I'm Alive Again
A Remembrance Story
Summary: Ludwig Beilschmidt was dead. The war, and everything it brought, killed him. Nothing seemed to be good anymore. Can anything bring him back? Dedicated to Holocaust Remembrance.
READ THIS WARNING: I am warning you now, from this point on there will be heavy reference to the Nazi ideology, their victims, the Holocaust, and various other occurrences in World War 2. While this is following a Nazi's point of view, the story is NOT BY ANY MEANS supporting Adolf Hitler or the Nazism pursuit he created. This story is not meant to give importance too, campaign for, or teach the philosophy of the Nazis in a positive light. My condolences are sent out to the victims of this hideous war.
IF YOU DO NOT LIKE NAZISM OR SUPPORT IT IN ANYWAY, DO NOT READ FURTHER. You have been thoroughly warned.
Further Warnings: Contains language (Like one word), Nazism, mature themes, GerIta, and AustriaHungary. This is rated M mostly for mature themes.
Dedication: This is dedicated to Holocaust Remembrance Day, or 4/28/14. I'm posting this early because I will be busy that week.
The sky is dreary, and the rain only adds to it. It's been raining like this for days, as if the heavens too are weeping. Never had I thought that this world could crumble so easily. Then again, I didn't consider I would be the cause of it either. Although my hands did not light the fires, nor did my fingers pull the trigger, but I was there, and very much a part of it. I am breaking the world.
There is nothing I can do about it.
My hands, the hands that built up my fellow countrymen, refuse to tear them down. No matter how much evil is breed from their hearts, I cannot hurt them, even though the amount of people they harmed is astronomical. I am only doing evil a service but when was I ever good? I've been branded and marked as the worst of the worst, and I continue to lie down and accept this is all I deserve. I allowed the world to bleed around me, while I stand solemn and unmoving.
To me, all the months are spun together in one web. Destruction one week, murder the next, until both are hand and hand and the world is just a hazy fog. I no longer think as I walk around aimlessly, refusing to even lift my gun when the bullets begin to fly. Maybe it was all my fault. Maybe it is not. Maybe I deserve to die. Maybe I do not.
These thoughts are all I can consider as I trudge along with my unit of men, marching to a destination I cannot remember. The outcome is always the same anyway. The soldiers are all grumbling about the drizzle that soaks through our fatigues, but I do not mind. It makes me feel something. It makes me feel like I am still living, even though inside I'm just dead. They never notice though. To them, I am just a stoic Nazi like the rest of them, loyal to the Fuhrer until the bitter end.
I wish the end is closer than it really is.
A cargo truck barrels past us, and a man in the passenger seat waves our Commander down in his jeep, causing the whole company to halt. The man presents him a package of envelopes, and with a wave he is speeding down the narrow stretch of road again. While the other men hoop and holler, I stay motionless and unphased. They must be letters from home. I used to receive some, like all the men here.
That was before my brother died, of course.
As the Commander has the letters passed around, I can't help but let my thoughts drift back to that awful time. It was early in the year, probably February, or March. It was frigid outside, I remember that much. We were released for a week or so, because the bergade had reached Berlin, and all the generals were awaiting orders. My brother was waiting for me, on the streets amongst the wives and children. It made me laugh. My brother was older than me, and he was the only young man in the crowd. He had been drafted, like me, but upon inspection day they sent him home. My brother has always had trouble with his eyesight, and refused to get glasses for it. He was albino, and was genetically branded with that genetic disability. It made him unique though. It made him my brother.
When I hopped out the back of the truck, I nearly fell into his arms because he was there in an instant, hugging me. I smiled a little, and hugged back, watching the women over his shoulder burst into tears at the sight of their husband's finally home; All but one, a pale brunette woman, who was unmoved. She stood without a pair of arms encasing her, clutching her parcel tightly in her hand. When I turned to look, I noticed the vechile was evacuated. The person she was there for had not arrived. I pulled out of my brother's hug.
