Aftermath
by Philippe de la Matraque
Chapter Ten: Le Havre, Part I
Things were different in Le Havre. For one, they were back with the First. They were back with their squad, including the newer recruits. Actually, Daniels mused, they weren't new recruits anymore. They were veterans of battle. All of them had seen action, just not as much of it as the five of them.
They were now bunked with their squad, platoon and company. They had duties. Some grumbled but not Daniels. Battle was exciting and deadly. It took away good men, changed some men for the worse, others for the better. It was exhausting and cold and hungry. Life on base was quieter, safer, and comfortable. The duties were as far from deadly as they could get. No one was shooting at you. There were no mines or bombs or machine guns. Well, the guns were there, of course, but they belonged to the winning side, and there were no enemies to fire at here on the French coast.
Given that, Daniels decided he liked base life. He'd been a warrior in battle but he was happy to set that behind him. He'd probably be going home soon, and he had a kid to think of. The only downside was that they couldn't see Zussman as often. Their duties weren't staggered in such a way to allow for one of them to sit with Zuss throughout the day. Daniels made a commitment to himself to stop by every evening after chow.
Stiles was happy there were showers. Aiello loved the food, which wasn't great, but was definitely better than field rations. If anyone was out of place, it was Sergeant Pierson. He'd been a warrior for longer than the other four. He had welcomed the break when they had Zuss to look after. But even then, he was restless and left to find the other Berga POWs. Daniels wasn't sure what Pierson would do now that the war was over and Zuss was not their responsibility any more.
In fact, Daniels wasn't sure what Pierson was doing during the day. He always showed up for dinner though. That was true again today. While most of the other sergeants ate together, Pierson joined the three of them. He sat his tray on the table then worked his way onto the bench. "How's Zussman doing?" he asked after taking a bite of his pork chops.
Daniels told the truth. He didn't have to sugar-coat things with these guys. "It's harder, even though he's feelin' better. I think he's lonely and bored. Too much time to think and he has nightmares."
Stiles huffed. "So do I and I just saw that stuff. He lived it."
Daniels nodded. "Not saying I'm surprised. I just wish I could help somehow."
"You see him every day," Aiello pointed out. "I'm sure that helps a lot."
Daniels nodded. It helped some, sure. But there was so much more it didn't help. Because he hadn't been able to get Zuss off that truck, Zuss had had to endure cold, hunger, overwork and abuse for two months. And they couldn't even punish the people who caused all that because the survivors of Berga weren't allowed to talk about it.
Pierson might have read his mind. "You know they want to put on a trial. Or a series of trials. They want to hold Nazi leadership to account for their atrocities."
"What leaders?" Aiello asked. "Hitler's dead. Goebbels and his wife killed their kids then themselves."
"We got Goering though," Stiles commented. "They'll get some of the others. Himmler is still out there."
"They need to try others, too," Daniels added. "All the commandants of the concentration camps, for example."
"We have caught a number of them," Stiles replied.
"They got Metz," Pierson said, surprising them all. Metz had been the commandant of Berga. He was the one who tormented Zussman and the others. "Caught him a few days after the POWs were liberated."
"I hope they hang his ass," Aiello replied. "Or let me shoot him."
"I'd let Zuss do it," Daniels said.
They all nodded at that. They finished their meal in quiet thought mostly. Pierson stopped Daniels before he left for the hospital. "You know, they're setting up Displaced Persons camps for survivors. The Red Cross is trying to work up lists, help people find loved ones-or find out what happened to them. Zussman had family here, right? See if he can get some names."
Daniels was skeptical. "From Germany? They had years of persecution long before the war even began. How the hell would any of them survive?"
"Some have," Pierson told him. "Not many, but some. Maybe someone his parents knew."
Daniels nodded. It was a long shot but he supposed it didn't hurt to try, even to maybe just learn where they died.
Zussman sat up when Daniels arrived by his bed. They started out with small talk, what Daniels had done during the day, what he'd had for dinner-Zuss was always very interested in food-and how the others were.
Zuss told him he'd gained a few more pounds. And that he'd gotten another letter from his mom. She was glad to hear he was healing well and safe. She wanted to set him up with at least three young women in the synagogue when he gets home. He even smiled at that part. Daniels hadn't seen him smile much since he'd been captured. But the smile faded quickly.
"They're not sending me home," he said. "Not for a while. A long while."
"None us know when we're goin' home," Daniels told him. "I'm chomping at the bit to see Hazel and meet my son. Man, it feels strange to say that!"
