Aftermath
by Philippe de la Matraque

Chapter Seven: Paris…and Chaims

Being in Paris had its perks, Aiello decided. Women being one of them. But besides beautiful, thankful women, there were restaurants and cafes, newspapers, even the Louvre was open and free for GIs. Given, most of the reading material was in French but the Stars and Stripes was in English, and he found a small bookstore with books in English. He bought a few. Zuss was gonna be sick for a while yet, so they needed stuff to read to him.

Pierson spent most of his time away. Said he was looking for any word on the rest of the Berga POWs. He was as dead set on finding them as Daniels had been on finding Zuss. Stiles left a lot to take pictures. Paris had a lot of stuff worthy of pictures, like the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame. There was a lot of history in the city. It was very different from New York.

Aiello split his time with Daniels. One would bring the other back some food. It was a good pattern so far. Doctors assured them Zuss was better today. He paid more attention when he was awake, so that was something. Technically, they were assigned to temporary duty with the Medical Corps here. But so far, they hadn't been needed. They had some bunks with the orderlies to sleep in. It was in a building next to the hospital. The other soldiers there hadn't seen combat but they had seen the casualties of it. And Germany still hadn't surrendered. But here in France, the atmosphere was cleaner in a way. Freedom, Aiello supposed. It was in the air.

Aiello stopped in a little cafe and bought a couple pastries. It was nearly time to change spots with Daniels. He entered the hospital and found Daniels sitting out in the hall. He yawned and Aiello handed him a pastry.

"They're working on him in there."

"I figured," Aiello said, sitting down beside Daniels. "No worse, I hope."

"No, but not much better. And he's back to eating soup."

Aiello sighed. "He's gonna be so sick of soup by the time he gets home."

"Yeah," Daniels agreed. He took a bite of his pastry. "He just keeps getting knocked down. What's gonna hit him next?"

"Maybe this is it," Aiello told him. "The last thing. Maybe he's gonna get through this then just get better. We gotta think the best, you know."

Daniels shook his head. "You're right. He's gotten through everything else. He got stabbed. He got through that."

Aiello nodded. "Exactly, and he got through the surgery, not to mention that camp. He's got doctors and nurses now, medicines and equipment. He's gonna make it here, too." He was telling himself as much as Daniels. He was worried, too, and had to remind himself that thinking the worse wouldn't help anything. "It's so different here," he said, changing the subject. "The buildings are still here, for one. But the people are happy. So different than Germany."

"Winners instead of losers." Daniels took another bite. "But the regular German people didn't see—or didn't want to see—what the Nazis were doing. The French people here were victims, too."

Aiello pulled the novel from his pocket. "I found a little book shop with English books. We can read it to him."

Daniels took it and read the blurb on the back. "Good idea. I was running out of things to talk about." He handed it back.

Aiello saw that Daniels had finished his pastry. "You should get some sleep. I'll keep him company."

Daniels nodded toward the door. "After they finish."

Dr. Zelewsky noted the temperature on the patient's chart. 102 F. That was new. He'd presented with chills but no fever. Could be a good sign of his body fighting the infection. But it still warranted a close watch. This patient was not out of the woods.

He was in pitiful condition. Even without knowing the POW camp he'd been in, Zelewsky could understand that it had violated the Geneva and Hague Conventions. He looked like a concentration camp survivor. Zelewsky hadn't seen any camps, but he'd seen pictures. He didn't envy the medical personnel trying to keep those poor thousands alive.

He sighed. At least he only had one. He ordered another dose of sulfonamides and left the room. Two soldiers were waiting in the hall. He wasn't surprised. He'd seen the four of them arrive. Apparently, Zussman was part of their squad.

The corporal stood up. "How is he?"

"Not great but he's obviously a fighter, so I wouldn't count him out yet." Zelewsky didn't want to give them false hope nor did he want to dash what hope they had.

"Can we see him now?" the other asked.

"In a bit," the doctor replied. "The nurses are changing bandages, bathing him and the like. When they're done. Keep him quiet though. When he gets coughing, it's hard for him to stop."

"Got a book to read," the private said.

"That'll work." Zelewsky was curious. "How did you manage to find this one prisoner in all of Germany who was from your own squad?"

"We were looking for him," the corporal, Daniels, said as he sat down. "After Remagen, we disobeyed orders and took off looking. Found the first POW camp he'd been in. They told us about Berga."

"Most of the prisoners were gone," Private Aiello added. "Only found dead—in the camp. We followed tracks and found some that were being shot. Daniels shot the bastard doing the shooting them just before he killed the last one."

Zelewsky smiled. "And he happened to be your guy."

"Yeah," Daniels said. "I'm not sure what I would have done if I'd been too late. Still feel bad about the other four."

"Well, he's lucky you were disobeying orders after Remagen." Zelewsky wondered how much they knew of Zussman's internment. "He knew he had pneumonia. Was he a medic?"

