Hartmann felt oddly relaxed. He leaned back and crossed his legs. His hands played idly with a wooden ruler he'd picked up off Tanner's desk. His eyes, half hidden behind his lids, searched Tanner's face. His mind worked in circles. He well knew what Tanner was saying although he could not follow his words.

Tanner was leaving. His family had gone ahead the day before to some retreat in the Alps.

"Its halfway up the mountain. Just below the timber line." He was silent for a moment.

"It's a pretty place," he mused.

Hartmann sat silently. The rats are leaving the ship, he thought. Only this time there's nowhere for them to go. Eventually even the crow's nest atop the highest mast would sink. It was a proud ship, he thought..

Too bad it has to go. Tanner half raised from his chair:

"I just thought, I'd fill you in. I thought you ought to know."

"Thanks, but I'll stay and take my chances." Hartmann got up and carefully replaced the wooden ruler. "somebody has to stay and see it through."

Tanner looked at him. His eyes were puzzled. "Have it your way," he said.

"Sure," said Hartmann and walked to the door. Then he stopped and turned. The two men stood facing each other. Hartmann stretched out his hand."Good Luck!" he said.

"We'll need it." Tanner grabbed Hartmann's proffered hand and shook it. I never knew that a handshake could be sad, Hartmann thought.

"Don't worry, Hartmann, we'll be back."

"Sure," Hartmann said. "I'll wait for you." He attempted a smile. When he reached the door he turned around once more. He clicked his heels and raised his right arm stiffly and deliberately until his hand reached eye level. He felt a little, he thought, the way a captain must feel, alone on the bridge of a sinking ship. There was so little chance for a change in the situation.

Allied Armies were pressing in an almost relentless rush through Germany. A confused, demoralized, ill equipped and outnumbered Wehrmacht gave little opposition.

Hartmann slowly descended the wide stairs leading from the City Hall. The iron railing felt cold to his ungloved hand. Though Spring was four weeks old, it was a cold and windy day. He reached the last step and hesitated. He saw them both at the same instant . Approaching from the right, the riverside, the limping form of Johannes Zinkler was unmistakable. The Hilfspolizist was hopping as fast as his single hip would tolerate. From his left, or uptown, Hartmann saw his daughter. Hildegard moved with a casual assurance. Her walk was smooth and although she walked erect, her head held high, she lacked the marching stride so many girls had adopted then. Hartmann did not want to see either of them just now.

Of all the people moving about the main square, these two stood out.

The rest, the farmers who had come to the Wednesday market, the local townsmen, old and drawn, the housewives, worried looking, the children who were always under foot, particularly since all schools had closed, they all seemed to recede into the grey background.

Johannes Zinkler and Hilde Hartmann stood out.

Inspektor Hartmann wanted to flee; to get away from there, become invisible. He wanted to run.

Instead he stood, rooted to the bottom step, his right hand still on the cold wrought iron railing.

Zinkler arrived at the bottom of the stairs. He looked up to his superior. His face was flushed. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead. His breath came panting in short quick bursts. His uniform was damp and wrinkled. His shoes were caked with mud. He wiped his forehead with his right sleeve. His fingens spread, he smoothed his ruffled hair. Between short gulps of air he tried to speak: "Herr Inspektor...Herr Inspektor.."

Hartmann looked at him without seeing. He looked through Zinkler. His thoughts roamed far afield.

He glanced to his left and vaguely saw his daughter striding toward them.

This will be a bad day, he thought. This will be a bad time.

"I must speak to you." Zinkler was visibly excited.

"Stupid cripple," Hartmann thought, "thinks he's so damn important. I'll have to take him down a peg or two. Some other time, though."

This was not the day. This was going to be a bad day. He knew it in his bones. Hartmann felt Zinkler's hand on his right arm. Pulling..

Impatiently he moved his hand from the bannister and for the first time he looked at Zinkler.

"I was down in the bushland by the river," Zinkler said. His panting had stopped. His breath now came more evenly. Hartmann did not reply.

"I wanted to inspect the trenches the boys had dug." Excitement still in his voice. Hartmann felt a twinge of uneasiness. Zinkler's voice sank to a whisper:

"I found a grave....I found a buried body." He stopped and searched for a response in Hartmann's face.

The day was cold and windy. The town looked grey. The asphalt underfoot looked grey, the buildings, tilting now, looked grey. The sky which rushed down upon the land looked grey.

Hartmann felt one of his bad times coming on. H e gripped the bannister again and turned his knuckles white.

"This will be a bad time," he said aloud.

Off to his left, far distant, he heard his daughter's voice and felt her hand cupped on his elbow.

Hildegard spoke to Zinkler. Words ... fragments of phrases he wanted to understand. He strained but could not feel the meaning of her words.

"It'll pass," he said. "It's just a dizzy spell."

His own voice seemed to belong to someone else. He was sure that he could not be heard under the droning of the square.

"You better go to your office and sit down." Hartmann felt himself turning around and floating back upstairs. Hildegard had gone down the hall to fetch a cold wet towel and a glass of water.

Zinkler and Hartmann were alone in the Inspektor's office.

"I saw a boot sticking out." Zinkler said excitedly.

Calm now and probing. Hartmann nodded his head slowly and said nothing.

"I tell you, I dug, I saw this boot sticking out, so I began to dig. I found a body, I tell you ... a body: Isn't this a police matter? Shouldn't we investigate?"

Slowly Hartman forced himself to answer:

"Yes, we'll have to investigate.But time may be running out. We may have more important things to do before long."

Hildegard returned with the wet towel which her father refused brusquely. He did accept the glass of water and downed it in one gulp.

"Sit down," he said to both.

Zinkler sat down obediently. Hildegard went over to the window and perched on the window-sill. Hartmann cleared his throat and looked at one, then at the other. "Just a few more days," he said.

They looked at him and for a moment no-one spoke. Zinkler moved in his chair and then sat still again. Hildegard turned her head and faced her father A thin smile flickered.

"It seems now that the enemy is closing in on us. A few more days and they'll be here. Only a miracle can save us now."

"A Miracle!" Hildegard laughed and threw her head back. Her blond hair cascaded about her shoulders. Her blue eyes sparkled. "A Miracle!" she repeated. "You've never believed in miracles ... why all at once?"