There was that smile again. "You're gonna be a good dad."
"I hope so," Daniels admitted. "I wasn't there for Hazel when he was born."
"She had your folks," Zuss reminded him.
Daniels felt overwhelmed by homesickness now. He felt bad for Zuss because he felt it, too. Daniels had his duties to keep him busy most of the day. Zuss had lying in his bed. "They getting' you up and movin' yet?" he asked to change the subject.
"A little," Zuss repiled. "Hadn't wanted me to pull my stitches. But they came out yesterday."
"I'll bet you're still sore."
Zuss nodded. "Back when I was having trouble just breathing, I almost forgot about my spleen. I remember now."
"Well, if the stitches are out," Daniels commented, "you're definitely healing. It can only get better from here."
"Don't jinx it," Zuss warned. "I think Aiello told me that back in Bad Orb."
Daniels chuckled. They talked about different things until Daniels had to go. Then he remembered what Pierson had said. "Hey Zuss, when you write your mom back, ask her for a list of names, everyone your folks cared about who were still in Germany."
A lost sort of expression filled Zuss's face and Daniels realized that had been his normal expression since Berga. "You can't think any survived. Jews were dying in Germany long before the war even. Then they shipped 'em all out to ghettos and death squads and camps."
"Pierson's been talking to the Red Cross," Daniels told him. "They're getting information, making lists to help people find information or maybe even each other. There are German Jewish survivors. There's a chance. Or maybe just something to know instead of not knowing."
Finally, Zuss nodded. "I can ask."
The nurses were making their way down the rows of beds, shooing out visitors so the patients could get some sleep. Daniels took the hint. "I'll see you tomorrow," he told Zussman.
Zuss have him a quick, small smile before that lost look settled onto his face again.
Daniels made it back to his barracks just before lights out.
"How's he doing?" Stiles asked from his bunk.
Daniels shrugged. "He smiled a couple times."
"That's something," Aiello said.
If Zussman turned just right, he could catch a weak beam of light from the window behind him. He held his mother's letter up to it and tried to read but it wasn't enough to make out the words. He'd have to wait until morning. He folded the letter carefully and placed it back in his satchel before tucking the satchel under his pillow.
Instead, he tried to remember the pictures his mother had shown him growing up. The ones of her parents, her sisters, and their families. Another album held his father's families' photographs. His grandfather was a veteran of the Great War, his grandmother, a rabbi's daughter. Zussman's father was an only child, but his grandfather's brother had a large family. Six children, all married and with children of their own. Zussman had grown up an only child, too. He had no grandparents or aunts or uncles or cousins. Not people he could meet or hug or talk to. Those photos had been his parents' way to show him he was part of a very large family after all.
Over the years, as letters passed between the US and Germany, new photographs had come and ones of their little family had gone. He tried to picture the faces from those photographs again. Surely the older ones had perished and probably the very young. But maybe some of his cousins had beat the odds and survived. Then he thought of the gas chambers and thought maybe not. Had they starved in the ghettos? Been beaten to death before they were sent away? Maybe they had fallen ill and passed in the night. Or had they been shot in a ditch with dozens of others? Or packed into a shower room where water wouldn't flow and they choked to death on gas?
He closed his eyes. He didn't want to think of them like that. He didn't want to imagine being inside a gas chamber. Berga had been bad enough.
He tried to think of happier things. Anything besides Nazis before the meds kicked in and he fell asleep. He forced himself to think of puppies and kittens, of going to senior prom with Carol Klein. But always Berga and Metz forced their way through those happy thoughts as soon as his concentration waned. And by the time he was dreaming, he was back there once again, stumbling through the door of the barracks.
He felt hollowed out by the time he woke up. The morning sun was streaming in the windows, filling the room with light. His stomach growled and rumbled. He let go of the bad dreams that had held him at night and waited, focused on his upcoming breakfast.
As evidence of his healing body, his meals were getting bigger and more complex, though less frequent. This morning he was excited to see pancakes on his tray. There was a pat of butter on top and syrup dripping off the sides. Another small plate held hash browns, and he had milk to wash it all down. Until he swallowed the last bite and drank the last of his milk, he felt he was in heaven. He wanted to lick the left over syrup off the plate but resisted. He wasn't a child and he didn't want to explain to his fellow patients how he'd starved for two months.
