Aftermath
by Philippe de la Matraque
Chapter Nine: Paris, Part II
Doctor Zelewsky was happily surprised by the patient's recovery since he received a letter from home two days before. They had taken him for x-rays, and the films showed his lungs were clearing. He was more alert and slept less. He engaged with his friends and the nurses. He still had a long road to recover, especially where his abdomen was concerned, but it seemed he was beating the pneumonia at least. That letter had bolstered him.
Still, the pneumonia wasn't completely gone yet, and his immune system was still wrecked from malnutrition. His abdomen incision was healing albeit slowly. He'd be in this hospital or another for weeks to come. Still, Dr. Zelewsky could start to plan for how to help him rebuild his body once the infection left for good. For now, he was going to keep him isolated from the other patients, and keep his visitors in masks to protect him from further infection. But perhaps he was ready to go back to some soft foods and not just soup.
What really surprised him was the arrival of another one hundred and seventy emaciated former POWs. They had been treated in a hospital in Germany since they were liberated. They were in bad shape though most weren't as critical as Zussman had been. These men were in fairly high spirits, though the nurses told him they exhibited distress at times. It was apparent they had been though an ordeal though none of them would talk about it. There were so many of them, they took up two floors. A few were in more dire straits and were moved to double occupancy rooms. They made it clear they did not wish to be alone.
Dr. La Pierre was assigned a couple dozen or so of the patients, still, Zelewsky had requested more doctors.
La Pierre looked up from some of his charts. "Do you think these men came from the same camp as Zussman?"
Zelewsky shrugged. "Can't be sure if they won't say. Though I do remember seeing a letter with a lot of names in his hands. So it's possible. Maybe Sergeant Pierson knows something. I know he left looking for someone and came back with that letter."
La Pierre closed the charts. "I suppose it doesn't matter so much. It won't change their treatment. It would only satisfy curiosity on our part."
Aiello picked up a copy of the Stars and Stripes newspaper before he headed back to the hospital. He had picked up supplies from a depot north of Paris. He browsed the headlines as he usually did. But one caught his eye. He turned off the jeep's engine. Adolf Hitler was dead.
The article was short on details, not surprisingly. But it went on to say that the war would have to end soon now that the Führer was dead. Aiello had no trouble agreeing with that sentiment. He put the paper aside and started the engine. He thought Zuss might really like to hear the news.
But when he got back to Paris, he guessed everyone in the city already had the news. The streets were crowded with people, smiling people. Kissing people even. Aiello parked the jeep.
"You heard?" one of the soldiers asked as he started unloading the supplies.
Aiello held up the paper. "It's a good day!" he said, heading inside. He bounded up the steps all the way to the fourth floor. Pierson was sitting with Zuss this time. Aiello didn't have a mask so he stopped at the door.
"The paper's a good read this morning," he said, smiling and holding out the paper. Pierson came and got it. He scanned the headlines as he walked back to the bed.
"What's up?" Zussman asked.
"Wait for it," Aiello told him.
"He's dead!" Pierson stopped walking, staring at the paper.
"Who's dead?" Zuss's voice was a little distorted behind the mask. But he was talking and not coughing, and that was something.
Pierson handed him the paper and pointed to the story.
Zuss's eyes went wide. "Hitler is dead?"
Aiello laughed. "They're practically dancing in the streets out there."
"Couldn't have happened to a meaner son of bitch," Pierson said. "Doesn't say how it happened."
"Does it matter?" Aiello asked. "With no Das Führer, Germany can't last much longer."
"Der Führer," Zuss corrected. "It's masculine. 'Das is for neutral things, like a window."
"Or a chair?" Pierson said.
Zuss shook his head. "Der Stuhl. Chair is masculine, too."
"Huh?" Aiello asked. "A chair is an it, just like this door."
Zuss smiled behind the mask. "Door is feminine. I didn't make this up. Everything is either feminine, neuter, or masculine. With people, it's easy. Other stuff, you just have to memorize."
The nurse in the room laughed softly. "My folks are from Czechoslovakia," she said. "Door is plural in Czech."
"One door?" Aiello asked, leaning in to look at her.
