Aftermath
by Philippe de la Matraque
Chapter Eleven: Le Havre, Part II
Zussman tried to tell himself he'd be fine. He was a grown man, not a child, after all. He was in a clean bed in a pleasant hospital far from any fighting or Nazis. This wasn't so bad. He'd had worse. Far worse.
But it wasn't working. He felt so alone now. No visits anymore. His friends were heading home and he wasn't with them. His friends from Berga were someplace else, maybe still in Paris. Maybe also heading home.
If he hadn't been captured, things would have been so different. Daniels wouldn't have been shot. Zussman would never had had the displeasure of meeting Metz or his goons. He would have fought alongside the others. He would've helped take the bridge at Remagen and fought on to the Ruhr pocket and on until the end of the war. He'd be going home with them. The four of them bunking together on the way home like they had on the way over, like they had all the way back in basic.
Or Danieis would have been captured with him. Things might not have gone so differently. Metz would still have come, and Zussman would still have been taken away. Daniels probably wouldn't. He'd have been liberated there in Bad Orb. Maybe he'd have wanted to come looking. Or maybe the Army would have stopped him. And Zussman would have been shot with others on April 6th.
It was Daniels' drive to find him that had caught on with the others, led them to disobey orders. Led them right to him just before that fatal shot. To the end. That's what they'd promised. And Daniels had not forgotten. He'd given up that hero's welcome to make sure Zussman made it to the end.
The nurse came by with a robe and slippers. It was time for a walk. Zussman moved his legs to the side of the bed and slipped his feet into the slippers. Then he let her help him stand up. He was dizzy for a moment but it passed.
"We're going a little farther today," she told him. "Out the door, around the front and back in the far door."
Zussman just nodded. Initially it always felt good to be on his feet instead of lying in that bed. The first few steps were wobbly but they straightened out. She walked beside him as they stepped into the light of the setting sun. There were benches along the path in front of the hospital wing he was housed in. They passed two of them before he started breathing harder. He'd walked every day of his imprisonment when he was starved, choked, and beaten. Why was it so much harder now that he was free and healing?
He really wanted to rest on that last bench, and he knew the nurse would let him. But he wanted to get better so he could go home. Walking farther before collapsing was getting better. So he pushed on.
They entered the hospital wing again and his feet felt like lead to lift. Still, he lifted them. "Almost there," the nurse said, and she did her best to support him as he headed for his bed. He felt dizzy again, but he trusted her not to let him fall. By the time they made it back to the bunk, he was completely worn out. She helped him shrug off the robe and get back under his blanket. She left and came back with a glass of water. He drank it all then sunk into his mattress. He was asleep a few minutes later.
He was pushed to the floor by a rifle butt in his back. The other prisoners lay still on their bunks. The door was slammed shut behind him as he got to his hands and knees. As soon as they locks were set, there were other arms lifting him up, looking him over. The medic tended him as best he could them gave him the evening meal he'd saved for him. It was awful but it was all he had so he ate it anyway. Then he collapsed on his bunk, covered up with the threadbare blanket and tried to lay so as to cause the least amount of pain so he could sleep. Morning came far too fast in Berga.
His mother's letter came a week later. In a box. The box was a hit in the ward. Any patient close enough wanted to watch him open it. It was probably the most exciting thing to happen in their day. Inside, he found a shadow box of his battle ribbons. These would have been worn on his dress uniform. The army had sent them home after his capture. There were chocolates and cookies. He'd have to run those by the doctor, he was sure. They wanted him to eat and grow using healthy foods. There was also a smaller box inside. That's where the letter was, along with photos from the photo albums he'd known since childhood. Along with the letter were three lists. One for his mother's side of the family. One for his father's. It was apparent she'd put a lot of thought and care into it. Everyone was arranged as in a family tree. The third list was of friends they knew from their youth in Stuttgart. The photos all had names written on their backs.
Once he'd seen all the other contents, the put the box under his bed and opened her letter. There was one other photo in the letter. It was black and white but very clearly showed a little white kitten with black stripes. Truman was written on the back. Truman was curled up in a chair.
"That a girl?" Harrison asked.
Zussman turned it so he could see. "Kitten."
"Ah well," Harrison replied. "They're cute, too." He lost interest and the others had gone back to their beds, so Zussman leaned back to read his letter.
May 28th, 1945
Dearest Robbie,
Your last letter was so short. But we were happy to get it. It's good to read that you are walking. You must have been quite sick to only be walking nearly two months since your liberation. That's okay though. You deserve the rest. I want you to get healthy enough to come home.
I was able to get a picture of Truman, but only while he's sleeping. He looks so innocent then. He does like to cuddle when he's sleeping.
The list took a little longer. Do you really think anyone survived? We've received no letters, except from you. They suffered already under the Nazis. Twelve years before the war. And then those camps. Robbie, it's horrible to even think of it. Everyone in the synagogue is talking about it, wondering if the people they knew in Europe are still alive.