When an orderly came by to take his tray, Zussman pulled his satchel from under his pillow, wincing a little as he twisted around. Aiello had managed to get him some stationary so he could write letters when he wished and not just read them. Stiles had found him a couple pens. But he wasn't ready to write yet. He wanted to read his mother's letter again.
May 14, 1945
Dear Robbie,
We were so happy to receive your letter! I wish I could have been there to nurse you through your sickness. But I pray for you every day. Every day. Now that you're getting better, will they send you home to us? Some soldiers have started coming home. Darla Johnson's husband came back. I saw them at the market together. He was rail thin but smiling and happy. I want that for you, Robbie.
Do you remember Carol Klein? She asked about you after services on Saturday. You and she made such a handsome couple your senior year. And Martha Goldstein, the rabbi's daughter, is back on leave. She looks smart in her Army nurse's uniform. She's stationed in France. Maybe the hospital where you are? And Marie Hoffman asked to see your picture again. She seemed pleased when I told her you were liberated and will come home soon. I hope.
I think about my family from time to time, Robbie, and your father's. We've had no letters for years now. I fear they are all gone, and we three are all that is left of our families. I see the pictures in the newspapers and it hurts so much to think about how so many people have suffered and died. The numbers are staggering and they grow and grow as more people are found, alive or dead.
But, oh, let us write of happier things! Your father is so relieved to hear from you again. His shoulders don't slump anymore. He smiles again. He laughs. I even caught him singing along with the radio.
Mrs. Herzel's cat had kittens two months ago and we've taken in one. He is such a silly little thing! It's nearly impossible to be sad when I watch him frolicking in a sunbeam or batting his little ball around the room. And he looks so sweet when he's sleeping. We named him Truman, after the president. Your father hopes he'll make a good mouser. He looks like a tiger, except he's white instead of orange. I admit I fell in love at first sight. Maybe I can send you a picture if he'll sit still long enough.
I must stop now if I'm to get this to the post office before it closes. I don't want you to wait any longer than necessary for your letter.
We love you, Robbie. Never doubt that. Please come home to us and meet little Truman. Come home to me.
With all my love,
Your mother
He loved the way she jumped from one thing to another. She always had when she was excited. Or worried. He would go home today if they'd let him, and if he could walk farther than ten yards without assistance.
"Letter from your girl?" the patient to his right asked. Harrison was his name.
"My mom," Zuss answered.
Harrison smiled. "That works, too. My last was a 'Dear John.'"
"Ouch. That's rough," Zussman told him. "I don't have a girl back home, not that my mom isn't already working on that."
Harrison started to laugh but ended up coughing and the conversation ended there. Besides there was a visitor making the rounds. Colonel Davis was stopping to speak with each of the men for a few minutes. Zussman tried to sit up straighter when it was his turn.
"As you were, Private Zussman," Davis ordered. "I'm very glad you're still with us, son. And back with us."
"Thank you, sir," Zussman said. "It's good to be back." He decided to risk being honest. "It'd be better to be going home."
"In time," the colonel replied. "We don't even have a uniform you could fit in at this point. You'll get there. I promise." Then he reached into a pocket and pulled something out. "You were stabbed in Normandy. But you left the hospital a week early, it seems. So you didn't get this then." He held out the object. "So I wanted to make sure you received it now."
Zussman took it. It was a purple ribbon with a heart-shaped medal bearing the bust of Washington. A purple heart. "Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome. You're a good soldier, Private. You fought well." Then he stood up straight and saluted before moving off to the next man.
Zussman held his medal up to the light. For being wounded in conflict. Not for his later wounds. Those hadn't come from armed conflict. Still, it meant something that the colonel had gone back to make sure he got this. Now he had one more thing besides his letters. He opened his satchel and pinned his purple heart inside to keep it safe. Then he pulled out his papers and a pen. He sat them on the satchel so he had a somewhat stiff surface to write against.
He still couldn't tell his mother everything. So he told her about the purple heart-for getting stabbed back in June last year. He told her about being transferred to Le Havre. He could do that now that the war was over. He told her that he was getting better, that his stitches had come out and he was able to walk a bit now. He told her mostly he was bored and looked forward to her letters. He missed them both and wanted to come home, but he had to heal more and get stronger first.
Let her just be happy for a bit, he felt. Help her let the worry she'd felt since his capture (or maybe earlier) fade away because she knew he wasn't sick anymore. Don't let her know how much he wanted to be home in his own bed, half a world away from Berga and the Nazis. Don't let her know that he couldn't walk far without wearing himself out. And, most of all, don't let her know what he suffered or that would start her worrying all over again.