"Dveře jsou otevřené," she said. "Jsou is the plural form of the verb." She pointed to the floor. "To je podlaha. Je is the singular form."
"Questo e semplicemente pazzo," Aiello said.
Pierson crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, the only language I know is English and there is only one door and it's an it."
Everyone laughed. Aiello finally waved. "I better get back to work."
Zussman's condition had improved enough that he was back to eating solid but soft foods. He was able to see his visitor's faces, and even leave the room once in a while, though in a wheel chair. The first time, Stiles had given him a tour of his wing of the hospital. The second time, Daniels had wheeled him out into a small park on the hospital grounds. A nurse tagged along that time. There were other patients out in the park. It felt nice to let the summer sun warm his face. He wasn't completely able to breathe the fresh air as he was still on oxygen. He didn't have a mask over his mouth and nose at least. It was just a tube that had two openings in his nostrils instead. He preferred it as it didn't get in the way when he ate.
He still felt like coughing fifty percent of the time and he was weak. He could barely walk to the toilet, and, even then, he needed assistance. It hurt his abdomen quite a bit so he didn't mind the help. But he was rarely confused, and felt warm enough.
The park had green grass and a little fountain with goldfish in its pool. There were other patients relaxing out there, soldiers in pajamas and robes just like him. Some had visible bandages, some were missing limbs. Life would be very different for them going forward. Besides his emaciated state, Zussman didn't carry any wounds on the outside. Yet he knew his life wasn't going to be like it had been going forward either. He couldn't go back to the life he had left. When he was in Chicago, he was a child. He wouldn't have admitted that then. But he was nineteen, just out of high school. He was brash and brave and full of pride. Now he was a man who'd lived through hell under the Nazis. A man completely dependent on others to survive at the moment. Who'd seen his friends die in battle and then in captivity. Who'd felt the weight of anti-Semitism in a way he'd never imagined in his worst nightmare back then. He couldn't see himself as brash anymore. He didn't feel brave. He felt weak and fearful. He had nightmares about Nazis coming into the room, forcing him to go back to work in the dust-filled tunnels. He couldn't stomach the thought of facing one again for real.
But for four months, he had thought the man behind him, his best friend since joining the Army, was dead, and yet he had saved Zussman's life. Aiello, who had openly expressed racist and anti-Semetic beliefs, was a devoted friend. And Pierson. Pierson was a mean bastard who cared only about the mission and not the men under him. He had become a thoughtful commander who disobeyed orders for weeks to find Zussman-and the other Berga POWs. Stiles. Well, maybe Stiles was the one of them to change the least.
Maybe the whole world was going to be different now after what Germany had done.
Paris was one big party. Germany had finally surrendered and Aiello was enjoying the atmosphere. He wished Zuss could enjoy it with him. He and the other Berga POWs and many of the other wounded were stuck in the hospital. Still, they all got the good news, and Zussman was finally declared free of pneumonia. No more masks and he was able to eat a better variety of soft foods. He still wasn't what Aiello would call happy, but he was happier than before. He remembered too much, had too much to remember. Aiello couldn't blame him. He had the things he'd seen. Zuss had had to live through those things.
Aiello paid for dinner and left the cafe he'd been sitting in. The French had decent food but they couldn't beat his mom's cooking back home in Queens. Maybe now that the war here was over, he'd go home and see her soon.
The party atmosphere lasted for days in the city, but the hospital went back to same-old-same-old pretty quick. Some patients were sent back to England for treatment or home to the States. Zuss wasn't one of them. He'd probably still be thin when he did go home, but the Army apparently wasn't letting him go without packing on some serious pounds. With the war over now, Aiello worried if Zuss would have to stay after the rest of them were shipped home.
To that end, they got orders to move to Le Havre. All five of them. So at least they'd stay together for a while longer.
Zussman felt better than he had for weeks when he got the news he was being transferred again. He still couldn't breathe as well as he could before the work in Berga, but he could manage without oxygen, and he had more energy. His abdomen still hurt when he moved, and he couldn't walk the length of the hall without wearing himself out. But he could walk that far unaided. And he was allowed to eat small meals of fairly normal food now, like spaghetti and meatballs, bread, and even the occasional sweet pastry. He could drink water, juice, or tea. He had milk for breakfast, but it made it a little harder to breathe without coughing for an hour or so after.