"Gilbert, who is that woman?" I beckoned my head in her direction, observing out of the corner of my eye her rigid posture and emotionless face.
My brother turned his head to look, "Oh that's Elizabeta. She's a Hungarian refugee."
"Why is she here then?"
The smile on his face faded a little, "Her husband was a German drafted at the start of the war."
Seeing the Hungarian refugee, amongst the other reunited families made my heart be pierced with sadness. It was not right for her to standing there, while everyone else was reassured of their husbands safety. I walked towards her, knowing those pale green eyes were locked firmly on me. When I was close enough, I could see the dark half moon's under her eyes. Gilbert followed me silently.
"Hello Mrs. Elizabeta." I greeted her, adjusting my hat on my head.
Her eyes followed my movements, like she was judging me by the precision in which I held myself. Whatever I did, satisfied her.
"I suppose you are Gilbert's little brother then." Her voice was blunt and disconnected. It sounded like a voice recording.
"That I am."
"The awesomest soldier ever!" Gilbert jumped in, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. Not matter what; he loved to show off, "He got it from me!"
"A very impressive soldier…" She eyed the medals dangling firmly from my uniform, "I suppose with all those shiny things, you're so important you don't even go to battle."
I shook my head. It's a common misconception, "Nein. I've been deployed to the front lines of combat many times. I've fought with many brave Germans."
Her fingers fidgeted with the parcel, the only sign of nervousness I could see, "So I suppose you have met my husband among those brave men."
"I might have. What was his name?" I wanted to give this woman good news. I wanted this woman to walk away and get the rest that she deserves. This was back when I felt like I could still help people.
"Edelstein. Roderich Edelstein." Dread surged through my chest, dropping stones of sadness deep into my stomach. I knew that name. The outcome associated with it was not good.
Through clenched teeth I spoke, "Yes I know him. He is a good man, and an excellent musician. His music helped us fall asleep when the bombing happened."
She nodded her head in confirmation. She knew that's something her husband would have done, "Where is he now? He hasn't written a letter in months."
"The last letter said he was heading to Poland." Gilbert suggested, as if he could help jog my memory. I didn't need it though. I could recall exactly what had happened.
"He's beside a creek in Dresden." I replied.
"Could you send this to him?" She held out the parcel, "I'm afraid they will give it to the wrong man."
I didn't take it, "I can't."
"You know where he is though," She insisted, trying to get me to take the package. My heart was being squeezed so tightly, but I knew I had to tell her. It was more merciful than letting her believe a lie.
Taking a deep breath, I looked into her pleading eyes, and spoke lowly to keep my voice level, "He's beside a creek in Dresden, in an unmarked grave, amongst a hundred other unmarked graves."
The parcel clattered to the pavement, but her body remained transfixed, her arms still held out to offer me something she no longer had. The first signs of emotions trickled into her being. First, her eyes begin to brim with tears. Then her bottom lip started to tremble. While everyone else around us was excited and happy, the Hungarian immigrant bursted into tears, her perfectly crafted composure shattering easily. Her legs gave out, and before I could rush to catch her, my brother beat me to it. He held her against his chest, murmuring words into her ear like he did to me when I was little and our father died. My own eyes stung with tears when she began to openly sob, causing many couples to scurry away.
"No! No, no, no, no!" She screamed, fighting against my brother who refused to relinquish his grip.
"Elizabeta… Shush…" He rocked her back and forth, even as she tore at his clothes and clawed at his face.
Before she could yell again, another screech cut across her voice. It was a loud alarm that buzzed in my ears and rattled the brain inside. I knew what it means, and the ominous sense of it burned a hole in my stomach. It was an air raid siren. I don't think it was a drill.
"Elizabeta, Gilbert we have to go." I urged them, but they refused to get off the pavement. People were streaming out of buildings, urgently carrying their pre-packed belongings to a shelter nearby. The swell of people simply stepped around my brother and the immigrant.