Hartmann would not reply. He turned and looked down upon his desk. There were some letters, unopened, some files. Zinkler moved his chair a little closer to the desk.

"Will there be fighting in the streets?" His eyes flickered and on his temple a vein throbbed.

"I don't know what there'll be," Hartmann said.

"There is talk that they'll never take the Ostmark," said Zinkler.

"Yes, I read that garbage too." Hildegard was earnest now.

"We'll fight to the last drop of our blood....Placards everywhere ... that's the only thing we're really good at: Slogans and Placards...don't you see how stupid this all is? It's over now. You've had your fling." She stood up and moved over to her father. She leaned forward, planted her hands palms down upon the desk and glared at both of them.

"Can't you see? You're finished.... finished....finished.” Her voice rose to a scream.

"Your hero game is over ... you're finished." Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were fire and her long blond hair almost touched the blotter on the desk.

Zinkler sat in utter silence. His mouth half open and Hartmann saw the smudge of earth on his cheek.

"We'll see," Hartmann said and then he too fell silent.

"Will we fight in the streets?" Zinkler asked tensely.

"Oh, shut up." Hartmann was so tired. He vaguely felt a fear but could not remember why.

He turned to his daughter. "You leave the town today," he said. "Go to the farm in Kirchegg."

"I'll stay!" Hildegard said calmly. She walked toward the door.

"It might be dangerous." Hartmann argued feebly. His daughter never heard.

"Will we fight in the streets7" Zinkler asked, but did not expect an answer.

Hartmann turned to Zinkler and authority was in his voice again.

“Check the guns. Then go to the locker and see about the ammunition: I’ll go and organize the town."

While Zinkler laboured feeverishly, Inspektor Hartmann wandered aimlessly about the town. The afternoon passed quietly and evening came. The wind had cleared the clouds and when the night sky came, the brilliant stars reflected in the river.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

April 30, 6AM

The town sleeps soundly and in ignorance. Two lonely boys brave the early morning fogs and cross the bridge which spans the river, snow-water swollen, grey and cold, tearing and hissing underneath. They carry knap­sacks which by tonight would hopefully be full of food, begged from the farmers along the river's valley, for hungry families waiting at home. They feel grown­up and brave. At 6.05 AM they reach the other side, turn right and steadily move on toward the fertile farmlands downstream.

April 30, 8AM

The town awakes. Storekeepers roll up shutters and stand in the doorways to their stores and bid everyone who passes the friendliest 'Good mornin': They smell the nippy air and conclude it will be a warm and sunny day. They wave at each other across the square and smile. The milkstore and the bakery are the first stores with line-ups forming.

April 30, 8.30AM

A company of armoured cars approaches from across the bridge and moves into the town. They halt in the main-square. The soldiers leave their vehicles. Their uniforms are black with silvery buttons. On their lapels the double, lightening like, runic letters: SS

They walk stiffly after long hours of cramped confinement. The officers, lead by a major, walk halfway down the square and enter through the heavy oaken doors into the pub of 'Burgenlander Marie.' They find it empty in the early morning hour and, pushing two tables side by side, they spread their maps. They group around and solemnly they study the terrain. Marie pokes her head through the kitchen door: "Can I get you something?"

"Yes, bring us some coffee, rolls and butter..."

Soon a big pot of steaming coffee stands on a nearby table. The officers munch on dark rolls and talk. Stiff fingers pinpoint spots of interest on the wide and detailed maps.

April 30, 8.45 AM

Inspector Hartmann has spent an almost sleepless night. Heavy black shadows circle beneath his eyes. His face looks pale and drawn. His eyes are dull and red-rimmed. He walks heavily.

The spring is in his step no more, nor the authority and self-assurance in his bearing.

He locks the door of his apartment and slowly he descends the flight of stairs. He steps out onto the street and walks along the sidewalk. He turns the corner to the square and stops. The square is full of armoured cars parked in confused abandon. The sight of soldiers moving through is nothing new. It happens every day.

But rarely have they stopped right on the square. They normally move on and bivouac in the woods beyond the town. Hartmann asks for and is told where he can find the officer in charge. He moves across the square and enters the pub. The officers look up and Hartmann salutes stiffly. The reply is nonchalant:

"Are you in charge of this town?"

Hartmann thinks of Tanner up in the Alps. 'It's below the timberline, a pretty place' and answers “yes, I am.”

"Clear the people off the streets ... into the cellars or into the woods, we don't care ...just clear the streets."

Hartmann looks at them. They crouch around the table, still stooped forward, looking at him with obvious disdain. The room is bright and cheerful. The walls curve into the ceiling and arches overlap and intertwine. The walls are white-washed and hunting prints hang in simple frames. Gaily decorated steins and highly polished brass mugs and pewter plates and jugs stand decoratively on shelves or hang from heavy hooks.

The uniforms are black. So are the visored highpeaked caps and glaring from white faces are eyes which know no pity; only the needs of warfare.

"Go on now...do as you're told ... clear the people off the streets." He looks at his watch.

"At eleven we'll blow this bridge."

April 30, 9AM

"This scarf belongs to him. He wore that when he left. And that's his father's watch. He wore it too. So he must have been here. He was here. Where is he now?"

Anna Krueger fondles the watch. She runs her thumb back and forth across the crystal. Gently. She asks the question she's been asking incessantly since that day. Where is he now?

She finds her way down from Erich's room, down the narrow windowless staircase and into the kitchen. She feels an almost nauseating hunger. There are some ration cards rolled up and stuck in the empty sugar bowl and money in her leather purse.

The line-up at the milk store is the shortest and Anna joins it.

Zinkler hobbles down the square and stops everyone in sight and speaks to them rapidly and importantly. He reaches the milk store's line-up and everybody there looks at him with curiosity.

"There'll be fighting in this town," he announces.

"You had all better pack what you can carry and leave." He looks for fear in the women's eyes but cannot find it.

"Goddammit, can't you hear?" His disappointment makes his voice come shrill. "there'll be shooting right in the streets and on the square ... today." he shouts.

"We still need food," one of the women says quietly. "We can go to the cellars," another adds, "we're used to them by now." Some smile.

