| The captain came in through the door, followed by a thin trail of snow, pale and fragile as the hand of a ghost. He had just finished his rounds and a wet band of snow crossed his shoulders and lay in the folds of his army jacket. His helmet carried a patch of snow, dripping into his eyes and down his face. He took the helmet off and slung it beneath his arm. He moved slowly over to the long truss table in the middle of the cabin where everyone was playing cards. The snow slid away and melted on the floor. He picked up the pack of smuggled American cigarettes lying on the table and dumped one out onto the table. He couldn�t pick it up with his gloves on, so he snapped his them off and grabbed at it with swollen pink hands. We never went into battles anymore. At the beginning there had been those exultant months where German victories shook the whole world and I was proud to have taken part in them- at least as they were portrayed in the newspapers. The actual part I played in those battles no one knows, least of all myself. Once the smoke had curled away from the enemy's outposts and cities, the objectives had either been achieved or not, and a reconstruction of the battle could be undertaken, pieced together from the partial reports of the commanders. The soldier's accounts mostly tended to contradict the official accounts- there were fewer Polish casualties than anticipated, or some station had blown themselves to pieces with a misfired mortar, and so on. In the confusion and isolation of battle, these things were difficult to put into places that fit with the larger picture of what was supposed to be happening. We couldn�t see others, shouting would give our positions away to the enemy, so mostly we had our own unique perspectives. After the battle, the difficulty in reconciliation didn�t trouble most of the others much. For my part, I was secretly fearful that my own impotence would be discovered: that I had failed to see the whole brilliant plan spread before me as if on a tactical map. Worse, I was concerned that this private war I fought, of smoke and confusion, so vastly different than the glorious printed reports of the same battle, represented a kind of treachery, that of maintaining my personal vision instead of the view of the homeland. I felt compelled to doubt my memories, or attribute them to cowardice or even pass them off as dreams or the stories of comrades enacted in my fantasies. Once occupied territory extended past the front, camps and bases were set up and I was stationed in one. We were essentially out of danger, however because we were an example to others, we maintained a militarism and discipline not seen on the front. I was comfortable in this, since it removed the discrepancy between what I saw and what was officially true. The orders, though brutal, were to be carried out, and therefore I was allowed to expunge my own shame in another man's blood. I became, once again, part of the Fatherland; a tool in its destiny. Though it is difficult to explain, during this period I often rejoiced in the most cruel and brutal of these orders: the more personal disgust I felt when confronted with them, the happier I was. Carrying out an act of violence that caused such disgust in my heart and nausea in my stomach allowed me to deny in the strongest terms that personal soul that had earlier caused me such shame. A squat black iron stove heated the cabin. It was roaring in the far corner of the building, away from the door. The stove also provided the only light in the cabin. It was wintertime and the darkness came early here, deep in the Polish forests. The fire made the cabin feel close, and it seemed to transform the huge camp into a quiet little Bavarian hunting lodge, such as we might have attended in other times. The captain moved over to this wood burning stove and opened the grate. He raked a coal over to the mouth with a log and touched his cigarette to the coal. He closed the grate and turned around puffing, an elongated uneven glow coming from the lit end of the cigarette. It was the last days of the war and everybody knew that the Russians were coming from the east and the Brits and Americans were taking France back for the allies. We were going to be defeated if we weren't already. Even the daily and nightly rounds had become a thing for speculation. He sauntered over to the table where only the major was looking at his cards. "Anything to report?" the major asked. Our eyes bugged out of the sockets with expectation. "Nein." He said. "Hans asked for another blanket." Alternating waves of disappointment and relief washed over me. I looked at one of the sergeants, who stuck out a black tongue. He had eaten a whole tin of bootblack two days prior to avoid going on a supply run. When discipline was better, he probably wouldn�t have been sitting there still. Defeat had broken the rules that were supposed to bring us certain victory. If we were weak for not punishing the insubordinate, was it not because we watched the strength of our resolve shattered. �Do we have any extra blankets in supplies?