The Boy in Black, page 36
The aftermath was the worst I had ever seen. Even the night of Kristallnacht couldn’t compare. I hoped I would never witness anything else like it. Buildings were destroyed, crushed into a pile of rubble. They had been reduced to nothing, from once majestic structures, towering to the heavens. Whole cities were ruined as fires still blazed even after the fighting had long since ceased. The embers still glowed like the pits of hell, waiting to engulf an unfortunate soul.
In a way, I think most of the soldiers were glad to see the end of it. It started out as duty – for the Fatherland and for our families – but it soon turned into a nightmare from which we could not get out. The endless killing – they tired of it. It seemed, for them, exciting in the beginning, almost an adventure. But reality soared through, and their smiles became tears; their words became whimpers. For me, at first, it seemed like an opportunity to get Mother and Edith freed. I thought if I made the right friends, perhaps a favour could be done, and they would be free in no time. But I was wrong… so very wrong. It was a nightmare we all shared.
Word had spread that the prisoners in the concentration camps had been liberated and freed, all thanks to the Russians. I stood in humble silence, knowing the people I fought against were the liberators of my people – I had my own humble idiocy that lingered. Each day I made my way to the particular camp that Mother and Edith were held at, hoping to see their faces through the barbed-wire fence that separated us from them, but among those that I did see, their faces weren’t there. The very men I had fought against – the ones I had convinced myself were the enemies, were the ones that saved us. For so long I had believed in my duty as a German and as a Jew, but was torn. I joined the men who killed people like me, and fought against men who saved people like me, in the end. I could make out the faces of the men I killed, as clear as if they were alive. I began to cry. And I knew the crying wouldn’t stop for a long time to come.
I like to convince myself that joining the army was to save Mother and Edith, but it did nothing for them. I joined because I was running – I was scared. If I could change who I was, I would be safe. But I didn’t like who I had to become. I became a monster that fought against the very thing Mother and Father raised me to be. I fought the evil for so long, stirring my mind and cracking my bones, that resistance became folly. I let it linger and grow, to become a disease that slowly infected my mind. Just one more. I can kill just one more, I would think. Just one more.
For the last months, I waited at the park that we went to as children, where Father would swing me around and Mother would read to us under the large willow trees. They were still recovering the bodies of the prisoners that didn’t make it and making a list of who was killed in the camps.
But each day, I got up and sat in the park in the hope that Mother and Edith would step onto the soft grass and see me. Even after months, the officials had said not to give up hope, for they may yet still be alive. Many of the prisoners fled immediately to unknown locations when they were liberated by the Russians, and they may have tried to contact their loved ones. I held onto the glimmer of hope, silently calling their names – I begged them to come back.
And after each day, I would sit in the silence. I would watch the trees flutter gently in the cool wind; I watched as the sun would hide behind the clouds and the light snow fell to the ground, but they never came.
On the evening of November, the fourth, I sat alone on the seat. The silence was crisp in the air as I stared into the sky. It was pink, as the sun slowly descended beyond the horizon, and the stars began to glimmer one by one. As I gazed toward the night sky, I imagined Father, Oskar, Felix and Earnst looking down on me, smiling as they were finally released from this life. And I imagined Alina and Nikolai looking to the same sky, whispering to me, as I did to them.
I continued to gaze, until the moment was broken by a light tap on my shoulder. My heart raced and my eyes widened, as I whipped my head around to look behind me. Almost immediately, my heart sank. There was no one. Had I imagined it, purely because it was on my mind every second of every day? Or was it the tap of Death, politely letting me know that the waiting was over; that he had had the last say?
Whatever it was, I closed my eyes and let the lone tear roll down my cheek. I finally let go.
Letter to Death
Death,
You linger in the shadows and move silently but are always there. You watch as men kill one another, as widows and mothers mourn, and as children yearn to see their fathers. Men will take one another’s lives, but it is you who takes the last.
I silently prayed for you to take me, to hold my hand and carry me away. I hoped that you would wrap your arm around me, protect me from what was real, and let me go to what was final – what I knew was the end.