"We have to go." I could feel arms nudging me, grabbing my clothes in an attempt to drag me into the stream. Maybe it was the rush of people, or the sirens that they couldn't hear me, because again they don't get up. Before I could plead a third time, my brother spoke.
"Go on West. I will catch up with you." He cradled the woman, looking at me straight in the eye. West was his nickname for me. He only used it at certain moments.
"I can't leave you."
"You will go and I'll catch up with you." He was dead serious. I could read it in his eyes, but I couldn't will my feet to move away.
"I won't abandon you." The swarm of people was lessening, because most of them were already in the safety of a shelter.
My brother snapped "Get the hell out of here Ludwig!"
My head wanted to burst, and my heart wanted to break. Never had he yelled at me like that, with so much hate present in his voice. Shaking my head, the burn in my eyes faded away. I was hardening into the soldier I am today.
"Fine." My voice was bitter, like nails on a chalkboard to my ears.
The alarms were no longer ringing. I walked away at a brisk pace, entering the darkness of a bomb shelter. When the false alarm was over, I was going to board the truck and leave without another word. He would have to apologize to me first.
My apologize would never come.
Just when everyone thought it was safe, the bombs began to fall, and exploded a mere feet away from the building. The rumble of the explosion busted my eardrums and knocked us all to the floor. Their screams were muffled as I lifted my fingers to my ears, dapping the blood trickling from them. My world blurred and contracted, a ring of black circling my vision. I never cared about which country dropped the bombs, or why they did. As I stumbled to my feet, only one crystal clear thought ricocheted in my brain.
My brother.
I tried to leave the protective bunker, but the door would not give. I was woozy, and unstable, so I suppose my strength was not great. A Swiss soldier enlisted in my unit dragged me from the doorway, forcing me to sit down as other soldiers tried to pry the door open. He was attempting to talk to me, but his voice was muffled. I couldn't hear him. A piece of fabric brushed my cheek, and when I turned to look I noticed it was a young blond girl. The man, whom I believe was named Vash, waved a hand in my face to get my attention. Again he tried to speak, but I still can't hear him. I can only focus on the men as they get the door opened slightly, revealing a crumbled building that collapsed into the hallway that lead to the bunker.
"I can't hear you." I don't know if I actually spoke or not, or if it was all in my head, but by the way he was acting, he heard something. He beckoned over an old man and his wife, whom I recognized. When I broke my arm as child, carelessly walking on a railing to prove my bravery, he was the doctor who set it again. Now, war and arthritis had withered his hands, and they were no longer the comforting pair that eased my pain as a child. Someone sacrificed their blanket to be stripped, so the doctor could wrap them around my head. If there was pain, I didn't feel it, because all that registered in my mind was my brother. My brother.
My brother.
One of the soldiers jerked the door so it was half way open, crumbling brick and dust raining down from overhead. The sky outside was bleak and growing dark. I pushed the hands attempting to help me away, and before a soldier could halt me, I rushed past them.
The streets were now a mass of rubble, one continuous river that ran flat along the plains. The entire street was leveled. Everything was gone. I sprinted forward, my feet stumbling on the uneven surfaces. I know he was right here. He was right here. I dropped to my knees when my heart began pounding in my chest, digging at the rubble until my fingers started to bleed.
"Gilbert!" I couldn't hear what his reply was.
If there was a reply.
My fingers touched something soft, and when I looked down, it was white. Just when the other people came out of the bunker, I was shoving the bricks away to uncover my brother and the Hungarian immigrant, both covered in soot, and just as dead. I unclasped my brother's arms and pulled him into my embrace, trying to reign in my emotions before they got lose, but it was already too late. Tears were streaming down my face, and all I could do was stare at him, hearing nothing, but seeing everything.