Still, like you wrote, maybe we can find some news about what happened to them. If I try hard, I can still see my sister's faces when they waved goodbye to us as we left for America. Little Helene was only twelve. Of course she's older now and married and has three boys. Or she was and she did. Oh, it hurts just to think that they're gone forever.
In happier news, your father got a promotion. He's now a supervisor in the plant. There are new workers, too. Some were soldiers who have now come home. Maybe you can get a job there when you're feeling better. Or you can go to university. You were very good in school. If you study, you could do anything you want. Maybe it's something you can think about while you wait to come home. If you want, I could send you some flyers about the schools here in Chicago. There are quite a few.
I have some sad news, too, Robbie. Your friend, George Jensen, died fighting the Japanese when his ship sank. His mother is anguished. Kirby Stowers is home though. He asked after you. He seems so different now. You three got into so much trouble back in high school.
Well, I should finish so I can get your box posted. I thought you might get another uniform, so you'd need your ribbons. And I don't know if the doctors will let you have the sweets. Share them if you want to.
With all my love,
Your mother
George had chosen the Navy. Kirby wanted to fly. Zussman had chosen the Army. He wanted to go to Germany, to defeat the Nazis specifically. They were the ones persecuting the Jews. They went so beyond persecuting. He hoped George went quickly and didn't suffer.
And no, he didn't really think anyone on those lists was still alive. But maybe someone knew when or where they had died.
Pierson had been busy since the others had left. He had a new squad to get into shape. The Army still had work to do in Europe. But he'd worked it out with Davis now. He had enlisted again but would be on light duty until Zussman went home. He would remain on base so he could visit. But he wasn't restricted to base so he could go to the Red Cross and research Zussman's list. As soon as he had a list.
Before surprising Zussman, Pierson stopped to talk to one of the doctor's. He told Pierson they were getting Zussman out of the bed for a walk every afternoon. Pierson volunteered to help with that. Zussman was up to walking about a quarter of a mile at this point. The doctor warned him not to push Zussman too hard, and to let him take a break if he needed one. But they wanted him to go a little father every couple of days. His abdomen had healed and his lungs were as clear as they would get at this point. There was no way to clean the dust from the tunnels out of them. He weighed about one forty now and was eating full-size meals.
The doctor pointed to the wing, and Pierson set off to find Zussman. Many of the beds were now empty as patients were released or transferred elsewhere. But there were still a few, including on either side of Zussman. Zussman sat up when he saw him approaching.
"Sarge?" he said. "You didn't go home."
Pierson lightly slapped Zussman's legs so he'd move them over, then he sat down on the edge of the bed. There weren't any chairs handy. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Daniels: I am home. Sorry I haven't been around. Gonna do better about that now."
Zussman just watched him for a minute. Pierson couldn't tell if Zussman was relieved to have a visitor or not. "Did you ever get a list from your parents?" he asked.
"Today," Zussman replied. "Lists."
Pierson's eyebrows shot up. "Lists?"
"Mother's side, father's side, some friends. They lived here until their twenties, wrote letters back and forth after, until things got too bad in Germany. Got pictures, too."
"Wow." That was probably more words than he'd heard Zussman say in a month since they'd found him. But it was also more than he had expected.
"Box under my bed," Zussman said and Pierson understood he should retrieve it. He bent over and found it. It was actually kind of heavy, and he wondered if Zussman had had the strength to get it himself. He held the box on his lap but turned so Zussman could get into it.
He lifted out a smaller box. Inside were three folded pieces of paper and twenty or more photographs. He handed the papers to Pierson. "You think you can find them?"
Pierson unfolded the papers. The first two had a sort of family tree in neat penmanship. There were names and even birthdates for some. Zussman had three aunts on his mother's side, their husbands and children, and even some grandchildren. He had a great uncle on his father's side. That uncle had two children, both of whom had married and had children and grandchildren of their own. In a few cases there even the names of spouses and in-laws. He picked up a photo and turned it over. The same neat writing was there, giving names and the date of the photo, even if only a year.
"I never met any of them," Zussman told him. "I only knew them from photos and letters my parents got. We stopped getting letters after the war started. Mom's letters came back unopened. She cried for two days."
"You know," Pierson said. "We saw people in Ohrdruff and Buchenwald. Living skeletons of people. It's easy to forget they had had normal lives before all this. The bodies were just so many, you couldn't see the person in the corpses, you know? But they were people, just like the people in these photos. I'm sorry your family was caught up in this."
"I don't think she expects you to find them alive," Zussman replied. "But maybe we can know how they died."
"May I take these?" Pierson asked, holding up the lists. "I'll see if I can't get a copy made."
"Yeah," Zussman answered. He closed the smaller box and put it back in the big one. Pierson put the lists inside his jacket and put the box back under the bed.
Just then a nurse came by with a robe and some slippers.
