The Devil's Blessing (11 page)

Why did it want to die?

Couldn't it understand that it was killing all of them?

Couldn't it hear that that the footsteps were now directly above them?

Couldn't it understand that one life was worth the cost, so that others may live?

Otto didn’t realize what he was doing until he was doing it. He grabbed the baby from his mother's arms, ripping him from her breast. Otto dropped Jens to his side and took the baby by the ankles.

Otto flung the baby like an axe towards the brick wall, killing him instantly. The sound wasn't a crunch, but more of a wet thud, since the baby's skull was still not solid yet. Even though the baby's head was spilt open and no sound was coming from him, that didn't stop Otto. He swung the baby against the wall again, right near the hanging lamp. This time the head did explode, pieces of baby flesh flying all over the room, landing on everyone, including his mother, her breast now covered in blood, milk, saliva.

The room became a bit darker, not just because of the blood that now stained the lamp, but because of the cruel deed that Otto had just committed.

As if unable to understand what he had done, Otto dropped the infant corpse on the ground like a hot rifle.

He looked at Brigitte, the mother, whose mouth was ajar in shock. Her skin had become so pale that it almost seemed as if she were emitting light herself.

The tears quickly came to Knef's eyes, looking at Brigitte, pleading with her. She stepped back, not wanting to be touched by the man who had just killed her only son. She looked ready to scream to all the heavens so that they might hear and witness the evil that had been loosed on earth. She was ready to scream to let the men know exactly where they were, so that every man down there could get the death they so richly deserved. She was ready to scream, so that the men above could rape her, time and again, and then kill her, since that was the fate she deserved, for allowing what had just happened to Jens to happen.

But as she inhaled to scream, a bloodied hand came over her mouth and another slit her throat from one side of her neck to the other. The cut was so deep that it penetrated her windpipe; she gargled on her own blood as she fell to the ground to join her son in a bloody pool of death on the floor. From the shadow behind her came Wernher, who was barely able to stand.

The rest of the day was spent listening to the voices from above, in particular a frustrated coughing man, tearing the house apart, trying to find them, and staring at the dead mother and child on the ground.

There was a hell, and it was both above and below them.

There was a stunned silence inside the room. The blood had finally stopped coming from the mother and child, but they were far from safe. The footsteps could be heard above, accompanied by intensive yelling. The Soviets knew they were near something, near someone, who had a crying baby, and they were intent on finding them.

The men downstairs knew how animalistic these Red Army types could be, and they'd even seen it in the prison camps—how they acted more like dogs than anything else. But even now, up above them, they could hear how truly vicious they were.

The sounds of furniture being thrown and appliances being moved echoed from every corner inside the room. It sounded as if the banging was coming from around them instead of above. Other times, the trapdoor would bend and give, showing the smallest sliver of light.

And then there was Otto. He had moved to the farthest corner he could find and curled up with his knees to his face, crying. It was a gentle sob, since he didn't want to make any noise. He still wanted to live, and that was disheartening to him. Part of him knew that he should want to die. It was the only honorable thing. After what he had done, he should turn himself over, face his fate there on earth and his eternal judgment in the afterlife. But he was a coward, who only wanted to live. His fear was what had made him do something he had never thought himself capable of doing: murdering a child. Because he wanted to live. He hated himself.

After a while the voices from above became more and more distant, although their frustration could still be heard. They knew that at least two men, one of whom was shot, and a baby, were somewhere in that town, hiding. They had no idea, however, that there was no more baby to look for anymore.

And that's what had bought the men downstairs time. Although it was impossible to tell the time without sunlight downstairs, it was easy to tell when night fell, since the voices became quieter and the temperature dropped just ever so slightly. Morning came through the sound of pots clanging and the smell of food boiling.

The men started talking—in close whispers, but they started talking nevertheless. Their plan was the only one they had: wait. They had to wait out the Red Army and hope they'd leave. If they didn't, their hunger would force them out.

Luckily for them, there was the wine. It gave the men a welcome respite from the horrors they had created the past few days. It was a strange drunkenness. It wasn't a joyous one, nor was it a sad one. It was a drunkenness of trying to forget, of each man in his own world. Medication more than anything.

The one thing that was becoming a bit worrisome was the smell of urine. It had gone from unbearable to one that their nostrils reluctantly got used to, but as the urine pool continued to grow near the barrels of wine, the smell was rising up. Perhaps the Russians couldn't hear them. Perhaps they couldn't see them. But with decaying urine and two dead bodies, perhaps they would smell them.

❧

Eventually, the sound left, maybe two to three days afterward. They weren't sure. But they didn't want to get their hopes up. It might be another trap. They could have easily moved back out to the field, waiting to pick off their prey, like they had tried to do with Wernher.

They had talked about being smoked out. Even though the houses they were in were nearly all gone with combustibles, there was still some furniture that could be lit. Then there were the other houses that hadn't been damaged as severely. Even in this burned-down town, there still were some things left to destroy. In conflict, man could always find something more to destroy.

As for Wernher, he was faring well, considering. The bleeding had stopped for the most part, only starting up again when he foolishly began drinking.

The most harmed man there was Otto, who just sat and drank with small whimpers of tears, letting everyone know that he was still alive, if that's what it could be called.

❧

After the voices left, it still didn't feel safe. The Russians had to have gone back at a distance. They had to have done that to lure them out. The Germans agreed; that's what they themselves would've done.

But the air was stale with the smell of urine and sweat, so the decision was made to crack open the trapdoor, even if it was just slightly. Not only was ventilation the pressing issue—they were also just curious. If they were delaying their deaths, it was better to just get on with it than to stay in a world filled with your own urine and the corpses of a mother and her son.