"Brother… Nein… brother!" My throat hurt, but I didn't care. Nothing I screamed, if I did at all, could awake him from his sleep.
"Brother!" I'm shaking him, my own body shaking just as hard, but he remained limp.
A firm hand on my shoulder startled me from the memory.
"Ludwig! Looks like you got something!" The teenager laughs, shoving two envelopes into my hand. Before I read them, I swipe a hand over my cheeks. They are both wet. I can't think about him now. My brother is dead, and won't be coming back. I need to learn to forget.
The first letter I tear open is from a person who wrote in such a strange way that I can't read the return address. I unfold the letter, wishing I could feel something as I read it. But like Elizabeta that day, I've detached myself from the world, and I have never attempted to reconnect to its deteriorating condition.
Dear Ludwig,
Ciao! How are you doing Ludwig? How come you haven't replied to me? It's been months and I'm sooooo worried! I miss you so much. It's so different without you here. I've made plenty of sweets and pasta for you when you come back home, so don't worry! I will make the biggest meal ever so you can look forward to that!
I've heard a lot of scary stories about what is happening over there, but don't worry! Me and Christian are okay, so need to worry about us! I heard they will be releasing your unit soon. You'll come visit us won't you? He's grown up so fast Ludwig! He'll be starting Pre-K soon! It's hard to believe don't you think! He's drawn pretty pictures, I wish you could see them! He's turning out to be a great artist! His eyes are turning more into yours every day too! You would be proud. Adoption services came by the other day. Remember when we talk about getting a girl too? When you come home, we can! She can be German or Italian, whatever you want!
Please reply soon Ludwig, I really miss you. Ti amo! I'll be waiting for a reply!
With Lots and Lots of Love!
Feliciano
My eyes drift to the bottom, where a scribbled note closed the letter.
Mis u dady com home pwease
My heart cinches a little. I have been neglecting all Feliciano's letters. I can feel something swelling in my chest. Maybe it is regret? It's the first actual feeling I've had in a long time. The faint memory of love reminds me of a better time, before the war attempted to steal everything good away. I'll have to write him back. I stuff that letter in my pocket as a reminder to do so, before proceeding to open the next letter.
The first line instantly hardens my heart.
Greetings from Germany's Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler:
You, Ludwig Beilschmidt, have been honored, as well as selected, to be a selection General. Inform your commanding officer of your change, and he will send you to the nearest station requiring your assistance. You are doing your country a great service.
Adolf Hitler's signature is stamped onto the brief letter. I want to crumble it up. I just want to close my fist around the letter in defiance. I hate the man who did not send the letter, but who they like to pretend did. He is my brother's murderer. Not the Allies or the men actually piloting the planes that night. It was all Hitler's fault.
And I am] following him.
"What's up?" The teenager who gave me the letter asks, but it's like I can't hear again.
My blood is boiling in my veins, so much so that I shove past a fellow soldier to my commanding officer, and shove the letter in his face. I need to break something, anything. His face look like a good target, but I refrain.
"You've been promoted, General Beilschmidt." The commander respectfully addresses, smiling at me, but all I see is more targets that my fist can take out, "We will get you to where you are needed then."
It takes a while for me to calm down. By the time I do, my meager belongs where in the hands of a new unit of soldiers, and I am being led by a man to my new job. I had ridden in a train all night, and even then I was simmering in my anger. It took until I stepped out of the car and into the bright sun did I finally release my thirst for revenge. The man before me shows me a station nearby the train tracks, down the road from where I arrived. Other soldiers, all of whom were under me now, await orders. I'm wearing the clothes of a general now, so they know who I am. No matter what fatigue they put me in, Feliciano's letter remains firmly in my pocket.
"This is your sorting station." The man says, motioning to the empty plains around us, "You're job is simple, and pays handsomely. We will send a portion to your family automatically."
I never thought about Feliciano and Christian, living on the next to nothing. As a soldier, I made no money. How are they getting by? Again, regret pierces my heart. It seems to be the only thing I can feel.