"What good will more fighting do?" Renate Rentz throws out the challenge; but Zinkler walks on and does not hear the question. Two of the women, more worried than they dare admit, leave the line-up and hurry home. The rest stay on and discuss the implication of Zinkler's warning.

Anna Krueger stands quietly and listens. The line moves forward slowly. Step by step.

April 30, 9.30AM

"Without artillery we cannot really make a stand. We'll blow the bridge ... that'll give us a little more time. Then we'll fall back into the forests here." His finger points to a densly wooded region behind which open roads lead to the lakes and mountains. Their decision made, the officers fold their maps and leave the pub.

April 30, 9.35AM

The bridge is blocked off to all traffic. A team of experts works feverishly and connects a timer to the bombs which rest deep in the bowels of the pillars. The time-clock is set for 10.30AM. The soldiers scramble topside. They check the barricades on both ends of the bridge and then they race across the bridge, the square and come to attention in front of their major:

"Order accomplished!"

The major dismisses them. "Mount your vehicles!".. orders are shouted from car to car. Engines howl and blue combustion fumes polute the air.

April 30, 9.45AM

The last of the armoured cars has left with high speed. It leaves behind a feeling of. excitement. Women rush about gathering their children, playing in the streets. Storekeepers lock their doors and roll down iron shutters. Hilde Hartmann has arrived at Krueger's house just as Anna returns from shopping. The young girl carries a shopping net, bulky, bursting with provisions.

Behind the transformer house there sits a four wheel drive reconnaissance car. A light machine gun mounted on a tripod.Two black-uniformed soldiers relax, smoking, in their seats.

April 30, 9.50AM

The sirens wail. The sound engulfs the town in waves and waves and waves. The sirens never end. They wail and scream and when you think this is the last of it, they pierce your ears again and lodge deep in your skull.

The town is empty. All life gone underground.

April 30, 10.00 AM

The town is empty.... all life gone underground. The sirens wail eternally. Wind rushes unobstructed through the streets, silently driving scraps of paper, playfully, hooks his fingers behind loose shutters and slams them shut, silently, swings metal signs above the stores on rusty hinges, silently, and ruffles feathers of blue-grey pidgeons hiding on ledges, while sirens wail eternally.

One man moves stealthily from house to house. On a leather strap a Sten gun dangles from his shoulder. The gun bobs crazily up and down with every hipless step, Slowly Johannes Zinkler moves through narrow streets. His right hand grips the short barrel and pushes down until the leather strap bites into his shoulder.

Inspector Hartmann sits in his chair, behind his desk, his head supported in his open hands, his elbows on his knees. His eyes are closed. He is alone.

"It must come...it must come," he thinks. "I am on top... even if only for hours. Just for a flick in time. But now life will be mine and mine alone."

The sirens wail and make thought painful. His head begins to throb.

"What will I be called upon to do? And when confronted, how will I decide?"

He looks up and stares at the picture which looms large from the opposite wall. A stern face with grey­blue eyes, high forehead, black hair parted on the right, brushed down toward the left eye. A sharp straight nose and above the thin-lipped mouth, that mustache.

"If one wishes to force the weak, the wavering, even the cowardly to do their duty, then there is but one way: The deserter must know that his desertion shall bring that from which he flees. In the front line one may die. As deserter, one must die.

"This is what He said .... so long ago in his glorious book he called: “Mein Kampf”

And always you could look to Him for guidance. You spoke what He spoke. You did as He did. You did as He ordered. Your life was His life.

"What comes now?" Hartmann thought, "When this is gone, what comes then? If He no longer is, am I?”

April 30, 10.15 AM

The sirens died reluctantly in one last long descending moan. Now the silence is almost painful. Zinkler can hear his own uneven footsteps. He can hear the wind. He can hear the shutters slam like pistol shots.

My God, what emptyness...what a forsaken thing a town can be when it is without its people. He looks around him. "Where the hell are those guys? God damned big shots..big God damned armoured cars..now where the hell are they? SS...it's just gotta stand for 'Stinking Shits'... Yeah that's what it stands for: Stinking Shits... They must have beat it ... the rotten cowards ...I can't fight alone..." He swings the Sten gun from his shoulder and holds it combat-like. His thumb opens and shuts the safety switch. Opens, shuts, opens..... then shuts it again...click clack, click, clack, click clack...

"They gotta be somewhere...They wouldn't have just left."

He rounds a corner, hopefully. But this narrow side street is as empty as the other one.

"Maybe they circled back and are now digging in down by the bridge." He stops and strains his ears but only hears the grating grinding sound of storefront signs on rusty hinges in the wind. "Sure, that's where they've gone. Down to the river...to the bridge maybe." Zinkler turns and quickly bobs down to the bridge. "I'll join them, By God, they can use me. It'll take every able bodied man."

He almost smiles a happy smile and forgets about his hipless limp.

April 30, 10.28 AM

Johannes Zinkler walks along Kalvarienweg, quickly past the Stations of the Cross and just where Kalvarien­weg intersects the square, there is the bridge. He sees the barricades, but, approaching from the side, he cannot read the warning sign. Only when he is directly in front of it he stops and stoops and reads;

Caution - Blasting Operation - Do not Proceed.

April 30, 10.30 AM.

The earth moves softly .... then with a violent jerk.

In agony the girders lift and lift and rise and hurl huge granite blocks like pebbles from a sling-shot. The air is hot and tears and claws and girders made of steel and granite blocks are blown sky-high.

The cloud is black at first and then turns red around the edges and then turns crimson through and through. The heat melts steel, and thunder then reverberates without an end and this great wave of sound and heat and tearing, pushing air, rushes outward and upward. Windows shatter like rifle fire and doors come off their hinges with a boom like anti-tank artillery.

The waters of the river seem to boil, and, being pushed aside, they bare the base on which the pillars stood, but then rush in again and close the gap. The girders begin to fall and come to rest and what was once a bridge is now a battered, torn, bent, twisted mass of steel with gaps through which the waters hiss. Now only smoke and dust is left and settles slowly and is borne away by the wind and by the rushing water.

All of this Zinkler sees no more.

The blast rocked Hartmann’s office and caused the plaster to fall from the ceiling. It made the buildings tremble and the people shake with fear. The silence which descended afterward had an uncanny mood of finality. Hartmann jumped from his chair and with his hands he brushed the plaster dust from his shoulders. He left his cap lying on his desk and bounded down the stairs and out into the open. He ran, his black boots pounding on the pavement, down to the bridge.

