The Devil's Blessing (7 page)

“All of them but us,” Wernher said, sounding almost annoyed. “Everyone you see here is who’s left. Us four and them,” Wernher said, motioning behind his shoulder.

“The wire cutters,” Ingerlseben said, this time walking back closer to Otto. “Where are they?”

Otto motioned wordlessly to one of the many boxes they had stacked up.

“Over there? Good. Lafenz! Go retrieve the wire cutter.” There was a pause. “Lafenz!” It took a while for the young blonde boy to realize that he was being called. He finally did come out from behind his murderous gaze.

Lafenz began walking over to the crates when Ingersleben stopped him again.

“Lafenz!” he said. “Leave your gun here. You don’t need it anymore.”

With a second's reluctance, Lafenz handed over the submachine gun into Ingersleben’s open hand. Even Ingersleben must’ve felt uncomfortable, having the young killer around, so ready to shoot.

“Come,” Ingersleben said to Otto, motioning to his tent. “We need to talk.”

❧

“What’s happening? I demand to be told this instant!”

Ingersleben heard Otto’s words, but motioned for him to sit and quiet down, as if the sound was hurting him. He shushed him as he pulled out a fresh bottle of whiskey. Otto had thought that the Unteroffizier had given out every last drop to the men after Haas’s execution, but he wrong.

Otto did take his seat, on the crate across from Ingersleben, but he didn’t take the drink poured out to him in the coffee cup—not at first, at least. But after Ingersleben’s hand insisted a second time, Otto couldn’t refuse, and he grabbed the cup and took the smallest of sips. Even though he'd come into the tent with strong words, it was all a facade. Something in him told him that he needed to show strength. He just wasn’t too sure if he'd overplayed his hand.

The tent’s flap was open to let light in. Gone was the lantern, and everything seemed more tidy inside, as if they really were about to move. Otto wished that they could’ve closed the tent; the cold air and snowflakes were hitting the back of his neck. But there was also something very reassuring about being able to see outside, even if he had to turn around. It felt as if they weren’t going to kill him. Then that’s when he realized—maybe that’s exactly what they wanted him to feel.

“There’s been a change of plan.”

“And what’s that?” There was no hiding how nervous he was, and he didn’t want to hide it anyway. Explosions and gunshots had interrupted the gray, cold morning, and now he was being asked to free the prisoners. The same request that had just condemned a man to death.

“You know—” Ingersleben started to chuckle as he bit his lower lip. “That son of a bitch was right. Haas, I mean. Letting the prisoners go and making our way back west. He was right, you know?”

Otto shook his head. One moment desertion was a capital offense, and the next, it was a good idea. Whatever was going on, he was not going to partake in any test, even if that did cost him his life. If he was going to die playing a guessing game, he’d rather just get it over with. Even a coward like himself had some standards.

It was as if Ingersleben could sense the inner turmoil that was happening inside Otto’s head. As he poured another cup of whiskey, he said, “Haas was right. About several things, really. First, the war is over. Germany will be no more. Soon it will be a battlefield for the Soviets and the British. Our fight will continue, only as communists or capitalists.”

“And which is better?”

“Neither, really. Both are abominations towards man; only our Nationalist Socialist movement is the clear way for man to go forward. But for now, that’s going to have to take a lesser priority.

“No. What concerns us now is, who are we willing to serve under?”

This gave Otto pause. Had it really gotten so bad? Did they really now have to choose which false ideology to fight under? After a moment, Otto came up with the first answer he thought of.

“The Russians,” Otto said. “Their communism is bit like our socialism. Plus—” he paused as he took a sip—“they also appreciate the Jewish problem. For as different as we are, even they know that the Jew is a problem that is facing Europe and the world.”

Ingersleben nodded in approval. “You are right to think that. More?” Ingersleben offered the bottle. Otto hadn’t noticed, but he had finished the cup of whiskey he'd thought he didn’t want. He put out his cup eagerly. Ingersleben continued, “While we agree that the system of capitalism is a cruel and unfair one, and that they have the Jew living openly with them, there is something else to consider.”

