Aftermath
by Philippe de la Matraque

Chapter Eight: Paris, Part I

Daniels waited for the nurses to finish with Zussman. He had the morning shift today. When he entered the room, Zussman was sleeping. He did that a lot, and quite frankly, Daniels welcomed it. It wasn't that he didn't want Zussman's company. It was more that Zuss was somewhat at ease when he was asleep. He didn't have to try to breathe. His body just did its best in that regard, and if it couldn't, it woke him up. When he was awake, his breathing was very labored, and Daniels could tell Zussman was trying not to cough.

The nurse on duty in the room smiled. "Fever's lower today. Might just break."

That was good news. If his fever broke, it could mean the pneumonia was going away. Beside him, Zussman jerked awake. Daniels supposed that was one downside to sleeping. Zussman wasn't having good dreams from the look of things.

"Morning," Daniels offered. "Feeling any better?"

Zussman turned his head to look at him. His eyes still looked dazed. He held up a hand with his thumb and forefinger close together. A little. Well, a little better was better than worse.

"I ran into Rousseau yesterday," he told Zuss. "Can you believe it? We went to a cafe for coffee and to catch up. She's real happy the Germans are out of France and losing the war, but kind of frustrated with politics right now as France tries to set up a new government. She asked about you."

Zussman's hand went to his chest. He was listening.

"Yes, you." Daniels laughed a little. "She called us the 'train wreckers.' Asked how you were doing. I sugar-coated it."

Zussman nodded. He was okay with that.

"She's engaged, by the way," Daniels said, keeping up the small talk. "Fellow resistance fighter. Lost his wife in the occupation. So they have that in common."

"Paris?" Zuss whispered.

Well, maybe no one had told him, or he was too confused when they did. "Yeah, we're in Paris. Looks a lot different than last time we were here. People are a lot happier, for one. You've been here four days now."

Daniels told him about the weather, the nearby shops, really anything he could think of to fill the time. Zussman fell asleep again before noon. Aiello took over then, and Daniels was free to find some lunch and to seek out new news, things he could share with Zussman later.

He returned in the afternoon and was surprised to meet Pierson and Stiles in the hall as they headed toward Zussman's room.

Aiello put the book away and left when the nurses came with Zussman's soup. Zussman wanted more than soup but was also afraid he'd lose anything he ate as his stomach was still somewhat upset. And he was wearing this oxygen mask to breathe easier. It would have been really messy if he vomited in the mask. But the soup stayed down and he felt sated for now. That feeling never lasted long.

He watched the nurse leave and was surprised to see Pierson, Stiles, and Daniels all standing in the doorway. He remembered seeing Daniels regularly by his bed, but he didn't remember seeing the others here in Paris.

Pierson held out a folded bit of paper. He wasn't wearing a mask so he didn't come in. Aiello retrieved the paper. "We got something that may help you feel a bit better," Pierson said.

Aiello returned to his bedside and handed him the paper. Zussman unfolded it. There were three pages. It was a letter. The letter itself was relatively short. It told about the march from Berga and the libertation of the other POWs. It said that Metz had abandoned his post, riding away on a bicycle. The rest was signatures and well wishes from Acevedo, Gouldin, and all the other survivors.

Zussman looked up at Pierson. 'You found them?" he asked, risking a coughing fit that, thankfully, didn't come.

"Well, we didn't liberate them," Pierson explained, "but we did find them the day after, in a hospital in Chaims, Germany."

Zussman tried to remember the names that weren't there, the faces of the men he'd known in the camp. He wanted to count the names but there were so many. "How many?"

"A hundred and seventy," Pierson replied.

Out of three hundred and fifty! He was too tired to do the math but that was more than he thought. It was less than half. One fifty would be half of three hundred. Twenty-five more for the fifty. So one seventy-five would be half. That meant one hundred and eighty had died. It hurt to even imagine it. But he'd seen a lot of them die. He'd lost count, had his own issues to worry about.