"Get back inside!" He shouted at some brave and curious women who had come from their cellars and cautiously opened their doors to peer out.

When he arrived at the river he saw what had been the bridge. The wind had swept the cloud of dust down­stream. The air was clear and brisk. And from the far shore of the river, the river which hissed around the newly found obstruction and made whirlpools around each beam of steel which seemed to grow out from its bed, and seemed to reach up in angry twists of senseless devastation, which seemed to grow out from the rushing water like water weeds gone petrified....

And from the far shore of this river, Hartmann, standing alone, could hear the droning and the humming of the long unbroken chain of vehicles of war moving toward the bridge which was no more.

Hartmann turned and quickly walked back up the square. He knew that soon he would be called upon to act.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The car came cautiously through the narrow gateway into the square. The driver sat hunched over the wheel while his companion crouched low behind the light machine gun. They peered along the square, and when they saw Hartmann's lonely figure rushing toward them, the driver shot the car ahead and then came to a screeching halt,

"Down by the bridge....you can hear them coming."

Hartmann was excited.

"Blew the baby just in time," the driver said.

The gunner said nothing.

"What's going to happen now?" Hartmann looked at them both and then down to the river.

"That should hold them for a while," the driver said, not answering the question.

When no-one spoke he climbed from his car and stretched.

"At least long enough until our re-enforcements come. That's as far as they'll go."

He pointed to the remnants of the bridge:

"That should be the last one we'll have to blow. This is where we stand."

He was silent for a while and let his glance roam up and down the square ... along the roof lines, down a side street. Whatever he found, it must have pleased him. He smiled. The gunner still said nothing. He fondled the belt of ammunition which was clipped into the gun.

"Let's go and check," the driver said.

The gunner climbed off the back of the car and the three men walked slowly down to the river. They moved cautiously, staying out of sight of the far shore. Down by the water's edge the driver stopped and stared upon the ground in front of him.

"Who the hell is he?" he asked and poked the lifeless body of Johannes Zinkler with the toe of his black boot. Hartmann and the gunner came closer.

"It's Zinkler." Hartmann felt his throat close and open. "He was my man ...Christ...What a way to go." He averted his eyes. The sight of Zinkler's smashed body stayed with him. The boulder which had flattened the man's chest lay nearby .... and blood...

Hartmann walked away not caring if he could be seen from the far shore. The gunner bent down and picked up the Sten gun which had been torn from Zinkler's shoulder. It was damaged beyond repair. He dropped it and the two men followed Hartmann back to their car.

The driver and the gunner took to their seat again and Hartmann stood beside the open car. His right foot on the running board, he leaned against the door. The three men looked toward the river. The driver stretched in his seat and reached into his trouser pocket. He withdrew a crumpled package of cigarettes and carefully removed one of them and stuck it between his lips. He held the package for a moment and then tilted it toward Hartmann, who took the offered cigarette and searched his pockets for a box of matches. Without looking back the driver extended his hand back over his shoulder and the gunner helped himself. Hartmann had found his matches and using his open coat as a screen against the wind he lit his own cigarette. The driver, leaning from the car, soon took deep drags. Hartmann flipped his box of matches to the gunner who struck a match and expertly held it in the hollow of his cupped hands. The three men smoked in silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some women ventured from their cellars.

They stood at a respectful distance. When Hartmann did not order them back down they came closer and stood around the car.

"What's going on? Why was the bridge destroyed?" The woman spoke with deference, but left no doubt that she wanted these questions answered. She looked at the driver, glared at the gunner and then fastened her eyes upon Inspektor Hartmann.

"What's happening? Herr Inspektor, tell us. I think we have a right to know."

Hartmann turned his head from her and looked at the driver. The men in the car offered no help at all. They sat, one behind the other, blowing smoke out through their noses and looking far off - down to the river and beyond. Hartmann looked back at the woman who had not averted her eyes, was still looking at him, still asking that question.

“The enemy is over there..." Hartmann lamely pointed toward the river. "There might be fighting here..." His voice, trailing off, shook a little and he cleared his throat.

He looked to the river and silently hoped for some help. Some confirmation or denial. But he was alone. Finally he shrugged his shoulders;

"I don't know what’s going to happen ...I just don't know."

He had turned to the women who had gathered in greater numbers now.

"We'll have to wait and see."

A babble of voices erupted and Hartmann silenced it with an upraised hand. He felt his authority coming back. His voice was firm: "Go back down into your cellars. You'll be safest there. There may be shooting up here."

Before the women could react, the driver spoke to them:

"There will be more than just a little shooting up here. There'll be a god damn fight. A battle...." He flicked the ashes off his cigarette.

"You'll be better off to leave the town and move out to the country."

He took a deep drag and blew the smoke out between clenched teeth. He looked toward the river again. The women moved off quietly and returned to their cellars. Hartmann turned to the driver: "Where are our troops? Who’s going to do the fighting? We three? Against them?"

For some minutes now the grey vehicles, the tanks, Red Cross vans interspersed, were visible on a short stretch of the highway as it came close to the river­bank and swung away again behind a low roll in the land. Their roaring motors and grating chains could be heard clearly. It was a brisk and bright day, and sound travelled far across the water.

"No, not just we three," said the gunner, "by tomorrow there'll be many more."

"I never heard him talk before," Hartmann thought. The gunner had a high-pitched voice and Hartmann wondered if a landmine or shrapnel had blown off his testicles. He studied the gunner's face carefully.

"First damn Eunuch I've ever seen," he thought.

The driver smiled and flicked the tortured butt into the street.

"No, not we three alone," he said. "They are gathering now somewhere back there."

He made a vague motion with his hand. "'There’s heavy artillery and three regiments or more. It'll be one hell of a fight."

Hartmann looked down on the ground and seemed to study the tips of his black boots:

"Do we stand a chance?" he asked.

"The best chance we stand is that they'll lay off us, that they'll stand still and let us fight the Russians."

This was a new idea to Hartmann and he looked puzzled. "Lay off us.... and let us fight the Russians? Why the hell would they do that?"