He spent more time in the courtyard park now. He enjoyed the weather, the fresh air, the trickle of water in the fountain at the pool. He was sitting on a bench there while Stiles went to get a newspaper when someone else sat down beside him. It took him a minute to recognize the thin, mustached man beside him.
"It's good to see you," Acevedo said. "Your sergeant said you weren't having an easy time of it."
Zussman offered the medic a light smile. "No death march, but yeah, I was pretty sick on top of everything else."
"Did they make you sign a document?" Acevedo asked, looking around them in case someone else was listening. Stiles had told the rest of them about the paper the other Berga POWs had had to sign.
"No," Zussman replied. "Guess the powers that be haven't figured out I'm one of you guys."
Acevedo nodded. "That's not a bad thing. Talking it out can help, I think. Just don't make a public thing of it. Might get the rest of us in trouble. Or they might put two and two together and make you sign."
Zussman nodded. "They sending you home soon?"
"Not so soon. Lost so much weight it would bring questions. Questions we're not allowed to answer and ones the Army doesn't seem inclined to."
"They're sending us to Le Havre," Zussman told him. "Tomorrow."
"Could be a good thing," Acevedo replied. "The farther you are from the rest of us keeps you separate. And it's on the coast. Might mean they'll be shipping some soldiers home."
Zussman wasn't sure how he felt about that. Would Daniels and the others go home without him? They were all from different parts of the country. Aiello was from New York, Stiles from Philadelphia. Daniels had a farm in Texas. He had no idea where Pierson was from.
It was the same with the guys from Berga. Would any of them see each other again after they went home? This was possibly the last time he'd get to see one of the others. "Thank you," he said. "The little things you guys did, you helped me keep going."
Acevedo smiled. "We all wished we'd done more. For you, for the others that didn't make it." He chuckled and leaned back. "Still hard to believe your own squad got you just in time."
"Yeah," Zussman agreed. Even if they had been looking for him, the odds they'd find him right when they did were pretty low. "Kind of fuzzy for me," Zussman admitted. "Thought I was dreaming, that Daniels had to be dead and Pierson was acting worried. Couldn't be real."
Acevedo laughed again, louder this time. "Yeah, when he and Stiles came to see us, I couldn't believe he was the monster you'd described."
"He's changed," Zussman told him. "Don't know when or why, but he's not so bad now."
"'Cause we've met real monsters?"
"More than that," Zussman told him. "He's more mellow. He's nice."
"He was very concerned about you," Acevedo commented. "Even though he left to find us."
"He didn't used to be concerned about any of his men," Zussman said. He shook his head. "It's almost like he's a completely different person."
Acevedo sighed. "I think maybe we're all different people now. I can't imagine going home and just being who I was before. That guy was naive, definitely thought he was immortal."
Zussman chuckled. "Didn't we all? I was just out of high school. I was trouble-maker."
Acevedo got a good laugh at that one. "Not sure that's changed. You did call Metz a piece of shit."
"Paid for it." Zussman leaned back against the bench, too. "I'd seen anti-Semitism," he admitted, "back in Chicago. Nothing like that though. Never dreamed it could go that far."
"None of us did," Acevedo said. "Thought some of the stuff in the papers was just propaganda, exaggerated. Now I know it didn't even do it justice."
Stiles returned then. "Oh, hi," he said, seeing Acevedo sitting there. He was pushing an empty wheelchair.
Acevedo sat up. It took Zussman a little longer to do so. "Just catching up with Zuss here," Acevedo said.
"You're looking better these days," Stiles offered.
"I feel better. Still hungry," he admitted. "I think I could be three hundred pounds and still be hungry all the time."
Zussman could agree with that.
"On that note," Stiles said, "you're in luck. 'Cause I think they're getting dinner ready. I need to get Zuss back. It was good to see you again."
"Likewise," Acevedo replied. He turned back to Zussman. "Whatever happens, live a good life, Zuss. That's your revenge on the Nazis."