“And that is?”

“How we’ll be treated.”

Otto didn’t understand, and Ingersleben could tell by the confused look on his face. He explained.

“However long this takes—our
capture
— we will be subject to the whims and wishes of those that control us. Even then, we will only earn our freedom by agreeing to fight for those we once swore to kill.

“Once we’re captured by the Russians, what will happen to us then? Most of us will probably be shot. All boys over the age of twelve will be shot next to us. That’ll mean that only our women will remain, and the Soviet pigs will have their way, creating a new mongrel race. We won’t have the opportunity to enjoy any Marxist, Leninist world. We’ll be too busy being dead.”

“And the west?”

“With them, we will live in a world where Jews can tell us what to do, and where no one is equal but those with money. But we
will
live.”

It all started making sense now. While being under Soviet control was the more appealing option when one looked at it in terms of the end game, getting there was another thing altogether. Their only option for survival was to embrace the west.

“So what happened?”

“What do you mean, what happened?”

“This morning. The explosion. The gunfire. What happened? Where is everyone?”

Ingersleben nodded. He wasn’t being aloof so much as he was already forgetful, his mind on escaping the Eastern Front.

“You saw the men’s eyes when Haas told them the plan. They had no plan to go with it at all.”

“So?”

“So?” Ingersleben shrugged. “So we killed them.”

“What do you mean, ‘we killed them’?”

“Exactly that. We killed them. What would you have us do? They were not going to go along with Haas’s plan. They would rather have had us die than live. No. That was a wrong option then, and it’s the wrong option now.”

“And Haas? Why kill Haas if he was right?”

“To buy us time. The men were about to turn on him and those who were with him, including me. I needed to distance myself from him and his plan. For a while, anyway. Once the hounds were at bay, then we could get rid of them, too.”

“Your own men?” Otto said incredulously. “How could you kill your own men?”

“How could I not?” Ingersleben said. “They were going to kill me. They made me do it. They left me no choice.”

The worst part of everything he was saying, Otto thought, was that he sounded as if he truly believed it, as if those men he had sworn to keep under his charge had forced his treacherous hand. This was why men like Ingersleben made it far in the Reich, and Otto wouldn’t.

“So what next?”

“Next, we free those Russian animals. Hopefully they will buy us some good will if we are ever captured. And then, we run.”

Otto nodded in agreement. “We run.”

When Otto and Ingersleben came out of the tent, there was a howl in the wind and the snow had begun to fall more steady, crunching beneath their feet.

Otto saw that Ingersleben had propped his collar up over his neck, and Otto did so in kind.

The work of cutting the wire on the prison had already been done, and the prisoners slowly began to make their way out. Nothing seemed different. They went from one huddle inside their cage into another one outside of it.

“Do you speak Russian?” Ingersleben asked Otto.

“No. Only a few men can. The only one who can speak decent Russian is Wolter, and he’s—” Otto strained to find the right term.

“He’s not available anymore. Come. Let’s try to see what we can get out of these vermin before we let them go.”

As they walked the few feet over from the tent to the collecting men, a thought that had rambled inside Otto’s head but dared not speak until now made its voice heard.

Why am I still alive? Why didn’t they kill
me
?
It made no sense to Otto, especially when the Unteroffizier asked him if he spoke any Russian. He did technically know a few words and phrases, but then again, who didn’t? No, there was another reason he was spared, but he didn’t know why.

Wernher and Lafenz were Ingersleben's lap dogs.
No, wolves
, he told himself. They did everything their master commanded them to do with a vicious commitment. And then there was him, who was nothing to Ingersleben. Otto was nothing to anyone. Why had he been spared? Or
had
he been spared? Perhaps he was as dead as the other men; his time just wasn't up yet.

“Line up!” Ingersleben barked. After a moment’s confusion, he waved his hands in a line and repeated, “Line up!” Slowly, the prisoners did as they were told.

The four Nazis lined up to face the dozen or so prisoners. Although the numbers were heavily in the prisoners' favor, the slinged machine guns around their captors kept the majority at bay.