But the floor was cracked open, even if it was a little hard at first. It was Lafenz who did the pushing, since Ingersleben's right hand man, Wernher, was still licking his wounds, and Ingersleben was still above doing menial work. Even in this new world, he still had to be top dog. As for Otto, he was an inconsolable mess. The tears had stopped flowing, but he was still not talking to anyone. His body may have been there, but his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere far away and not as bad as where they were.

Lafenz made more noise than he would've wanted to when he opened the trapdoor. It wouldn't move at first, and, not wanting to ask anyone for help, he finally just pushed up with his back, creating a loud but muffled thud as the floor cracked open. It was shortly evident as to why the floor was so hard to open.

The snow had become more heavy and therefore had piled on. After receiving a few stares from the men, Ingersleben made his way up the small stairs to handle things himself.

He, too, struggled with the door, but didn't want to make a show of it. Finally he cracked it open like Lafenz before him. He put one of his gloves in the crack. It was cold, it was windy, and it was miserable, but to Ingersleben's face, it felt like magic. The air felt like the most pure thing he'd ever tasted in his life. He closed his eyes as he took the air in both through nose and mouth. If it was bread, his mouth would've watered.

The light that shone through was like a spotlight. Their eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, which was not quite a blessing, since the crime of what had happened was more visible as the hours went by.

Lafenz had dragged the bodies of the dead to another corner. The mother was placed atop her child, covering the more gruesome part of the deed, but it was still a reminder. She still had her shoes on, and stockings, as if she was ready to walk to the store. Her corpse wasn't going to let them forget.

After seeing the joy on Ingersleben's face, Lafenz ran up the stairs to join him. Like a proud father at a parade, Ingersleben lifted up Lafenz to get a better vantage point of the small break of relief. No one was more stunned at Ingersleben's kindness than him, but the joy he felt was that of discovering a new land after being lost at sea. He had to share the good news.

It was so inviting that even Otto came out from his stupor and went up the stairs. The two made way, happy to see that Otto was moving. He opened his mouth as if trying to catch the small flakes of snow. Wernher could only look on in envy as the other men took respite from the hole.

❧

The next day, they decided to make a scouting trip, and just like before, they sent out Lafenz.

The plan, of course, was to stay hidden. If Lafenz was found, he could probably make a run for it, but the other men would be left in the hole to die. They had only so much luck.

Even though the wine was near endless, it wasn't feeding them. Brigitte Knef had more food hidden somewhere in the town, but she had never had the chance to share with them where it was before
it
happened.

So Lafenz went to the only place he or the other men knew to go: to the house that they had been in first, the one with the small cans of food. Even though all the cans of corn had been exhausted, they still had some jams in there, and that was better than nothing.

Ingersleben secretly wondered if Lafenz would ever make a run for it, but then realized that he was bound to them by sheer naivety. He was still new to the world, nearly a babe, not unlike the one who had lost the front of his head the other day.

But return Lafenz did, and they were all so buoyed with the new nutrition that they even left the trapdoor open to allow the wind in. The snow had stopped, but it would have been welcomed. Even though the wind made for uncomfortable times, it was keeping the bodies from rotting.

Finally the plan was made. They were to take what little they had and leave under the cover of darkness.

❧

When they made their way up, it was a welcome sight to see all the things they didn't want to see.

No lights.

No movements.

No Russians. Just the sound of wind and the slap of cold against their faces.

Lafenz had reported back that the supplies they had left at the first house were gone, obviously taken by the Red Army soldiers. They must've had orders to move. How far the Red Army was advancing was anyone's guess, but now they knew two things:

One, that they were, by default, behind enemy lines, since the line now crossed them; and two, that they would now have to traverse both Soviet and Nazi patrols if they were to make it to the west. Their prospects grew darker by the hour.

But the biggest problem was Wernher. His condition hadn't changed. At first blush, that was a good thing, since that meant he hadn't gotten worse; but on the other side, that also meant he hadn't gotten better.

The bullet had ripped through his side and, from what they could gather, hadn't hit anything major. What the bullet had done was hit some muscle; he was weak and could hardly walk. It was as if his entire side had become paralyzed from the waist down.

But they walked west, like they had planned before, only this time they did not walk distant from the main road that crossed the town, but rather walked right on it. If they were to be seen, there really was no sense in hiding. They would die that night.

But they knew that their window of opportunity was shrinking, if not gone altogether, so they did what they had to do and kept moving.

They took turns with Wernher, carrying him one by one.

Even though he didn't seem to have much of an alliance to anyone, Ingersleben did seem to have some for Wernher. Even cruel men had a soft spot for their dogs.

❧

After about a week of traveling, they hadn't made that much progress. They were blessed to be off of the main roads, with more cover of trees and high grass, but that also hindered them. They were working at a snail's pace, and time was not a luxury they had.

It was oddly calm and normal, for what they saw, which in truth wasn't much. Old men taking their wagons on either horse or mule with wares to some other unknown town. Sometimes children playing in fields. It was as if God wanted them to believe that the entire world wasn't falling apart around them, but they knew the truth. This was just a temporary illusion.

They travelled at night, taking turns helping Wernher. It became a sort of game for them, to see how far they could make it each night. They were always hindered by morning light, which was their cue to stop.

One day, before they slept in the cover of tall grass, they saw something that couldn't be called exactly a mountain. It was a tall rocky mound, about the height of a building. The plan was to traverse that rock the next evening.

"He was a general. General Arizona," Ingersleben said.

"No, Ingersleben, Arizona is one of their regions. States, I believe they call them."

"No. Trust me. Don't you think I know what brought the Americans into the war? The ship the Imperial Navy sank was named after a general, General Arizona. What say you?" Ingersleben asked Otto, hoping to get a word out of the now mute man.