"Time for my walk," Zussman said. He wasn't exactly enthusiastic about it.
Pierson stood. "I'll take it from here." He put the slippers on the floor and held out the robe so Zussman could slip his arms in. The nurse left. "So where do you want to go?"
"Not sure," Zussman replied. "Haven't seen much and I can't get very far."
"Okay then," Pierson said. "I'll decide."
Zussman knew that Pierson had changed. He didn't get the full story of why or how. Either way, he still didn't want to appear weak beside the sergeant. Which didn't make any sense, he realized. Pierson had seen him weak since they found him just outside the Berga camp. He'd seen him dying.
Still, he felt it all the same. But Pierson didn't walk too fast to keep up, and he told him about what he was seeing: the pier in the distance, the barracks, the store, headquarters.
Every day, at the same time, Pierson was there and they went for a walk. It became something Zussman looked forward to. Sometimes they talked of little things and other times of not so little things. Pierson even told him what had happened at Kasserine. And it wasn't at all what Zussman had thought. Pierson felt responsible for the men he'd lost, and he even admitted that he'd tried hard not to care about his men this time around because of that.
That explained a lot. It didn't excuse it really. He'd been awful back before Zussman was captured. Somewhere in that time, he'd changed. He cared about his men now.
The day Zussman finally made it to the pier, he drummed up the courage to ask.
"It was Daniels," Pierson confessed as they sat and watched the gulls and ate the last of Mama's cookies. "He barged into my tent wanting back in. I wasn't having it. He'd disobeyed a direct order, and I was drunk as shit. But he stood his ground. Even ripped up his papers to go home. I relented, but I was still a hard-ass, trust me. No, it was his drive to find you. It was contagious. And after Ohrdruff, I just couldn't leave you in Nazi hands either. Then seeing you there on the ground. I realized I did care about the four of you, and it hadn't gotten you all killed. It had saved your life."
Zussman had never dreamed he'd hear an admission like that from Sergeant Pierson. But he had changed and Zussman realized he was lucky to count him a friend.
"Your mom makes good cookies," Pierson told him.
"Yes, she does," Zussman replied.
That evening he estimated Daniels had made it home to Texas, and he'd promised to write. So he told his friend about his walks with Pierson, about getting stronger and his hopes for getting home soon. It wasn't a lot there really wasn't a lot to his life right now. He did ask about the trip back and the baby, and about how he found civilian life after being in battle for nearly a year.
Having done that letter, he decided he needed to update his parents as well, though he had hoped his next letter would say that he was headed home.
He spent far less time sleeping now, and even less time just lounging on his bed. He kept the robe and slippers and sat outside a lot. Never far, so the nurses and doctors could find him when they needed to or it was time to eat.
Three weeks after Daniels had left France, Zussman had finally gotten his papers. He was to be discharged from the hospital that day and from the Army at the end of the week.
He just stared at the notice for a while, stunned. Finally, the Army was going to let him go home. A nurse came for him after lunch. She gave him clothes that reminded him of boot camp. Pants, shoes, a T-shirt. It wasn't even a full uniform. But he guessed he didn't need one just yet. He doubted the Army would put him to work for just four days.
After he was dressed, the doctor appeared. He handed him some papers. Looking them over, they were just advice to stay healthy and eat well. The doctor told him to collect his things, so he put his satchel into the box his mother had sent and picked it up. Then the doctor led him out of the hospital and into the sun. Zussman had no idea where he was supposed to go from there.
Fortunately, he saw Pierson coming to meet him. "Let's find you a bunk in the barracks." Pierson took the box from him and led the way. Zussman knew where it was from the walks he'd taken with Pierson the last couple weeks. "So what are you up to now, buck fifty?"
"One fifty-three," Zussman answered. "Still not my normal weight but I guess they finally think it's good enough to send me home.
"You're stronger now, too," Pierson said. "As for your weight, you'll get there. You might even get fat eating like a civilian."
Zussman closed his eyes for a moment. "When I get home, I'm gonna get a deep dish pizza. Might even eat the whole thing."
They found a room with a bunk, then Pierson said he had to get back to work, but he'd come by for dinner. Before he left, Zussman asked if he'd found any leads at the Red Cross.
Pierson shook his head. "There's new names coming in every day, though. Still might. See you at eighteen hundred."
Zussman looked around. He felt like he'd traded a bed with nothing to do for a bunk with nothing to do. He saw a couple foot lockers on the floor by the wall so he put his box down by them. But he put his satchel over his shoulders. He couldn't leave his letters behind. He decided he'd go for a walk. He knew his way around the base because he'd seen it all before on his walks.
As he walked, he tried telling himself that he could finally be happy. He was out of the hospital and going home. Germany had lost the war. Its leaders were going to be tried in a court for their crimes. He'd survived. He was free. No one could tell him he couldn't go here or leave there.
It all sounded good, but he just didn't feel it. And that night, when he slept, he was back in Berga watching another soldier die.