Aftermath
by Philippe de la Matraque
Chapter Two: Bad Orb
The sun was going down when they left Berga. Daniels looked back over the tailgate as the camp faded away. He hoped more troops would come soon and a proper accounting could be made of the bodies there. Each of those soldiers deserved a proper burial. He took the now warm towel from Zuss's neck and poured cool water on it again. He wrung it out and placed it on Zuss's forehead. He looked so small there on the stretcher, even bundled as he was in the blanket. But he was breathing. That was the important thing. He was alive. He was going to live. He had to.
It had turned dark an hour before they arrived at Bad Orb. The camp's external lights were up. The truck stopped abruptly. "The camp's locked up for the night. Sorry fellas."
Daniels heard the passenger door open. "On me!" Pierson ordered.
The tailgate went down. Pierson shined his flashlight on Zuss's face. The guard's eyes looked wide.
"Why isn't he at Ohrdruff. Why bring him here?"
"He wasn't at Ohrdruff. He's an American POW we liberated three hours east at Berga," Pierson told him. "And he really needs a doctor. Now!"
"Yes, sir." The guard hurried away and Pierson closed the tailgate again. The passenger door closed and the truck moved again. Daniels saw the gates closing behind the truck.
They passed through the former prisoner areas and went to the German side. The truck paused here and there for directions. It finally stopped and both the driver and passenger doors opened. Stiles reached out and dropped the tailgate. Daniels hopped out.
"The doctor's are asleep by now, Sergeant."
Stiles started pulling the stretcher out, and Daniels scurried to get the other end. They carried Zussman to where Pierson was staring down a captain.
"Wake one up." Pierson insisted.
The captain took one look at Zussman and ordered a nearby private to get one of the doctors up.
"American doctor," Pierson ordered. "No German doctor is to come within fifteen feet of this patient."
The captain looked tried. "They are serving our men with dignity."
"This patient is Jewish, and Germans put him in this state. No German doctors!"
A few minutes later, a tall man came out, pulling on his white lab coat over pajamas. "I'm Dr. Harris. What can I do for you?"
"Not me," Pierson said. "Private Zussman here is in desperate need of medical attention."
The doctor came over and Aiello used his light so the doctor could see Zuss. "Private? He looks like a concentration camp victim."
"He is, and he was an American POW," Aiello said. "Just like a bunch others we found dead in Berga."
"But the Geneva Conventions," the doctor tried.
"Were thoroughly stomped on in that camp," Pierson finished for him. "Help him."
Doctor Harris nodded. "Bring him in." He started in and Daniels followed. Stiles lifted the stretcher up so it would be stable as they went up the stairs.
They went into a dimly lit area with beds along one wall with big windows. Each bed had a patient on it, sleeping.
"In here," the doctor said, leading them to the right through another door. They were in an exam room. There was a table there, no beds. They lifted the stretcher and placed Zuss on the table.
The doctor flicked a switch and a bright light came on overhead.
The door opened behind them and a young women in a white dress entered. They must have woken her up, too. "She's American?" Pierson asked.
"From Philadelphia," she responded.
Pierson nodded. The doctor pointed to another door. "You four wait in there." Stiles handed him the triage notes from the medic and Daniels reluctantly left with the others. "If he's contagious," the doctor said, "you and he will have to be quarantined."
The nurse flipped the light on in the other room. There was a sofa and a couple of chairs. Then she returned to the exam room and shut the door. Daniels stared at that door. Zuss was in there all alone. He decided to pray some more.
There was a window in the room they were in as well, and Daniels noted the light coming in from there growing brighter. Stiles had fallen asleep. Aiello and Pierson were talking quietly about something. Finally the door to the exam room opened and Dr. Harris came through. Aiello kicked Stiles lightly to wake him up.
"I've heard of the camps," the doctor said, "but I've not been to any of them. I've sent word to Ohrdruff to see if they've come up with any strategies to help the survivors that could help Private Zussman. We haven't ruled out contagion yet so you'll be staying with us. His fever is low, so I'm not too worried about that. Yet. I've administered penicillin either way. I'm more concerned with malnutrition and possible internal bleeding. We've bathed him to get rid of the lice. If you've had close contact, some may have transferred to you. We've moved some things around to get a smaller quarantine ward set up with five beds. There are pajamas for you to change into. We'll have your clothes washed."
"Zuss is there?" Daniels asked.
"Yes," Dr. Harris replied. "We've got him on an IV and some oxygen to help him breathe. The note said something about dust in his lungs? What can you tell me?"