Zussman transferred to the wheelchair for the ride back. He held out a hand to Acevedo. The medic shook it. Stiles handed him the paper, then turned him back toward the hospital.
After dinner, Zussman asked for pen and paper. His mother had been waiting for a letter, even if he wasn't sure what he would say. Stiles gave him both then said he was going for a walk. Zussman knew he was just giving him some privacy. Zussman started by writing the date: May 11, 1945. He had a hard time holding his hand steady so it didn't come out very legible. He scribbled it out and tried again. If he wrote slow enough, it came out better. He wrote the date, then just "Mom." He wanted to tell her everything and only a hint. Everything would make him feel better but it would make her worry more. Besides, if the Army read his letter, the other POWs might get in trouble. Or he would.
So he told her a half-truth. He'd been sick since he was liberated. He ruptured his spleen then got pneumonia. He'd lost a lot of weight in the meantime. The Army was trying to get him healthy again. But his body was weakened and he could barely hold the pen.
That skirted things well. He had been sick. He just left out the starvation and the dust and the beatings. He wanted to let her know why he hadn't written. This time the truth was more than half. Maybe three quarters. He told her he was sorry he didn't write her sooner. But the Germans hadn't given him her letters. And yes, it was because he was Jewish. Captivity was hard and he was happy to be free again. He let her know he'd seen in the news that Hitler was dead and that Germany had surrendered. He'd read about the camps. He knew that it was true, all of it. Germany had to be punished for what they'd done.
He wanted to finish on a hopeful note, to ease her mind. So he told her she shouldn't worry. The pneumonia was gone and he was getting a little stronger every day. He was in a hospital with good doctors and pretty nurses. He had his friends to keep him company.
The whole letter felt shallow compared to the one she'd sent. But it was what he could manage now. If he told her more, he felt he would have to tell her everything. And he couldn't do that to her. Maybe when he was home, he could tell her.
He folded the letter and wrote his home address on another piece of paper. Then he tucked it under his pillow and set the pad and pen on the chair beside his bed. Stiles came back a few minutes later. He stayed another hour, then it was time to sleep. As Stiles went to leave, Zussman held out his letter and asked him to post it for him. Stiles promised to do so before they set out in the morning.
In the morning, Daniels came in carrying his tack and an extra satchel. "I know you don't have much," he told Zussman, "but I thought you might like someplace to put your letters."
The nurses came for his vitals and to change his bandage. His incision was looking better at least. He hoped he might get the stitches out before they left. The doctor arrived when they were finishing up. He checked Zussman's chart then dropped it to his side. He smiled. "At last you're leaving in a better state than when you arrived," he said. "If only all my patients did."
"That mean I can go home soon," he asked the doctor.
The smile faded. "I think you've got a while yet. It's hardly been a month since your surgery. And your last weigh-in came in at only one ten."
Zussman understood though he didn't like it. He was tired of hospitals, tired of lying in bed. He wanted to be like before, when he was healthy and fit and could go anywhere he pleased.
But his stomach still hurt when he moved and ached sometimes when he didn't. He lost all his energy very quickly over even light exertions. He was so hungry, he felt dizzy just sitting up. And there was always irritation deep in his throat or in his chest that threatened to send him coughing again.
He was down for seven weeks after getting stabbed while otherwise healthy. Now he had a long incision across his abdomen and he was anything but healthy when it happened. He wasn't getting over this for a long time yet.
Aiello came in with a wheelchair, while the doctor gave a hefty stack of files to Daniels. "Those are for the hospital in Le Havre," the doctor said. He handed a smaller set next. "This is for the ambulance. Give it to the lead medic. Pierson and Stiles will be driving. You two will assist the medics with whatever they need."
"Understood," Aiello confirmed. He set the brakes on the wheelchair then reached to help Zussman into it. The nurse there then tucked a blanket onto his lap and handed him his satchel.
The doctor turned back to Zussman. "With luck, you won't have any more pitfalls and will just get better and better from here. You've been through a lot, but you survived all of it. Remember that. Good luck, Private Zussman." He held out a hand and Zussman shook it. The nurse smiled and Aiello pushed him into the hall.