"Any specifications for what I'm sorting?" My voice is hollow, as it always was.
The man chuckles as if it is a joke, "You're only choices are left and right."
I raise an eyebrow.
"There will be other sorting generals to help you. Your job is to send anyone above 16 and physically capable to the right, to hard labor. Anyone below sixteen, of old age, or incapable of work, will be sent to the left." He explains.
"Where does the left go?"
"To death."
A sudden burst of dread coils in my stomach. I know what this means. I'm sorting the prisoners of war for the death and labor camps. This is not a promotion. This is a sentencing in itself. I clench my teeth tightly, gritting them hard. This is Hitler's doing again. First he kills my brother, then he kills my soul. He will pay for it one day.
"I see…" is all I can respond, as a train screeches to a halt nearby.
"Here comes your first sorting. Have fun."
In the distance, I can see the people herded from the train cars, clinging to children's hands and the few possessions they have. The soldiers who were awaiting orders rush to the crowd, shoving them forward towards me and the other sorters, smacking a few men back into line when they try to break the ranks. This bunch all bore yellow stars sewn into their clothes.
I only heard about the camps and the execution of the Jews. As a soldier, I never had a firsthand account. All my unit did was fight back the Allies and press further into enemy lines. A different group comes through and worms out the 'unnecessary and unworthy', as Hitler would say. Everything is vile from his mouth anyway.
As those people approached, terrified and shivering, I feel like my emotions are being restored. I could feel it all. I am sad for them. I am scared for them. I want to save them. I can't save them. I clutch the letter through my pocket. I think about what my brother would think about me. I wonder about Feliciano and my little boy, how they would condemn me when I condemn these people. Could I do it? Could I flick my hand one way and then the next? I try to harden my heart again, but it doesn't work. All my emotions are flowing through me, tying my stomach in knots. What will I do? What could I do?
I thought I was dead, but now I'm alive, and now that I'm alive, these people have to die. I see my brother's face on all of them, how his death was unfair, and how there's would be too. A shudder runs up my spine.
Think different, Ludwig. I remind myself. This war will be over soon. This all will be over soon. You won't have to do this long.
Taking a deep breath, I consider my little boy. He could have been starving for so long, along with Feliciano, and I would have never known. I could have been killing the only two people I have left in this world. As much as I don't want to do this, I have to.
I'm sorry… I apologize silently, as the Jews are divided up into four lines, one line for each sorter. We spread out so we don't get jumbled up. Soldiers wait nearby to send the directed person their specific ways.
A woman stands at the front of line. I send her to the right. The next is a young man. I flick my hand to the right. I try not to think about it, but the longer I do it, the more my hopes began to rise. I got a line full of well adults. I wouldn't have to send them left. I wouldn't have to. I didn't have to.
Until a little girl walked up. She is young, with sharp cheek bones and a nose, a pointed chin and two braids hanging from her blond head. She was a pure blond hair blue eyed German, but the yellow star printed on her jacket marked her as a Jew. Her mother stands behind her, I can tell, because the resemblance between them is uncanny. I couldn't kill her. When I look at her, I see Christian's baby blue eyes. I see the innocence of a child influenced by the world. For a moment, I consider just sending her left. But the more I stare, the more I realize my hand refuses to move.
"How old are you?" I speak quietly, in German, watching as her fearful eyes meet mine.
"Thirteen." She shakingly replies.
The limit is sixteen.
"Nein."
She looks at me confused, and even more terrified. Her mother grips her arm tightly.
"You are sixteen." I then flick my hand to the right. I could feel her eyes boring into me as they lead her away along with her mother.
By the end of the day, the mass of people are only a few stragglers, and my line is empty. Once the other sorters finished up, we all join together, along with the Overseer of the sorting, and the General's whose unit brought the people here.