As Ingersleben prepared to speak, he noticed that there was only one man that wasn’t armed on their side. Otto. He quickly grabbed his sidearm and handed it over to him.

Why would they arm me if they are about to kill me?
Otto thought, pausing for a moment before finally grabbing the gun, holding it at his side. He didn’t know what to do with it. Whether to point it at the prisoners or just hold it at his side. He did the latter, since none of the other men were pointing their weapons at the Russians, not even young, newly gun-happy Lafenz. After that was sorted, Ingersleben began again.

“We are releasing you,” he said, looking towards his right to get the translation that never came. He persisted, and Otto and Wernher quickly huddled and began to whisper to each other, trying to find the right words. Finally, Wernher began to say a broken sentence in Russian that they hoped was understood. The Russians looked on as if nothing had been said to them; the only response was the gentle howl of the whirling wind.

It was all that really needed to be said, as far as the logistics of what was happening were concerned, but Ingersleben had one more message that he wanted them to know.

“If our paths cross again, show us the same mercy we’ve shown you.”

Again, Otto and Wernher began to caucus, trying to find the right words. They were more butchered this time, since neither man knew the word for
mercy
, but it looked as if the Russians finally understood.

The prisoners began to whisper amongst themselves, motioning with their arms and giving shrugs—approving or disapproving, Otto wasn’t sure.

“Is that it?” Wernher asked Ingersleben. Ingersleben gave a smug nod.

“Okay, then. Go. Go!” Wernher said, motioning to the Russians to move. Slowly, they did, in a single file line out towards the distant field where the outlying forest was.

As they reluctantly moved, Wernher shoved the side of his machine gun into the men, forcing them to hurry up. “Go!” he said to the mostly shoeless men; they seemed to have no sense of what freedom was anymore.

Just then, one of the Russians began to cry, begging and pleading to Wernher. Did he want to stay? No, that wasn’t it. He must’ve thought that it was some type of cruel ploy, that they were going to be shot in the back as they left.

But slowly the prisoners kept going, kept walking away in the tall dead grass towards the tree horizon.

All four men stood and watched as the men that had been under their charge for so long did the one thing they were expected not to let them do: escape.

The Russians kept walking and kept looking back, waiting for a trap to spring that never came. The ones that could run did as they got closer to the tree line, disappearing for good.

One of the prisoners continued to walk and look back to the four Nazis in anger. It was the Cougher, no longer hacking since his body was too preoccupied with rage. Even in liberation, these men were not able to forgive, and it was at that moment that Otto thought they might have made a mistake. But before he could say anything, they were all gone.

❧

Through all this, Otto did not know where he stood. It made no sense—none—as to why he was kept alive. The job of helping the prisoners escape was likely his last, and the reason he had been spared.

They made their way to the self-described forest, the small island of trees the bifurcated the real forests to the north and south. He had heard the noises, the explosions, and, remarkably, the lack of yelling or screaming. He knew that all his comrades were dead, but that wasn't why he was afraid to see them. It was the feeling that he was about to lay down with them forever.

As they made their way through the trees, the three men were at varying times ahead and next to him. He could have run. Part of him thought he should have run—a big part. But instead he pushed forward as he was told, because that’s what Otto did: he listened.

As soon as the trees stopped, the horror of what had happened began.

If Otto hadn't been careful, he would’ve have fallen into the pit. The men held on to branches as they navigated around the long trench of death.

For the most part, to Otto, it looked as if many of the men had drowned. He wasn’t sure why, but many lay there, dead, mouths wide open, like fish frozen in an eternal last gasp for air.

The snow had started to make strange, small mounds on the men that Otto had never seen before. He realized he had never seen it because a man’s normal reaction to snow falling on him would be to brush it away. But in the strangest of nooks and corners, small pockets of snow had started to fill, at fingers'-length deep.

Elbows and folds in shirts became growing homes for budding patches of snow. Noses became small ledges and eye sockets became pools for the snow to settle. Perhaps hell wasn’t hot after all.