In a few minutes they were on the ground floor and out onto the street. Unlike the park in the courtyard, the street was lively with happy people going about their business. Daniels went to the lead medic while Aiello helped load patients in the ambulance and Zussman waited his turn. He looked around at the buildings and people. One woman sitting in a cafe across the street caught his eye. She had dark hair and looked familiar. She caught his gaze and smiled in recognition. It was his turn, but she held up her cup and tilted her head toward him before he lost sight of her. The realization hit him. "I think I just saw Rousseau," he told Daniels as he helped him into his bunk.
Daniels smiled. "I might have told her we were leaving today."
It was a long drive so Zussman and the other patients slept most of the way. Another truck followed them. It had a few patients and more supplies. They stopped every few hours so the medics could administer meds and such. Zussman always woke up when they stopped. That's when he got food. Aiello and Daniels were kept busy then.
They arrived late in the afternoon. Zussman could see a large Army base out the back of the ambulance. He didn't see civilians anymore, just soldiers. He had to wait his turn again when they stopped. He managed to slip the strap of his satchel over his head and shoulder. He didn't want to lose it in the confusion of activity.
Finally it was his turn, and he was helped down from the truck and into a wheelchair piloted by Aiello once again. He wheeled him into the hospital and a brightly lit, long room with rows of beds on either side. "No more private room, I'm afraid," Aiello commented. "But this one is bright and sunny. Can't be all bad."
There were large windows behind the beds and they let in bright light from the sun just starting to set. Aiello helped him into the second bed from the door and on the left side. He helped take off the satchel and place it under the pillow. "I've gotta go help the others. We're probably going to busier here on base," Aiello told him. "But we'll be by to visit as often as we can."
A doctor arrived soon after Aiello left. He didn't say much as he checked the charts but his eyebrows did raise as he read. He checked the incision in Zussman's abdomen, listened to his heart and breathing with his stethoscope. Finally, when he was done with the examination, he spoke. "I did a few weeks in Buchenwald. Can honestly say, I didn't expect to see one of our soldiers in the same state as some of the survivors there."
Zussman didn't say anything. He hadn't asked a question after all.
"Still," the doctor went on, "looks as though the worst has passed. No more internal bleeding and the pneumonia has cleared up. What you need now is to heal and to grow. How does six meals a day for a week or two sound?"
Zussman was paying attention now. He nodded.
"Small meals, mind you. We'll see what you tolerate. Eventually, they'll get bigger and less frequent until you're on a normal schedule. Maybe in a few weeks, we'll get you up for short walks, start building your strength back up. Sound like a plan?"
Zussman nodded again. A month after his liberation, he was finally getting good news from a doctor.
"Right then," the doctor said. "We'll send a nurse by in a bit with something to eat."
He was as good as his word. Not fifteen minutes later, a nurse came by with warm, buttered toast, a bowl of apple sauce, and some milk to wash it down. Things were looking up. He even ate the crusts. The apple sauce was sweet and a little on the chunky side. The milk was cold and creamy. It felt good to have so many flavors in one meal.
Still, once it was gone, he wanted more. And he got sleepy. The nurse helped him lay down again and tucked the blanket up over his shoulders as he yawned.
In his dream he was not laying on a bed, warmed by a blanket and the rays of the sun. He was lying on the cold, hard, snow-covered ground after getting knocked down by Metz on his way back to his barracks. The side of his head hurt, but he pushed himself up on his elbows. Metz knelt down to get at his eye level. Zussman glared at him. He was never going to let that son of a bitch win.
Metz stood and kicked him in the gut, which knocked him down again. "Du musst Deinen Platz lernen, jüdisches Schwein."
Zussman tried to ignore him and concentrated on getting back to his feet. It was harder and took longer than he liked in front of this Nazi.
"Aber immer noch sagt dein Gesicht, 'Fick dich'." He backhanded Zussman but Zussman still managed to stay on his feet this time. He took a step toward the barracks.
"Ich werde dich davon befreien, bevor du heir abreist." Metz told him. "Und der einzege Weg, auf dem du hier wegkommst, ist der Weg zu deinem Grab."
Finally Metz walked away and the guard who'd stood back watching caught up with him again.