His anguish must have shown. Daniels spoke up from the doorway. "Concentrate on the ones that made it. For now." He turned to Pierson. "How were they?"

"Way too thin," Pierson replied. "Acevedo's diary said he lost half his body weight. But most were able to sit up, carry a conversation. They signed that letter."

Better than him. He couldn't sit up on his own. He could hardly speak three words without coughing deep in his lungs. He could barely breathe. Hell, he couldn't think straight half the time. He looked back through the names, recognizing some of the men that he'd gotten to know fairly well, like Acevedo. He found seven.

Awhile later, Daniels was sitting in the chair and the others had left. Zussman looked at his letter again. Then he handed it to Daniels to read. When he was done reading, Daniels ran a hand over his face. "They were my squad, too," Zussman whispered to him. That was too much and he began to cough, which got the nurse up from her chair.

Once he could breathe again, Daniels put a hand on his arm. "I get that," Daniels said. "You guys went through that together, life and death. I don't think Pierson, Stiles, Aiello or I can ever even understand or imagine everything that happened to you there." He held up the letter. "These guys can."

Zussman understood that. He couldn't fully grasp what that young man had experienced in Auschwitz. He could get closer than most other soldiers, but Berga had already seemed like hell to him. To that young man, it was better. Better. And still, he probably died on that march. The POWs had seen hundreds of bodies of the civilians who'd been marched out before them.

But Daniels had had a point. There were one hundred seventy men alive who had shared his hell, lying in a hospital in Chaims. They were tired, hungry, but alive. And Zussman wanted to be with them in that. He wanted to stay alive. Thinking too much on the dead wouldn't help.

Now that there were four of them again, the medical staff put them to work. There was always one with Zussman, but the others ran errands, did manual labor, and helped provide security when necessary. That was mostly drunk GIs getting into trouble, and Pierson was really good at straightening them out. Sometimes they just helped other patients by reading letters or helping them write them.

Seeing some of the other prisoners struck Stiles with just how lucky the four of them had been. True, Daniels had nearly died after Zussman was captured, but he recovered and still had all his body parts. There were guys here without a leg, or an arm, or blinded for the rest of their lives. The four of them were still walking and talking.

Their fifth was still struggling, and Stiles remembered he'd been stabbed once before. Still, he'd come back early and fought just as well as the rest of them. Stiles hoped he'd come back from this, too, someday.

The fever had broken on the 27th, so he was on the mend, which was great. But what he'd seen and been through would haunt him for a long time yet, even after his body finally healed. Hell, Stiles still had nightmares about the camps they'd seen: Ohrdruff, Berga, Buchenwald. They gave him the images. The newspapers and newsreels gave him the scale. Camp after camp was being found. Hundreds of thousands of survivors, millions of dead. Medical experiments done on conscious prisoners. Men, women, and children maimed. Men killed so tattooed skin could be made into lampshades.

It was like a horror novel. If he'd read it, Stiles would have dismissed it as over-the-top and unrealistic. But he'd seen enough to know that it had happened. The Nazis had made these horrors real. He had the photographs to prove it. He and others. The world was going to know this was real, and Germany was going to have to answer for it. Somehow. Somehow more than losing the war.

Pierson had shared with Stiles what the Berga survivors had said about Zussman and Metz that night in Chaims. Zussman had said as much about why Metz had treated him differently, but to hear from the others how he was beaten every day and punished if anyone helped him openly, well, that had made it more real. To know he had to stand out in the cold while the others enjoyed their Red Cross packages, or that Metz had burned his mother's letter, well, it just seemed so needlessly cruel on top of what Berga already was. So many had died even without that singular treatment.

Stiles was roused from these thoughts when a soldier he didn't recognize stopped in the doorway. "Got a letter for a Private Zussman."

Zussman was still asleep, and he couldn't get out of bed to get it, so Stiles met the soldier at the door. "I'll take it for him."