"They will if they know what's good for them."

"And if they won’t"

"If they won't we'll fight right here." The driver made a sweeping motion with his hand which encompassed all the town.

On the far shore of the river, directly opposite the square, where the bridge used to end and where houses stand in two long rows, a tank moved into sight.

In the distance it looked small, more like a toy, and yet its very presence held a menace.

The gulls which had not been killed by the explosion had fled downstream. A few, though, had returned and their hoarse cries seemed to punctuate the waiting silence. Down by the river, the wind had turned and now streaked upstream and heaped the water into piles against the current, so that little white caps tumbled and spray was blown from the top like foam, thirsty, from a stein of beer.

In the bush land, stretching along the riverbanks, life played on innocently and invisibly. The wind gently, firmly, stroked the willows back from the shore as if he needed more elbow room and now and then a seagull cried .... caw:

The town was frozen into a morbid silence and on the far side, where the bridge once ended, stood a tank. Inanimate. The steel arm on its turret, ending in a fist, pointed across the waves, the wind, the gulls, their cries, the silence.

The impact of the single shot was felt and heard before the sound waves from the muzzle reached the town.

The women in their cellars shrank and bowed their heads and waited silently and hugged their children close, offering their bodies for protection.

They waited for the holocaust which never came.

The gunner and the driver flung themselves off their car and sought refuge, lying flat on the coarse grained asphalt of the square. Bewildered, Hartmann ran to the closest doorway and hid in the recess. When no other explosions followed, the driver and the gunner scrambled up and ran, bent over low, and followed Hartmann through the open door into the dark and musky hallway. Bicycles were propped against the wall and further narrowed an already narrow corridor.

The gunner struck his shin against a pedal jutting out and cursed in his high falsetto voice.

"It's a question of time now, " the driver said.

He was trying to adjust his sight from the brightness of the square to the dull near-darkness of the hallway.

"Time for what?" Hartmann asked. He leaned against the wall and saw the silhouette of the two soldiers in front of him.

"They'll give us time to surrender."

“Us?”

"Of course, they have no idea how strong we are and how well we can defend this town."

"They'll send spotter planes," Hartmann said.

"Let them.,. behind the town they'll find the woods. How the hell will they know how many regiments are hidden there?"

"And then what?"

"Then we'll get an extension to the time for surrender."

"Yes ?”

"By that time it'll be tomorrow noon and we'll have regrouped."

When Hartmann did not further question him, the driver spoke with confidence:

"I told you there's three regiments with heavy artillery coming up. We'll fight or bargain for a stand-off.... a truce ... My bet is that we'll fight."

Hartmann said nothing. He groped his way back to the door and carefully he opened it and stepped out into brilliant sunshine. They all piled in the car and drove, slowly drove down to the river. They descended the steps, parallel to the old city walls, which ended at the river bank.

Now trucks were on the distant shore and little men busily unloading a pontoon.

The sun which had come out in brilliance glanced off the water and held the launching operation like a spot light. The breeze down by the water was still strong enough to wake the flag and stir it into a white excited flutter in the pontoon's bow.

"That's the negotiating team. They'll ask us to surrender," the driver said. "When they get here, I'll do the talking." He looked at Hartmann: “You stand by my side ... but don't you say a word."

The roar of the heavy marine engine cut through the silent day and the white flag stiffened with the speed. The gulls loudly protested this intrusion and spiralled high and circled lazily and scooped back down in graceful curves and skimmed the waves.

The clock high in the steeple inched to twelve noon and bells began to strike. Four chimes and then twelve booming strokes in slow, deliberate succession.

The square-bowed iron boat slipped across the river and when it reached the flat and rocky shore, some one cut the noisy engine. Three soldiers with unfamiliar insignias jumped out and strained on lines to hold the boat against the heavy current. They managed to secure the lines around three boulders and the first Americans in battledress set foot on Austrian soil. As Hartmann and the driver watched, the fourth man of the group climbed ashore. Just for a second he stood still and looked up to the town. He saw the medieval walls, scarred and moss bedecked and a short smile played on his lips.

The driver stepped forward and introduced himself: He was an Obersturmfuehrer. The American said that he was a Lieutenant-Colonel and that he thought any further resistance on the part of the Wehrmacht had little value and less sense. Far better that whatever troops there might be should surrender, give themselves up as Prisoners of War, and thus avoid a great deal of destruction and loss of life.

Hartmann stood transfixed. For seconds the gulls, still circling overhead and swooping, seemed to blot out the sky. The hissing sound of the river as it tore on rocks and the slapping of the choppy waves against the pontoon's hull seemed to swell and fill all the space around him. The sun's reflected rays upon the water seemed to give the countryside an angry glare. He vaguely heard the conversation between the two soldiers and found it remarkable that the strange one spoke German grammatically perfect but with a thick tongue which made it sound as if he spoke an alien language which Hartmann surprisingly could understand.

"Where now do I stand?" he thought. "I know where my loyalties should be..." The picture of the wall poster flashed through his mind:

'Wir verteidigen die Ostmark bis zum letzten Blutstropfen.' Large black boldface letters spelled it out on blood red paper:

'We shall defend Austria to the last drop of our blood.' Whose blood? he thought. He remembered the old man by the bridge who spat upon the ground and asked that question. He heard the American: ".....and artillery is well positioned and planes are ready to bomb any area of resistance..." It was said without menace. Stated flatly...and it had the ring of truth. Hartmann blinked. He believed and saw the devastation. He smelled the bodies ... hundreds ... maybe thousands... trapped in their cellars .... smashed by falling ceilings, toppling walls... he remembered Zinkler...he turned his head and looked but could not see the crushed body which lay only yards upstream between the boulders... he saw the women and the children feebly clawing against the tons of bricks and saw them suffocate in dust.

The roar of the pontoon's engine penetrated and Hartmann realized that the Americans had left.

"We've got till four o'clock to fly the white flag from the steeple .... that's not enough ... we need more time." The driver pinched his lower lip between thumb and fingers of his right hand.

"We can't fight until tomorrow...dammit. I hope my bluff worked. I hope this guy believed me. If they knew that we three are the only ones..." He laughed out loud. A roaring raucous laugh. The gunner giggled in falsetto.