� the major asked the corporal, who shook his head. The major walked over to the double row of bunks that ran alongside the long table. He pulled his blanket off his and handed it to the corporal. �Take this to the sentry box,� he said. Then he sat down again and picked up the cards he was holding. �How�s the weather out there?� the corporal asked from the door. The captain picked up the corporal�s abandoned cards and played a hand. �Shitty,� he said. �There must be eight inches of snow since nightfall. You�d better wear a hat.� The door slammed open. We turned, expecting the corporal. Instead, standing in the doorway was a young soldier. He was wearing an infantry uniform and winter coat, but they were torn everywhere. He was holding a pistol. The major stood up quickly. �Put that gun down right now!� he barked. �I can�t,� the soldier said, and held up his hand. The fingers were blackened and curled around the gun, which was frozen to his skin. He shook his hand but the gun remained fixed to it. It was the worst frostbite I had ever seen. The major walked over to the man and led him back to the table. We cleared a bench for him and he threw his right arm up beside the lamp so we could take a closer look. The pistol was a Russian model. The major pried back the three blackened fingers; the dead skin peeled off in some places and showed graying flesh beneath, with blue and black intersecting veins running through it. One of the fingernails flaked off. He got the gun out of the hand and set it on the table. Then, turning back to the soldier, the major asked him where he had gotten the gun. "I was stationed with a very small outfit in a hamlet about fifty miles east of here. Russians had come that far already and overrun my base. There was about two days of shelling, and they hit all three of our tanks with their rocket launchers. After the shelling, there were very few of us left alive and we scattered. We had no commanders, no radio contacts anymore, nothing. Myself and two others fled into the woods with very limited ammunition. We killed one Russian sentry and took his equipment, including this pistol. Then we met some more Russians on the road. There was about fifty of them, with a truck that was stuck in the snow, and they were trying to push it out. I fired every round in my rifle. They got one of my comrades. The other one and I shot our way out, running like rabbits till we couldn�t hear their shots anymore. I was afraid of Russians hiding behind every tree; I held this pistol cocked and ready for three straight days. I lost both my comrades: one to the firefight and one to hypothermia. I managed to stay hidden, found my way here. I met the guard at the east gate and he pointed to the officer�s cabin after he checked my papers." The young soldier asked if he could have a cigarette. The major tipped one from the Polish pack, and lit it from his own. He placed it carefully into the soldiers� good hand, between his pink fingers. Then he turned to examine his frostbitten fingers again. �The skin is dead, rotten. They are infected, and the infection will spread quickly. They will have to be amputated,� he said. The solder nodded as if he had expected that prognosis all along. "Get the hatchet, Major," the Captain said. "Don't you have a medic?" the soldier asked, a sudden look of panic crossing his face. "In the field we do everything summarily; executions, amputations. Besides, our chief surgeon was killed coming back from his leave. They'd just do the same thing down there as we are about to do." By this time, the corporal had returned. We cinched the soldier�s arm to the tabletop with our belts, and tied him to the bench with some webbing. He curled his pinky and his thumb up under his hand to keep them out of the way, and the major went to grab a hatchet. He returned with three bottles of French brandy. We hadn't seen alcohol in weeks. When he came back the soldier was looking down at his fingers, trying to wiggle them. The corporal stoked the fire with a poker. He held it in the fire until it glowed; hot enough to cauterize the wounds. Then he stood behind the soldier so that he wouldn�t see its red point and be afraid. �How far are the Russians from here?� the major asked. �Not far,� he said, �They will be here in two or three days, at the most.� "Well, I'll have to wake op the commanding officer tonight still. We'll need to start knocking these walls down at first light." The heat became overpowering and I felt my gorge rise. I started for the door. I had my hand on the door handle, when I heard the hatchet come down. I didn�t mean to turn and look. Outside, the snow was drifting down from a black sky, slow and lazy. I ran around the corner of the building. I threw up, a steaming orange smear in the fresh snow. My stomach rose again, and again, until the roots of my guts quivered harmoniously like a chord played on a guitar. I stood up and wiped my mouth with my sleeves. There were screams coming from inside the building, which the night, like a beast grown accustomed to the taste of human blood, quickly swallowed up. |
| The Fingers |