The soldier handed over the letter and left, quickly. Probably thought Zussman was contagious or something, especially since Stiles was wearing a mask over his nose and mouth, too. As he walked back to his chair, he looked at the return address. It was from a Mr. and Mrs. Robert Zussman, Sr. Stiles smiled. So, Zuss was a junior.

When Zussman woke a half-hour later, Stiles handed him his letter and stepped out of the room. He didn't go far, just out into the hallway. But he figured Zuss needed some semi-privacy. (The nurse was still in there, after all.) A letter from his mother had broken him. Maybe this one would save him.

April 24, 1945

Our dear son,

Robbie, we were so worried! Every day we feared a car would stop in front of the building and two soldiers would come knocking on our door to tell us we lost you. We'd seen it happen to the Goodsons and the Bakers down the street.

Then we got news of your capture. It wasn't good news, but you were alive so we could manage. Darla Johnson's young husband had been captured a year before. She said he was treated well and out of the fighting. She wanted him home but she didn't have to worry about that car. And she could write him letters and he could write her back.

I wrote you letters, Robbie. But I didn't get any back. Did they realize you are Jewish? Did they keep my letters from you because of that? They hate us so much!

Then I got a letter from Colonel Davis. He said you had been liberated. He said your health had been affected. Robbie, are you okay? Please, please, write to me and let me know you're doing better. Robbie, please come home soon. Your father and I will take care of you. Oh, my baby boy, my heart hurts knowing you hurt. I wish I could kiss away all your hurts like I could when you were just a small child.

I fear we are now just a small family of three, that your aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins are all lost. You're all we have left. But as long as we have you, we'll be okay. You are the world to us. We pray for you every day. Every day. When you come home, I will hug you for a year, at least.

Your father thinks of you often, wonders about your battles, the long nights in hostile country. But he goes to work. So many of his coworkers have sons in the military. Some even have daughters in the war. They share what they know with each other. I have the synagogue. We mothers share our worries and prayers.

We do our part at home, still. We save our tin cans and made do with our ration cards. I help out at the Red Cross, putting packages together. We get the paper every day. We know we're winning the war in Europe. We read the stories of the camps. We knew there were anti-Semites in Germany. We jumped at the chance to come here to America. We could see that the Nazis were becoming more popular. But we never dreamed in our worst nightmares that Germany would go so far as to try and murder all the Jews in Europe.

It used to be a beautiful country. I used to think that someday, after the Nazis were gone, we'd go back and visit family, take you to meet them. Now I know I will never again step a foot on German soil.

I'm sorry for rambling. I should try to cheer you up. Marie Hoffman has asked about you several times, you know. She remembered you from high school. I showed her your picture. How handsome you looked in your uniform! You will always be the most handsome young man I have ever seen. Your room is just as you left it, waiting for you to come home. I'll make your favorite meal when you get home. I just want you home. I want you to get well, Robbie. Get well and come home to me.

If you can't do that right away, please write me back.

With more love than I can ever express,
Your mother

Zussman turned away toward the wall and read it again. He could hear her voice, her accent even as he read her words. He could see her face, the stains on the paper where her tears had fallen. He could see his father, standing strong behind her with his hands on her shoulders while he kissed the top of head.

Tears filled his own eyes. He sniffed, hoping the nurse wouldn't notice. She did. She left her chair and touched him gently on the shoulder until he turned. She slipped the oxygen mask down to his chin and handed him a handkerchief. He turned back and used it. It was a little harder to breathe but he could still catch some of the oxygen coming from the mask. He felt her sitting in the chair behind him. She would keep him safe. So he turned back to the letter and let himself imagine that hug from his mother. He let the tears come.

When he was all cried out, she wiped his tears and replaced the mask. He was so tired. He folded the letter, held it close to his chest, closed his eyes and fell asleep. He dreamed of home.