"But tomorrow...Christ...it’ll be a different story. There'll be a regiment for each of us. Three regiments... with everything... the works ...I gotta stall for time... they’ll come back at four o^’clock...Jesus Christ...I hope it'll work...we'll beat the hell out of them."

They climbed into their car and the gunner stroked his machine gun. The car leaped forward and sped up the square. The gunner nearly lost his balance and grabbed the tripod for support. Hartmann could hear the driver's booming laugh over the howling engine.

When they reached the Kirchengasse the car almost spun around, righted itself and shot through the narrow street which leads to the church. Hartmann thought he still could hear the laughter but he could not be sure.

"Speed," Hartmann thought, "speed is what we need. Can't afford to waste a minute."

His plan was vague and yet he knew almost instinctively what he would do. The shoe store Rentz was just around the corner. He pushed through the door and without a moment's hesitation he found the staircase to the cellar. Dim red bulbs were spaced along the cellar steps. Hartmann hurried down. He knew that this was a good thing he was about to do.

Yes, a good thing. There were some dangers, to be sure, but maybe that's what makes it a good thing.

He arrived at the bottom of the long flight of steps. There was another door and he pushed against it. The door stayed closed. He raised his fist and pounded loudly. He heard a chair being pushed backward and then the door slid open. Silently on well oiled runners. Inside the light was bright and Hartmann blinked.

Renate Rentz stood in the doorway and behind her Hartmann could see four women sitting around a table. They looked at him. In the far corner three children played. They too had fallen silent and stared at Hartmann out of large and worried eyes.

"Please," Hartmann said. He cupped his hand around her elbow and gently urged her up the stairs. "Please," he said again, "we don't have much time."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The marble bench felt cool even through the heavy material of his black trousers. He dragged deeply on his cigarette, leaned far back and blew smoke skyward. He sat sideways, with his left shoulder against the stone wall of the steeple, his left leg drawn up close upon the bench, his hand slapping the black leather of his boot un-rhythmically.

"Some pigeon gonna shit on you," the gunner said. "It wouldn't dare," the driver said and looked up just to make sure.

"We've been looking for you all over." Hartmann rounded the corner and behind him, resolutely, Renate Rentz carrying a large basket. The gunner, who'd been sitting on the running boards stood up at the sound of Hartmann's voice and stretched. The driver moved from his sideways position but remained seated on the bench.

"What's the problem?" he asked, peering past Hartmann at the woman and her basket.

"No problem." Hartmann sounded cheerful. "No problem at all. I just thought a little home cooking would do you good now." He motioned to Renate Rentz who stepped forward, holding the basket with both hands in front of her.

"That's one hell of a great idea." The driver swung his leg over the bench into the narrow space between the steeple's wall and the marble seat and sat straddling. The gunner stepped forward and took the basket from the woman. He placed it in the middle of the bench and assumed the same position, facing the driver.

Hartmann moved between the car and the two soldiers who were about to investigate the contents of the basket. Renate stood well back, behind the car, but could not leave although Hartmann's instructions had been most specific.

"There's enough for the three of us," the driver beckoned Hartmann with a motion of his head, and as he looked, he saw the heavy Luger in Hartmann's Hand.

"Don't move ... don't move a muscle ... I'll kill you if I have to."

Hartmann's voice was steady.

The driver sat stock still. The gunner remained frozen, leaning forward over the basket, his head tilted slightly toward Hartmann, who said quietly:

"There'll not be any fighting for this town..."

The two men on the bench sat rigidly and neither spoke.

"Now get up slowly ... very slowly ... don't move too fast." Hartmann spoke calmly. "Herr Obersturmfuehrer, if you reach for your holster you are dead."

Hartmann's eyes were clear. The driver and the gunner stood up slowly, their hands raised high above their heads.

"Now turn around ...slowly...move to the right ... both of you...a little more..."

The two men stood facing the wall and stepped sideways. Hartmann moved close and firmly pressed his gun into the driver's back.

"Don't move," he said once more, and with his left hand he lifted the buttoned flap of the holster on the driver's belt, withdrew the heavy gun and stepped back again.

"Now slip your hand behind the lightning rod."

The lightning rod which started high above the cross atop the steeple was fastened to the stone with iron brackets, from the top right down and to the ground.

The rod itself consisted of an iron band, an inch in width, and was kept at a steady distance of four inches from the steeple.

The driver had to move in close to the wall to follow this command. As they stood, their fingers touched and handcuffs clicked around their wrists.

Hartmann blew a gust of breath through his pursed lips and then he inhaled deeply.

"You'll be shot for this ... you know that, don't you.." the driver said quietly.

"Maybe ... but not just yet." Hartmann reached for the basket on the bench and pulled out a neatly folded white bed sheet.

"You goddamn traitor..." the gunner's voice came in a high-pitched squeal of frustration.

"Kiss my ass,." Hartmann said without a glance at the two men, handcuffed to the lightning rod.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The iron door leading to the steeple is open and inside the air is musty, the light is dim and the silence absolute. The stone steps turn in a tight spiral, each step wide on the outside and narrowing almost to a point at the hub. A thick rope swoops from ring to iron ring embedded in the stone. Shafts of light fan through a narrow-shuttered window and myriads of particles of dust ride upward, become visible for an instant and rise, back into the greyness - followed by new hordes of dust, which, caught in the narrow light, spring to life, exist for that fraction of an instant, dance lightly, silently, in exuberance and then die down when the dimness embraces them again, rising, hopefully, to a new life at the next window higher up in the steeple, repeating this dance seemingly without an end.

Hartmann’s foot feels for the first stone step. His hand then finds the rope. The white sheet is pressed tightly under his right arm. His eyes strain to adapt to the dimness. Step by narrow step he ascends, turning, turning with the spiral ... now there is more light... faster, round and round ... upwards toward the onion-­shaped top three hundred feet above.

The first landing. Heavy wooden beams, uneven. Dust lies in thick curls. In one corner, leaning one against the other, wooden statues. Broken .... This one raises heavenward a stump severed just below the elbow, left arm missing from the shoulder .... that one in dusty blue, the folds of the dress chipped and full of a thousand wormholes, tell of her womanhood.... a headless body gives no other clue. More wooden figures.... parts of them...abandoned...all abandoned ... stacked in a corner and forgotten.