Each day I saw men die. I saw them fall as they yelled. They fought for the Fatherland, they fought for their families, they fought for their friends, and yet they were all to go to the same place. The illusion was they were fighting for life, but what they were fighting for was to meet you.
The sweet kiss of death could be no sweeter, for if they knew in their minds they would not meet the illuminating figure that is preached, but you, they would be far more willing to cling on to life. They imagine the world after this to be of beauty, but it is no more than the eternal dark abyss – but I would rather this than the pain that the real world offers.
They say you are evil, that to wish for you is to commit a heinous crime, even a sin. But I find you fascinating; men yearn for you when there is nothing left, and they fear you when there is so much more. Yet, you are always the same. You have perplexed the generations, leaving them in wonder and, dare I say, awe.
I am not ready for you to claim me yet, and that time will not come soon. For now, I am content with your opposite, life, and I do not think I could let go of it for a moment – not now, anyway.
Be gentle, I ask.
Johan
Epilogue
March 23, 1957
I stood under the shade of a large oak tree, leaning against the rough bark, folding my arms and looking into the distance. I often stood in contemplative thought. It was always contemplative thought – the past, the present, but never the future. Everyone’s future involves Death, and I never wanted to brush past while knowing. The cool breeze accompanied the warm afternoon sun. I sighed heavily. Pulling back my long-sleeved shirt from my wrist, I looked at the time. Three o’clock.
•
The war finished in 1945 – I was twenty-three. It was hard to believe that it had ever happened to me; that I was part of the largest assault in human history. Too many times I thought I was going to die. Sometimes I was ready, but others I wasn’t. Once the Russians had defeated us, our cities lay in ruins and our men had lost everything. I finally let go of Earnst – the feeling had come that he was no longer here. But he, along with Oskar and Felix, Nikolai, and Alina, remain in my thoughts. Each time I walk among the trees, they’re with me in my mind. And the greatest thing is they have never changed in my thoughts, and that’s fine by me. People crossed my path and changed my life, and for that I will always be grateful. Life is a strange phenomenon – amongst the chaos, I found small pieces of hope that pushed me further and further.
Sergeant Shödler, the man who earned his name as the ‘Beast’ survived the war, much to my surprise. In 1946, he was put on trial for war crimes. I was there at his proceedings, purposefully watching as the judge passed down the sentence of a thirty-year prison term and hard labour. He was going to die in there and I didn’t care. As he walked down the courtroom, he looked over and saw me, his eyes widening. And, in a moment of sweet poetic justice, I clutched my Star of David pendant that was given to me by the Russian soldier and let him see it. He screamed in the hall, yelling, ‘I knew it! You Jewish pig!’ as the officers carried him away. And that was the first time in a long time that I had smiled and it felt wonderful.
I spent the last months of 1945, up until the last day, waiting in that park. Even after I knew, deep down, that Mother and Edith weren’t coming. But I still went, with a small bit of lingering hope.
I was left in wonder – had they joined Father? Wherever they may have been, it was difficult to accept. The streams of tears were never-ending. Guilt had begun to set in, as I blamed myself for what they may have endured – that I would never see them, hear them or kiss them again. I promised I would free them, but that promise was never fulfilled, and never would have been. I had conned myself. I blamed myself for the death of my entire family for too many years, until that guilt had finally come to an end.
•
I now stood, eleven years later, outside of a school. The cities had been rebuilt, and a new war had begun – but this one was without fighting. The Russians and the Americans. And new weapons were built, that could kill millions. I just hoped it would never come to that, again. I found myself supported by American soldiers as we were settled in West Germany – opposing the Russians once again. But I had learnt that humanity can be better, but it can also be worse. I decided not to interfere in any of the politics – I had had enough politics for one life. My cause was humanity.
Children came rushing out of the large building, running onto the lawn as the school day had finally finished. I looked out to see them smiling and waving to one another, and I smiled knowing that Death would not be as busy as it once was, even for a short time.
A small hand clutched mine and I looked down. I instantly smiled at the young boy, his locks of gold swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.
As he gazed up, his grin showing dimples in his cheeks, he spoke. ‘Papa.’
‘Oskar, my boy, are you ready to go home?’
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J.J. Pomykala, The Boy in Black