"I've noticed something interesting." The Overseer states, rubbing his chin.
"What would that be? All the ugly Jews?" A sorter snickers, causing everyone else to chuckle but me.
"Nein. I noticed that one sorter never sent a single Jew to the left."
He is talking about me.
"Who would do that? I sent at least half my line to the gas chambers."
My heart drops. So that's where the poor people were sent to.
"Sometimes, death is not always the answer." I speak, not to anyone directly, but in order to sooth myself.
The General shakes his head, "It's a waste of my man power, that's for sure…"
The Overseer waves him away, "I believe we should go get a bite to eat. You all go ahead while I have a talk with General Beilschmidt."
They walk away, leaving me with a man that fills my heart with more dread. Nothing good can come from this, but I refuse to show it.
"You know, General Beilschmidt," He gets close to me, reminding me vaguely of the drill sergeant I once had, "When you are given orders. You follow them. I will go easy on you, for this is your first day. But mark my words," His breath is hot against my face, "If you pull a similar stunt like today, we will remedy the problem."
I don't know why, but I feel a sudden burst of defiance.
"Then what will you do. Hurt me?"
He sneers, "You and your little boy. Feliciano too." My heart nearly stops. How did he know?
"We know everything Ludwig." It is as if he can hear my thoughts, "Hitler is just that thorough with his officers."
The same fire of vengeance blazes inside me, "Don't you dare hurt them."
"Then do your job right."
Once I was alive. Then I died. When I thought I came back, I only died again. It is a constant cycle going back and forth, back and forth. One day I feel something, the next I feel nothing. One minute I feel like a human being, the next I feel like a foreign soul in a puppet's body. Nothing is ever the same.
My dreams are plagued by night terrors of combat and dead people, especially of Roderich, Elizabeta, and Gilbert. I think about if I could've saved Roderich that day so long ago, then he would've been delievered safety into Elizabeta's arms. Then, when the sirens went off and imprinted themselves into my mind and body, we would have all entered the bunker safely and would have survived. My brother would not be dead. My brother would be alive and so would I.
When the war ends, I am envious. Hitler is dead, and I didn't pull the trigger. But that is the least of my worries. The Allies are coming, invading and arresting all the Germans who sentenced the innocent people to their deaths. Maybe on the first day of my job, I would have said I tried to save them, but every day after I was selfish, and was out to save myself and my family. I am very much to blame as everyone else.
Gilbert would be ashamed.
I arrive at the doorstep of a house, wearing normal clothes. I tried to leave behind the man I became in war. But I probably brought him with me. I knock on the scarlet door twice, sitting my suitcase down. I hardly remember this street, it's changed so much. But a lot has changed. My hearing is failing, I can no longer sleep, and the possibility of arrest hangs heavily over my head.
I don't know what I'm doing anymore.
I glance around the porch, seeing some child's toys scattered around, sitting in rocking chairs and flower beds. I can't bring myself to chuckle. I hardly feel a thing.
It takes a while. I think it does anyway, because it feels like an eternity before the door slowly cracks open. Before I can say a word, a blur suddenly lanches at me, and I find myself catching a small boy dressed in his PJs.
"Daddy you're home!" He cries excitedly, hugging me so tight. I manage to pry him loose, holding him before me. In my eyes I see my son. I see my brother. I see the Hungarian immigrant in happier times, with her husband. I see Vash and his little sister. I see the kind doctor. I see the little Jewish girl. I see the part of me that's alive. I see my true home.
I pull him into a hug, hearing the door open wider and a quite gasp to signal Feliciano is now there.
"Yes…" I breathe into the crown of his head, knowing I'm revived. I'm alive again.
"I'm finally home…" I'm laughing now, overwhelmed by the swelling pride in my heart, "I'm alive again."
Never forget.
The Holocaust changed lives. Let us not forget this history. Let's thrive and never repeat the horrors of World War II.
-Soul Spirit-