Stiles offered as much as he knew. "We don't know for certain but we think the prisoners were put to work digging tunnels in a mountain side. They weren't treated well so it's doubtful they had air masks. They had to breathe it."
"They? There are others?"
"Dead," Aiello said.
"Some dead," Pierson corrected. "We don't know where most of them are. The camp was deserted, burned."
"It's horrendous," the doctor said. "How many camps are we going to find like Ohrdruff and this Berga? How many thousands of people did these Nazis kill and enslave?"
"Considering the reports most of us thought were just propaganda," Stiles said, "it's not thousands. But millions."
Daniels felt sick. Millions of people slaughtered. It was staggering. Just because they were Jewish. Or communists or some other group the Nazis hated. Germany had been a civilized, European country. What had happened? How had it all gone wrong?
"Well," the doctor said. "If I have anything to say about it, Private Zussman will not be one of those millions."
Pierson nodded. "Let's go," he said, offering Daniels a hand to get up. "I'm good with that, doc. That's the only way I'm gonna get some sleep. I let him down before. I won't do it again." The nurse appeared and led them to their ward.
"I'm the one who let him down," Daniels said.
"No, you disobeyed a direct order and went after him," Pierson argued. "I just wish you'd stopped that damn truck."
"Me, too."
Zuss was lying asleep on the first bed. There was an IV in his right hand. He looked a little better already. A little bit of color had come back into his face. Must have been the fluids. The medic had said he was dehydrated, too. There was a mask over his mouth and nose attached to a hose. The oxygen. There was a chair beside the bed and Daniels headed for it. Stiles stopped him.
"I got a bit of a nap in there," he said. "I'll sit with him. You get some sleep."
Daniel wanted to argue but he yawned deeply instead. He nodded.
"Wake me when you get tired," Aiello called.
"Good plan," Pierson said. "We'll take shifts. I don't ever want him to wake up and not see one of our faces."
"Yes, sir," Daniels said. He changed into the pajamas on the bed closest to Zuss's. There was a bin in the corner of the room and he deposited his uniform there. He'd been sleeping on cots for so long the mattress felt luxurious by comparison. He was asleep in minutes.
Zussman became aware of light on his eyelids. He was late! They always started work at four in the morning. His breaths quickened and he snapped his eyes open. There was something on his face. He reached for it but there was something on his hand, too.
"Hey, hey, it's alright. You're okay. Just relax. That's helpin' ya breathe."
Zuss looked to his left. Aiello. He was out of uniform. He was in striped pajamas. Like the civilian prisoners. But they were clean pajamas. Zuss put out his left hand to touch this Aiello. To see if he was real.
Aiello took his hand. "You're in the infirmary. Doctors are lookin' after you now. You're gonna be fine. Just try and relax."
The hand felt real. His breath slowed and he looked around. It was a good sized room with no bunks. White walls, windows on one side. The sun was shining in. He became aware of a softness beneath him. There was a bed behind Aiello. A real bed. Mattresses.
"Where are we?" he breathed through the mask.
"We're in Bad Orb," Aiello told him, "but don't you worry. It was liberated a couple days ago."
It was starting to make sense but he felt dizzy still and couldn't put it all together. The room started spinning so he closed his eyes. "War over?"
"Not quite yet," Aiello said. "We're getting closer every day. But it's over for you. All you gotta worry about is getting better."
Memories flooded him. Acevedo wrapping his torso under his shirt in strips of blankets donated by the other prisoners. Just a little extra padding against the daily beating he was guaranteed to get. Small bits of food being put in his hands late at night. Food from the Red Cross packages the others got and that Metz would not let him have. He remembered Acevedo's face, then others. They were packed up, wrapped in blankets, turning sadly away from him and the others condemned to die. Metz ordering, "Warten Sie zehn Minuten und schießen Sie sie ab!" The last of his fellow prisoners fading into the distance. The shots. One, two, three, four. Five.
He opened his eyes, found Aiello again. "The others," he breathed. "Did you find them?"
Aiello looked down. "We found some. Dead in the camp. Where we found you."
"They were marched away," Zuss told him.
"Someone will find them," Aiello told him. "Are you hungry?" He let go of Zuss's hand and got up.