Daniels shook his head. "No. He probably saw it in the camp. They were forced to work in tunnels, cleaning up debris after the Germans dynamited it. They had to breathe in the dust."

Zelewsky nodded. "He did mention a name. Several others died then?"

"Plenty," Aiello told him. "When we got to the camp, there were at least fifteen bodies."

Zelewsky was feeling uneasy. "These were POWs?"

"Three hundred and fifty of them," Daniels replied.

That shouldn't have happened. Well, everything the Nazis had done shouldn't have happened, but there were international laws about prisoners of war. Germany had signed the Geneva Conventions. Besides, the allies treated their German POWs well because they expected they were treating the Allied prisoners the same. This was a war crime.

His face must have shown his feelings because Aiello said something. "Yeah, it was wrong. But shouldn't we be just as horrified by all the other innocent men, women, and children they did the same to or worse? They'd crossed so many lines, they probably didn't give a rat's ass about this one."

That was perspective. Well, he couldn't do anything for those other victims. "I will do everything I can to help your friend."

"Thank you, Doctor." Daniels yawned after that.

Behind him, Zelewsky heard the nurses finishing up. "I'm guessing you're up, Private Aiello."

The nurses left with their cart, and Aiello put on his mask, took the book from his pocket, and entered the room.

Daniels stood and offered his hand to Zelewsky, who shook it then walked with him to the end of the hall. They went different ways. Zelewsky went to find La Pierre while Daniels, presumably, went somewhere to sleep for a few hours.

Zussman slept off and on for the rest of the day. When he was awake, he was aware of the difficulty in breathing. When he was asleep, the difficulty infiltrated his dreams. Perhaps he was swimming but being pulled under by the current. Or he was working, but the dust was so thick and constant that he couldn't see his friends nor get out of the tunnels for a clean breath.

When he was awake, he was aware that one of his friends was with him. But he was confused. Sometimes, it looked like Aiello or Daniels, like he was in a real hospital with white walls and real mattresses. Other times, it looked like Acevedo or another of the medics in the dark, filthy barracks in Berga.

Presently he saw Aiello's eyes above the face mask, heard his voice as he read a book. Zussman tried to focus on the words of the book but it was hard, so he just held on to the voice. Just hearing Aiello's voice made Zussman want to fight for the next breath. He was not alone.

Pierson felt bad leaving Paris with Zussman still in bad condition, but he wasn't able to find any information on Berga this far behind the lines. If the Germans were trying to keep their prisoners from being liberated, they had to be taking them deeper beyond those lines, west of the Russian but east of the other Allies. That space was closing fast, so every day was a chance they—and thousands of others—would be found.

So he and Stiles had left with the jeep the day before and drove back into Germany. They went from one encampment of Allied soldiers to another, asking about survivors of death marches, especially those who were POWs. They got a lot of incredulous responses. No Allied prisoners would be in death marches. Maybe Russians. Well, that meant they hadn't heard of the Berga POWs, so they moved on.

Two days after they left Paris, they got a lead. A corporal had heard from a friend in another company that a cousin in the armored division had found a dozen or more emaciated POWs. Pierson got names and specific divisions and platoon information. And finally, they found themselves in Chaims, Germany at 1330 in the afternoon.

It took a little convincing, but they were finally allowed into the hospital that was purportedly treating the former prisoners. Pierson asked for Acevedo, the one with the record, and the only name he knew of the prisoners that hadn't died before they had found Zussman. A nurse led them up a flight of stairs into a long room with beds. On each bed was an incredibly thin soldier, some with dog tags, some without.

Pierson asked if there was an Acevedo there. One of the starved men raised a hand. "Who's asking?"

Pierson and Stiles walked past the other patients and came to the foot of Acevedo's bed. "I'm Sergeant Pierson, of the Bloody First."

Acevedo squinted at him then pointed to his shoulder. Pierson turned to show him the patch on his left shoulder. "I think I've heard of you," Acevedo said. "Can't say any of it was good."

Pierson laughed. "I don't doubt it. Well, things have changed."

"If you're looking for Zussman," Acevedo said, not without a hint of sadness, "he's not here."

"Oh, I know." Pierson felt some pride to say that. "We found him just outside the camp, earlier this month."

"I'm sorry. We did what we could for him."

They didn't get it. "Oh, he's alive last I checked."

That surprised Acevedo and the others within earshot. "What? They were going to shoot him and four others."

Pierson let his pride go. "They were shooting them. Three were shot before we got close. We heard the shots. The fourth was shot in the back as he tried to run. Daniels popped the German just before he shot number five. And five was Zussman."

Acevedo smiled. "Daniels? So he's not dead either?"

Pierson put his hands on the footboard of Acevedo's bed and leaned forward. "No, but I can see why Zuss wouldn't thought he was. He was badly injured when Zuss was captured. He recovered hell-bent on finding Zussman."

"Which he did," another prisoner commented. "Small world."