Light penetrates through four shuttered windows, one in each side of the steeple. Broad-ledged, narrow, curving to a point on top ... windows just above the roof line of the town.

"Can you see us? I am the headless one."

"Yes I can see you.... all of you... I can see better now than ever I could see before."

"This may not serve you well, though ... it may not be enough. What price a soul?"

"What price? I have no urge to buy."

"Then why the flutter of the wings of bats? Blind through the daylight hours? What stimulus makes the black bat twitch its wings while hanging upside down deep in the cavern of your soul?"

His stump gesticulates in fury. "Thought?"

"No, fear...the fear which comes in dreams...not thought." "No, it is not fear alone...maybe some of it ... but there is more than that."

"Describe it!"

"I lack the power to describe it ... but it is more than fear. It is a recognition."

"Would it be that ... then we too would be restored to our glory ... our meaning ... We have waited up here... so long...for you. She had given up all hope. But I kept telling her: He’ll come...he’ll come ... the reason though...tell me."

"I don't know the reasons..."

"You must ... you must...or despair alone will be the fruit."

"I only know it is not fear alone. I chanced my life. It still is in the balance."

"Your life....your life; ...your life means nothing... really, now ... you should know this much. A small bonus, perhaps, for a little while. But he who has usurped the role of God, knowingly, deliberately, cannot survive...unless... "

"Unless?"

"Unless he finds his soul again...and even if he does, he may survive in many different and complicated forms."

"For instance?"

"Tortured and restless, for instance..."

"You're threatening me...you hold no hope, know no re­demption...you are as vindictive and unforgiving as they were ... you know nothing...nothing...nothing!"

"I know Justice..."

"You know nothing...absolutely nothing ... Nothing..."

Hartmann never breaks his stride. He rushes across the wooden floor, passes the ancient statues which lean one against the other, dilapidated, broken, mute. The wooden steps leading up to the second landing crack loudly under his heavy, pounding boots.

"Where to?"

"Up, - for the first time - up:"

"Down is the grave ... and the snow has fallen and covered it and the winds howled over it and the nights and the days have come and gone and the hawks watched over it and the moon brushed gentle shadows and the sun shone on it and the breezes rocked the weeds and the willows and the snows melted, water penetrating, and the river nearby hissed lullabies, and silence engulfed it, and sounds, sounds, sounds beyond description... and hands, hands dug in it and the hands have gone to sleep....and the world rushes by, and still it is the centre of the Universe.

Down is the grave.... and the flowers grow on it ... white snowbells, yellow heaven's keys, blue sea stars...winter covered it with a comforter of purest white and spring is here

and summer shall come...how many summers? ... how many winters?"

"Where to?"

"Up...still up...for the first time ..up'."

Each step, unaccustomed to the footsteps, cracks loudly. Hartmann hurries on. He loses count of all the landings. He flees upwards. Straight upwards and then around again. A new flight of wooden stairs...one broken step... the last one in this row...he stumbles, falls and crashes heavily.

Dust swirls up...around him ...myriads of particles of dust...freed from the long imprisonment...swirling up ... way up...then slowly they glide back down and come to rest once more. Hartmann on his hands and knees now. For a moment motionless...Then he shakes his head slowly..slowly...

Slowly he rises to his feet and looks up. Stairs, ladders seem to criss-cross with heavy beams ... coarse wooden beams ... criss-crossing and moving - kaleidoscopic moving - round and round - now he is part of a giant Ferris Wheel which turns... lights flicker ... coloured lights...the sounds of a Calliope...lights changing now ... changing to the white snowbells, the yellow heaven's keys, the blue sea stars... flowers on the grave...

The grave is down ... up, up there is peace and freedom. But first through the labyrinth of wooden beams, ladders, struts, lights, sounds of the Calliope, laughter of children, the Carney barker:

"Hey diddle diddle, goes round and round and costs so little...

...all aboard the Ferris Wheel, ten Groschen only, it's a deal..."

Laughter ringing, delighted squeals, sounds of the Calliope...waltzes, polkas, lights ...

all colours...The Ferris Wheel is turning faster, faster ... the spokes blur ... the speed is dizzying. Hartmann cradles his head in the crook of his elbow and leans heavily against an upright beam.

Sweat stands in a thousand tiny pearls upon his brow and is soaked into the cloth of his sleeve. When he looks up again he sees the beams, arranged with architectural logic and he ascends the ladder up to the bell room.

The bell room is light and breezy. Almost cold. It offers a view in all directions. Southward the bush ­land stretches along the river as far as the eye can reach and to the west the river flows quietly into view. The land is peaceful and silent. The ruins of the bridge lie as a scar upon the water and Hartmann looks away and for a moment he closes his eyes. He still sees the wide expanse of bush land, reaching up the river. This is where he grew up. On these sandbanks he played as a child. The summers were good. His father took him to the sandbanks and watched him build castles with moats and bridges. Often he'd invite his father, silently, with a glance, to help him in his plans to build. To build his greatest castle. With walls and bulwarks, a moat with drawbridges and then another wall. The inner castle should be strong with battlements and parapets and four solid towers, one on each corner, with flags and banners waving in the wind. He knew that with his father's help he could build it just that way. His lone efforts always ended in a cone-shaped mound of sand, surrounded by a water filled ditch. A piece of cardboard from an empty cigarette box, fastened to a twig and stuck atop this sand pile, always was a disappointing banner. His father would smile and nod his head and then he'd say "Oooo" when the child levelled the castle with one sweep of his arm and trampled it into oblivion, stamped on it, flattened it, until there was not one vestige left of its former grandeur.

Hartmann's memory of his father was confined to his appearance. Aside from the regretful "Oooo" he could not remember his voice, nor could he recall if his father ever spoke to him. His father was a stately, calm, secure, distant, silent man. ...Sometimes clean-shaven, sometimes with a full black beard.. His grey eyes seemed to take in everything but acknowledged nothing.

"Just once you should have helped me build a castle," Hartmann thought, "just once - shown me how it's done."

Down by the river, in the bush land of its shores, he grew into a boy.

Those were the days.

Hartmann opens his eyes and looks toward the east. The country is so quiet, that the sudden hum of the light aircraft cuts the stillness like a knife.