It took Zussman a minute to identify that deep pang in his stomach that was never satisfied since the train that left Bad Orb. In recognizing it again, it filled his entire torso, pushing through the pain of the bruises. Aiello came back with a bowl. A ceramic bowl. He set it on the chair, then helped Zussman raise himself a bit. Aiello propped him up with a pillow. Then he picked up the bowl with one hand and sat down. His other hand lifted the mask over Zussman's face and let it rest on his chest. It was harder to breathe, but he was focused on the bowl.
"Oatmeal, on the runny side," Aiello said.
Just sitting up left him so exhausted. He reached for the bowl but couldn't hold it.
"I gotch ya," Aiello said. He dipped a spoon in the oatmeal, and Zussman let him feed him bite after bite. Before Berga he might have felt embarrassed. Dignity had left him rather early on. It just felt so good to have something decent to swallow. It was the best oatmeal he thought he'd ever had. It probably wasn't, and he knew it, but it didn't matter. It had a pleasant flavor. That was a rare thing lately.
Still he was disappointed when the bites stopped and Aiello put the bowl down. He was still so hungry. Aiello left again and came back with a glass of water. A real glass with clean water. He put it to Zussman's mouth and Zuss managed to help himself drink some to wash down the oatmeal.
"There'll be more in a few hours," Aiello told him. "You gotta go slow after what you've been through."
He lifted Zussman's neck and pulled the extra pillow and helped him lay back down. Then he replaced the mask on Zussman's mouth and nose. Breathing got easier but he couldn't get a full breath without aggravating that tickle that lived in the back of his throat. He was tired, but he was free. No work in the tunnels. No beatings. Just food and water and a bed to lie in. Now, if he could just get a deep breath, it would be almost perfect. He closed his eyes again. Aiello patted his shoulder. "It's just gonna get better from here. Rest all you want." Zussman thought for a moment that Aiello had changed. Oh, he'd been nice enough to him in the months they fought together. Like well, this Jew was his friend. But this was over-the-top nice. Zussman liked that and he fell asleep.
In the chair beside him, Aiello crossed himself then rested his head on his entwined fingers, his elbows on his knees.
Daniels heard voices and woke up. He was still tired and he saw Aiello on the chair between his and Zussman's bed. He listened as they talked, though he couldn't quite hear what Zussman was saying. Then he watched as Aiello propped Zussman up and fed him. When he helped Zussman lie down again and started to pray, Daniels sat up to give him a break.
"I'm up," Pierson said, arriving at the foot of Daniels' bed. "My turn to sit with him. Go back to sleep. It was long night."
Well, Paul, Daniels thought, taking out his notebook. Who'd have thunk it, but I think our little squad has become a family. Then he laid that aside and closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
Pierson watched Zussman sleep but his mind was on the hundreds of others who were no longer at the camp in Berga. Where had they gone? Zussman was the last person alive at that camp to have any clue, but he was so far gone when they found him. Was he aware enough then to know?
Zussman awoke a few hours later. The others were up, playing cards or reading books that had been provided to help pass the hours. Zussman seemed surprised to see Pierson sitting beside him. His eyes looked so big in his gaunt face. But he looked better than yesterday.
Zussman looked around as well as he could from his bed. Then his eyes returned to Pierson. "I'm sorry, Sergeant," he said quietly. His voice was still hoarse.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Pierson told him. He was puzzled. So much had been done to Zussman. What would possibly think he had to apologize for? "You didn't do any of this."
"If I'd been stronger," Zussman replied. Pierson could see the effort it had taken to push those words out.
Pierson touched his shoulder. "You are one of the strongest soldiers I've ever met. You survived hell."
"You guys saved me," Zussman responded. "I was dying. I lost my hope," he went on "a long time ago." He spoke in phrases, catching his breath between each phrase.
Pierson wanted to ask him about his time in the camp, but given the effort it took to say even one phrase, he decided that would have to wait. "Anybody would. I don't fault you for that. You shouldn't either. In fact, you are welcome to just rest, heal, and gain some weight."
Two days later and Zuss was still sleeping a lot and not able to even sit up on his own. The doctor had finally ruled out contagion and the rest of them were sleeping out in tents inside the gates. But they kept shifts, so one of them was always there when Zussman ever woke up. The medical staff were waking him up after four hours or so to give him something to eat. The doctor had gotten word back from Ohrdruff and was giving Zussman the same sorts of foods they were giving the poor people there. Fewer were dying as a result. But the doctor was getting concerned that Zussman didn't seem to be getting any stronger. Like he was still camped at death's doorstep. Well, maybe one step back away from it but still too damn close.