He didn't mention the women from the synagogue. He wasn't ready for anything to do with romance. Not when he probably weighed less than they did. And Carol had only gone to the dance with him because she thought he was just enough of a bad guy to be interesting without being too dangerous. What would she think of him now?
So he thought instead about what Daniels had said. Get a list. Zussman knew the names of his grandparents, the first names of his aunts and great-uncle, but beyond that he hadn't kept track. They were family but people he'd never meet. They were faces in pictures. He had felt no real affinity for them, beyond worry for them along with all the other Jews in Germany as things got worse. That young man in Berga had said his whole village was gone. Would it be the same with his parents' families?
'Mom, can you give me a list? All the names of your family back in Germany? And Dad's? The Red Cross is trying to make lists of everyone, so people can maybe find out what happened to their loved ones or if they survived. It's a long shot, for sure, but maybe we can do that. Maybe we can find out what happened to them.'
He signed the letter and sealed it. He addressed it and left it on the table beside his bed. The staff here would make sure it got posted. It wasn't even noon and he still needed to figure out what to do with his day. He tried to list his options. Nothing, nothing, or nothing. Or sleep. And sleep meant going back to Berga. Still, he yawned. To his left and right, the other men were sleeping.
Zussman wished he could just close his eyes and wake up like he used to be: healthy and strong. Then he'd be with his squad doing whatever the Army deemed needed doing. He wouldn't be hungry all the time, hurting all the time, and haunted by two months of his life that were worse than the other seven months that should've been. The months when he was doing dangerous things, getting shot at, getting stabbed, getting yelled at by Sergeant Pierson.
Instead he missed that. Not the danger, really. But the purpose, the brotherhood. After he got stabbed, he spent seven long weeks without his squad. He'd survived Omaha Beach. He had that in common with all the other guys laid up in the hospital. They talked about it, about home, about girls, about life. They could commiserate and sympathize with each other.
Now he felt he had nothing in common with the patients here. They'd been shot, or blown up. They'd survived the Ardennes and Remagen. They'd fought together. They hadn't been captured. Hadn't been singled out by Metz. Hadn't been starved, forced to work in thick, choking dust. Hadn't been beaten every day. Hadn't had to watch fellow prisoners die one after another after another. What could they possibly talk about? They probably wouldn't even believe him if he did tell them.
Then he realized this would be how it would be at home, too. Most of the people there wouldn't have been in battle, let alone Berga. There would probably be a lot of veterans at least. Maybe even some who liberated a camp. Maybe they would understand. But not Berga. Maybe he shouldn't be in such a hurry to get home.
Feeling morose, he laid down and turned over on his side. He closed his eyes, thinking how he'd eventually be strong enough to get out of this bed and walk out the door. He'd gain his weight back and look more like his old self. But he could never be his old self. He felt like his body was just a shell and he'd been hollowed out. Acevedo had told him to live a good life. How? How when he couldn't smile for more than five seconds. When he couldn't feel satisfied after a meal? When he couldn't figure out how to leave Berga behind.
Shouldn't he be happy now? He was free. Germany had lost the war. He got good food to eat, appropriate medical care, friends who visited. Heck, even Pierson was a friend now. He was able to read and keep his mother's letters. He could breathe again for the most part, and his stomach was healing. Why couldn't he just be happy?
He felt the days start to bleed over from one to the next with little to keep him from thoughts like that. There were occasional visits from Stiles or Aiello, daily ones from Daniels. And there were the times they got him up to walk. Other than that, he was in that bed watching the light from the windows move across the opposite wall.
The nightmares when he slept were constant. Yet his body needed the rest and he slept anyway. It was always Metz or someone dying, or both. He wished he could just forget and never think of it again. It was just two months of his life. Two months! He was twenty years old. Even if he took away all the months he'd been in war he'd lived nineteen years of his life in relative happiness. Why should two months ruin that? But he still couldn't change how he felt or what he dreamed at night. Happiness wouldn't come and Metz kept winning.
And then he got the news that the others in his squad were going home. Stiles had told him. Daniels had hemmed and hawed around it until Zussman told him he knew. Stiles had also told him of Daniels' offer to be discharged as a war hero after his injury months before and how he'd ripped it up to get Pierson to let him back in to fight. Zussman didn't understand that. He could have been home for the birth of his son. Or he could have died in the fighting. He'd risked a lot. There was still no word when Zussman would get to go home.