As the awareness of this alien intruder with the strange marking on his wings and fuselage penetrates, he remembers why he's here.

He feels for the white sheet which he still carries pressed tightly under his arm and reaches for the ladder. He climbs from rung to rung and, reaching the top, he ducks his head and presses his back against the trap-door. It opens with a groan. Hartmann pushes the bed sheet through the narrow opening and then, both hands free, he grips the rim of the landing above with his right hand and with his left he pushes the trap-door until it stands straight up.

One more slight push and it falls over with a crash. He notices the dust free floor and pulls himself up into the clock chamber.

Wheels and slowly turning gears and sounds of the great timepiece are all around him now. Light enters through four round openings, one in each wall and shutter less. Careful now ... over to the west wall and bend down low. The opening is three feet in diameter. For an instant panic rises in his throat. He knows he must find a way to tie the sheet securely, so it may unfold outside and wave and flutter in the wind and yet stay fast, not be torn loose. It must stay there securely and forever. The wall around the opening is smooth. He feels cold sweat trickle from his armpits and run down his sides. "Think!" he shouts out loud. He looks around the room, near desperation. Then he sees lying against the east wall, an old weather-beaten iron rod, six feet in length and forged into a heart-shaped tip. An old and useless minute hand, replaced so many years ago and left up here. Useless and forgotten, it becomes the most important piece of metal in the world. He crouches low and darts across this chamber near the clouds. Around him and above the gearwheels click and turn on axels inch by inch. Back to the west wall on hands and knees, he drags the giant minute-hand behind him along the floor. Over by the west wall there is room to stand.

He firmly holds the iron rod upright, one end resting on the floor, and the heart pointing to the sky.

The sheet is large and cumbersome. He forces one corner of the cloth over the point and hears the fibres tear. Halfway across the sheet he jams the pointed rod through the material again and then again down at the other end. The minute-hand now lies flat on the ground and Hartmann stuffs the white billowing sheet through the round opening.

More and more...all of it... until the iron rod jams against the wall on either side.

The spotter plane has left the cloudless sky. The river lies across the land, a silver-greyish band. The gulls, mere dots, dive in and out the sunlight. The bush land is a mat of green. And as the wind pulls on the sheet and coaxes it in waves from side to side and gives it life and purpose, it blots the view to the lifeless ruins of the bridge.

For a long time Hartmann leans against the wall and stares out the round window, past his flag, and over the hills beyond the river and his face is calm, relaxed and a smile is in his eyes.

He turns back to the trap-door and swiftly climbs down the ladder to the bell room.

There his glance goes out over the bush land and the smile melts from his eyes.

He knows down there is the grave, and its picture will not leave him. He fights the thought out of his mind and concentrates on the treacherous steps leading down the steeple.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had seemed such an eternity.

But as soon as she had seen the white flag appearing through the opening below the tower's clock, Renate Rentz had left hurriedly to spread the word of Inspector Hartmann's valour through the town. Her cheeks were flushed and she panted heavily as she yelled the news to unbelieving women. But when they left their cellars and craned their necks and saw the white flag billow in the wind, they rushed away, excitedly informed their neighbours, and suddenly, from linen closets of a thousand homes, white sheets were pulled in haste and fastened to the window sills.

Even the few, who felt that all was lost, vaguely recognized the feeling of release.

The soul-deep longing of a town had surfaced and fluttered in the breeze.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Landing after landing in swift succession, round and round, until at last he reached the iron door and stepped into the day again. The light was painful. He stopped for a moment and squeezed his eyes shut tight. He slowly opened them again and bowed his head. When he raised his head again he saw the driver and the gunner watching him intently. Hartmann did not want to speak to them, and yet he said:

"It's done!"

"Nothing is done," the driver said, "nothing at all. No change...no change at all ... except maybe, that you are on the wrong side now."

"You'll rue this god dam day," the gunner squealed, "you'll rue it . . .open these god dam handcuffs! Now!"

Hartmann and the driver ignored him.

The driver spoke quietly: "You're on the wrong side now. You made your switch too soon...There'll still be fighting here."

"Maybe so," Hartmann said, "but I had to make my choice."

"Your timing is off, though," the driver said.

Hartmann looked at him: "You wouldn't understand. It's got nothing to do with timing .... nothing at all."

He walked to the car and looked at the machine gun mounted on its back. He reached inside and felt for the ignition key. When his hand had found it, he climbed into the driver's seat, turned the key, pulled the starter knob, pushed the stick shift into low and let the clutch jump out while jamming the gas pedal to the floor. The rear wheels spun and threw up gravel and grabbed the road and made the car lurch forward with a roar. He stopped by the river bank. As he climbed from the driver's seat, he slipped the shift into neutral and the car began to roll.

Hartmann had turned away even before the barrel of the gun sank out of sight. He walked to the ruins of the bridge and leaned against a twisted girder and watched in silence the preparations of an alien army to cross the river and claim his town.

When the brilliant sun reflecting from the wavelets made his eyes grow tired, he turned his head and saw the town untouched, and high above, the steeple and his flag.

And then he saw the people. Silent in their numbers, they stood well back. A solid wall of women, children silently staring, clutching their mothers' hands, they watched him and in their eyes he saw his land. They were his people. This was his land. Then he turned his head again and saw the pontoon bridge take shape and grow. He closed his eyes and turned toward the sun and felt the warmth. And the warmth was good upon his face.

"How many of them would have died?" he thought. "Ten? a hundred? a thousand? ...how many buildings would have crumbled? most of them? maybe none .... but would they have risked a crossing without artillery and planes?"

He remembered the American Lieutenant Colonel: “....and artillery is well positioned and planes are ready to bomb..."

He knew they would not have risked their soldiers' lives.

They would have bombed and bombed and bombed.

He could not remember where he'd heard the question which played in his mind:

"What price a soul?"

His thoughts glanced up-stream to the bush land where he knew the grave and he recognized his poverty. Never would he know the price...never would he be rich enough to pay.

And it happened that when the first alien soldiers, preceding the divisions which would later cross the pontoon bridge, had landed and came up beside him, from far off the thought came to his mind:

The foxes have their lairs…

and the birds of the air have their nests,

but nevermore shall I find a place to lay my head.

fin