Dr. Harris had told Pierson they were concerned about internal bleeding, given all those bruises on his abdomen. If there was a bleeder, it was a slow one, which was good. But finding it would be tricky even in a person who hadn't spent the last month and half starving. Putting Zussman through surgery now, especially without a specific target, was very, very risky.
Pierson was on duty again when Dr. Harris tried palpitating different areas of Zuss's bruised torso to see if he could find a spot that hurt worse than the others. "How did you get all these bruises?" he asked casually when he was done.
Pierson watched Zussman's face go pale, and he wasn't sure he would answer. It took a little while but Zussman finally spoke. "Metz could hold a grudge."
"Metz?"
"Nazi leader there," Zussman said. "I called him a piece of shit." He took a breath. "And told him 'Fuck you.'"
Pierson remembered the story from the other POWs was very similar. But they had said the Nazi hadn't seemed to care about anything other than Zuss speaking good German. "He beat you for it?"
"Every day," Zussman said, "for the most part." He breathed again. "Worked too slow." Breath. "Or not hard enough." Breath. "Or he'd just make up an excuse."
"He didn't do this to the others?" Pierson asked, wanting to be clear. The picture of this camp was looking worse and worse with every phrase Zussman managed.
Zussman shook his head. "Not the same." He took a breath. "It was personal. Why I was left behind."
"How can you be sure?" Dr. Harris asked.
"Private Zussman speaks German," he told the doctor. Pierson leaned in closer to Zussman. "What do you mean why you were left behind?"
"He promised," Zussman said, "I'd never leave Berga alive."
"The other four in the clearing?" Pierson asked him.
"They were standing near me." He took a few breaths and his eyes seemed to be seeing something else. "There was a cart for the sick, the weakest. But for us it was 'Warten Sie zehn Minuten und schießen Sie sie ab.'"
Pierson could guess, but the doctor understood it and translated. "Wait ten minutes and shoot them."
Pierson felt sick. Not just because they were that close to losing Zussman but that they were just ten minutes too late to liberate the others. That meant the platoon at the camp hadn't found the tracks. They had to have been almost on top of that camp by the time they found it burning.
"What day is it?" Zussman's question drew Pierson back from his thoughts.
"April 9th," Pierson told him. "We found you on the 6th."
"March 9th the first of us died." Zussman said, still with that faraway look. "Rogers. Goldman the next day. Then Young and Haughton. Simcox and Schultz. I lost track. Acevedo kept a record. He'd know."
"How many died?" Pierson asked.
They were losing him to sleep again. His eyelids were growing heavy. "Buried them outside. Acevedo kept a record."
Buried? Pierson realized he was going to have to go back there. There were more than the bodies on the ground. Some were under it, and most of the prisoners had been marched away. That had to leave a trail in the roads. It couldn't possibly go unnoticed.
Dr. Harris checked Zussman's pulse and listened to his breathing with his stethoscope. He put the oxygen mask back over Zuss's mouth and nose. Satisfied that Zuss was in no further danger, Pierson hurried back to the tent where the others were waiting.
"What is it, sergeant?" Aiello asked, reading the expression off his face.
"Zussman talked about the camp. There are soldier buried there. The ones that died early on. Started dying a month ago today. He said Metz, the leader of the camp, singled him out for having cursed him out here at Bad Orb. Beat him every day. I'm guessing with the butt of a rifle from the look of those bruises. Said Metz kept a grudge. Promised him he'd never leave there alive and sentenced him and four others to die when they evacuated the camp. We missed the others by minutes."
"He said all that?" Stiles sounded impressed.
"Yeah, took a lot of him but he just kept talking." Pierson replied. "Said 'Acevedo kept a record.'"
"Who's Acevedo?" Aiello asked.
"Not sure, another prisoner at any rate," Pierson told them. "I'm going back there. They need to know to look for the graves. Maybe there's a track to follow, from the evacuation."
Daniels stood up. "Davis is supposed to be here tomorrow. To scold us for disobeying orders, remember?"
Pierson looked him in the eye. "Show him Zussman?"
Daniels shook his head just a bit but smiled. "Speaking of, I'm up to sit with him."
Before Daniels could leave the tent, Stiles was on his feet. "I'm going with Pierson." He lifted his camera. "This needs to be documented. This was a crime on so many levels."
Pierson nodded. "Suit up, private. We leave in ten."
"Oh good, Daniels and I get to handle Davis," Aiello commented.
"We'll show him Zussman." Daniels said. "Spot me in five hours or so."
"You got it," Aiello replied and Daniels headed back to the infirmary.