"Yeah," Stiles said. "We missed the rest of you by minutes it would seem."

The one on the other side of Acevedo spoke up. "Ten minutes or so. Guard was told to wait ten minutes then shoot."

Acevedo brought their attention back. "How is he?"

Pierson sighed, and looked around at their faces, their bodies. "Worse than you."

"But you found him weeks ago," left-side said.

Pierson nodded. "True, but he was not in a good state when we found him."

"No, he wasn't," Acevedo confirmed.

"We got him cleaned up, got some soup into him. He was more lucid but that was about it. Slept a lot, still incredibly thin. A few days later, he doesn't wake up. His spleen had ruptured, causing internal bleeding and he was whisked off to surgery." Acevedo groaned. Pierson continued. "Started to heal from that and now he's fighting pneumonia."

Right-side whistled. "Man, can't catch a break."

"You weren't listening." Acevedo was talking to right-side but he was looking right at Pierson. "His own squad found him just before a bullet to the brain. That's one hell of break."

Pierson nodded. "Yes, it is. And he's gonna make it. He's in a good hospital in Paris with Daniels and Aiello by his side. I believe he'll get through this. It's just going to take him a while."

Left-side sighed. "Just like the rest of us."

Acevedo relaxed into this mattress. "I'm glad. Zuss was dying, you know. He wouldn't have made it two miles on that march. A lot of us didn't make it here."

Person lowered his voice. "I figured. Three hundred and fifty were transferred."

"One seventy," Acevedo whispered. Then he spoke up. "We're not supposed to talk about it."

That hit Pierson hard. One, that Zussman had been dying when they found him. Two, that so many were lost even after they left the camp. And three, that they'd been ordered not to tell anyone. He lowered his voice further. "He said you had a record."

Acevedo nodded. "We had to sign a document." He eyed the chair between his bed and the patient to his right.

Pierson took the seat and Acevedo produced a worn diary. Pierson read it quickly, skimming where he could. The day by day of their struggles made it real so that he could imagine Zussman living that life. He was saddened by the losses, angered by the Germans' cruelties, and surprised by the prisoners' contact with the underground. He noted they got Red Cross packages twice, and letters from home on at least one occasion.

"You got letters," Pierson whispered, handing the diary back. "Did Zussman get any? He got real upset when we mentioned letters."

Acevedo leaned closer. "He got one," he said in a whisper. "Metz didn't let Zuss have his, or any of the Red Cross packages. He burned Zussman's letter right in front of him."

Pierson thought he knew from what Zussman had said, but he asked anyway. "Why? Why did he treat Zussman differently?"

Acevedo explained. "Zussman is a Jew, and he called Metz a Nazi piece of shit. Said 'Fuck you' to his face." He relaxed again. "Some of us saved a bite or two of our share of the packages. Once lights were out, I gave them to him. Put those bits in his hand there on his bunk. We could only help him in small ways like that."

"We learned fast." Pierson turned around to hear the other guy's whispers. "Day one. After work, we're set to march back to barracks. Guard comes up to Zussman and plants the butt of his rifle in Zuss's gut on Metz's orders. Zuss goes down. Guy behind him tries to help him back up. Guard pushes that guy back, and Metz kicks Zussman in the face. Another protests, they hit Zussman again."

That angered Pierson. A hand on his arm turned him back to Acevedo. "Metz wanted to break his spirit before he killed Zussman. Sometimes Zuss couldn't make it back with the column after his beating. He had to make it back under his own power, you see. But he always did. Until that letter. That's what finally broke him. That's when he started to die." He leaned closer. "So I'm glad you found him when you did. Even if the other four didn't make it. Metz promised Zussman he wouldn't leave that camp alive. You proved him wrong. And I'm glad he has you."

Person suddenly wanted to get back to Paris. "I'm glad I get to go back and tell him I found you."

Acevedo smiled and stopped whispering. "Do you have a paper and pen? I think I'd like to write Zuss a letter."

Stiles stepped closer. He pulled a pad from his pocket along with a pen. Acevedo looked him over. "Glasses, camera. You must be Stiles."

"That I am," Stiles replied. He leaned in close as he handed over the paper and pen. "And you know, someday, they're not going to care about that document you had to sign."

"Someday," Acevedo repeated.

Pierson stood. "We'll be back in the morning for that letter." He turned to leave.

"It was nice to meet you both," Acevedo said.

"Likewise," Pierson said. He decided he was okay with waiting until morning to head back to Paris. That night he sent a report to Col. Davis telling him one hundred and seventy had been found alive and asked about Zussman's condition. Davis was still keeping tabs on him.

He got his response two hours later. Davis was diplomatic, perhaps having heard of the document the former POWs had had to sign. He acknowledged the liberated prisoners and told him that Zussman was still fighting pneumonia though his condition had improved. It was good news, and when they climbed back in the jeep the next morning, he felt good to be bringing Zuss back a letter from his other friends.