His present life just wasn't giving him much to be happy about.
Daniels stood with Stiles and Aiello and looked up at Colonel Davis. He expected a good speech. He'd done well enough at the start of all this.
Davis's voice rang out over the loud-speakers. "When history called, you answered. From all walks of life, you came to defend peace and freedom. I thank you. The world thanks you. And wherever your path takes you, know this: You will always be amongst a brotherhood of heroes."
Well, he was right. Good speech and a short one at that. As the crowd of soldiers broke up, the three of them stood together. Aiello spoke first. "This is it, fellas."
Daniels held out the St. Thomas medallion to him. Zussman had given it to him the evening before. "Zussman wanted you to have it."
Aiello made no move to take it. "Eh, you'll need it more than me. You got a kiddo now."
It was still a lot to take in. He was a father! "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said, pocketing the medallion.
Aiello dismissed that. "Aw, you'll be fine." He picked up his bag. "Gentlemen." He turned and as he walked away, he pumped his fist in the air and called out, "Queens! Your prodigal son returns!"
Daniels shook his head, smiling. Stiles chuckled aloud and bent to pick up his own bag. "Well, are you gonna be okay?"
Daniels thought he must have noticed he hadn't brought his own bag yet. "Gotta say goodbye to Zussman," he explained.
Stiles saluted someone, so Daniels turned and saw Pierson arriving. Daniels saluted, too, and Pierson saluted back. "Sergeant," Stiles acknowledged before heading for ship that would take him home.
"Goin' home, Sergeant," Daniels asked and wondered where that was exactly.
"I am home," was his answer. "What about you? You gonna re-up?"
Daniels thought about his boy, and Hazel. She'd kill him if he postponed coming home again. "I've been away from Texas for a long time."
"You take care, Farmboy," Pierson offered.
"I will," Daniels said. "And when my son asks what I did, I'll tell him I fought with the First and that crazy bastard Pierson."
Pierson nodded and started walking away. "Crazy ain't the half of it," he threw back.
Left alone then, Daniels turned toward the hospital. He was homesick and couldn't wait to hold Hazel and look at the face of this little boy. But leaving Zussman behind wasn't what he wanted. They'd arrived together. They should have left together. It wasn't fair to Zussman.
Zussman sat up when he approached. He had gained a few more pounds but he still seemed frail and thin. Daniels could nearly see his ribs through the t-shirt he was wearing. And he could tell that Zussman was trying to put a brave face on. He knew that Zussman was already having a hard time being alone most of the day. Now even his best friend was leaving.
They managed small talk at first. Daniels told Zussman about the Colonel's speech and Aiello's boisterous departure. He asked his Zuss's mom had sent a list back. If she had, it hadn't arrived yet.
They both sensed it was time. Daniels still had to get his pack from the barracks. "If you're ever in Chicago," Zussman began.
"I'll get there," Daniels assured him. Before the war, he'd never even thought he'd leave Texas, let alone go to a big city like Chicago. Now he'd been halfway across the world. Chicago didn't seem so far.
"Or maybe I'll surprise you in Longview first," Zussman said, pulling Daniels out of his thoughts.
"You're welcome anytime," Daniels told him and he meant it.
Zussman's eyes took on a faraway look. Daniels realized the small talk was over. "You know," Zussman began, "when they captured us, wasn't just our freedom that they took. Even though we were together, you know, we were alone, looking for any way to survive." Daniels heard the anguish in that, the truth he could barely begin to fathom. "But you," he went on, "you 'coulda gone home a hero. Why'd you come back?"
Oh didn't he know? Daniels straightened up then relaxed against the bed again. "I saw that life." A life where he left his brothers behind to fight and Zussman to die. "I just couldn't live it." He held out his arm to Zussman just like they used to do. "To the end."
Zussman put his arm out. They met once then again to hold on for a shake or two. "To the end."
Then it was time. He had to go. Daniels reluctantly let go of Zussman's arm. He felt bad leaving.
"Give my love to Hazel and your boy," Zussman said, letting him go.
Daniels nodded. "I expect you to write," he said. They had all shared contact information.
Zussman offered a small smile. "If I'm still here, they'll be a very boring letters."
Daniels smiled back. "I'm sure they'd get better over time." Outside a siren blared. He had to go. He sighed then nodded at Zussman who nodded back. He left the hospital and dashed for the barracks. He made it onto the ship just before they pulled the gangplank up. Stiles was waiting on deck. "Saved you a bunk."