Fear Mountain

by Mike Dellosso

  When my vision returned I noticed the leader was back in front of me. He repeated his command again, this time with forced patience.

  I looked at him through tear-blurred eyes and said, “I . . . I don’t understand. No German. Nein Deutsch.” I didn’t want to let on that I understood some German, though I honestly had no idea what he had asked.

  He reached behind his back and slipped out a knife. I’d seen the knife before in newsreels at the theatre and in books I’d read about Nazi Germany. It was a German trench knife, used by foot soldiers of the Third Reich. My heart stuttered in my chest and the sound of blood coursing through my ears was almost deafening.

  He held the knife to my neck, under my chin, and pressed the blade against my skin, not hard enough to cut, but hard enough to let me know it could cut.

  It was then, with him standing over me, blade pressed against my neck, that I noticed the symbol on his belt buckle. The symbol of Hitler’s Third Reich—the swastika held in the claws of an eagle. Across the top of the buckle were those familiar words: Gott mit uns. I shifted my eyes to the other three, standing to my right, all now smiling coyote grins, arms crossed against their chests, and noticed they were all wearing the same buckles, the same swastika, the same declaration of God’s presence.

  A chill tingled its way down my back like insect legs. The pillbox. The German language in heavy accent. The gray clothes . . . uniforms. The trench knife. The swastikas. These were not Nazi sympathizers, German-Americans supportive of the radical Aryan cause. They were Nazis. German Nazi soldiers here in America. My mind spun, and my mouth went dry. I tried to speak but my throat had closed on me. I felt like I was drowning, like the walls had turned to water and the room had formed a giant whirlpool, pulling me in, pushing me under, swallowing me whole. Around and around the watery walls spun and I, in the eye of the vortex, sank lower and lower, helpless, hopeless.

  I was the prisoner of a band of Nazis. A prisoner of war.

  15

  The big Nazi started rambling off words at a faster pace than I could keep up with. Knowing what I now knew—that I was in the company of a rogue band of Nazi troopers—I thought it best to pay attention to every word spoken, dig deep into the recesses of my brain, and try to translate as much as I could. Just in case I escaped and reported their presence to the authorities.

  Escape.

  The idea seemed so foreign now, like a dream where you’re chasing something, trying to grab hold of it, grasp it in your palm, but it is always just out of reach, just beyond your fingertips. And no matter how fast you run or far you reach, it is never close enough. Would I escape? Would I survive this? I’d heard of the atrocities of the Nazis in Europe. I knew what barbarities they were capable of. And I knew that it would not be beyond the conscience of these four brutes to beat, torture, and maim me.

  With the knife still pressed against my neck reminding me of my own mortality and how quickly life can be extinguished, even my life, the Nazi continued to rant and holler. I could only pick up a word here and there, translate it, and store it in my mind. But while I was flipping through the files in my head and translating, I missed so much more.

  I was able to pick up that he was asking me if I had a Gewehr, a gun. I shook my head no, and he dove into another rapid-fire succession of German words I’d either never heard before or couldn’t understand. But three words I did pick up that made the blood in my veins run cold were Vater (father), alter Mann (old man), and morden (kill). At the sound of that last word I could swear my heart stopped beating, or if it continued its steady rhythm I was wholly unaware of it. Either he was saying he would kill my father and the old man or he’d already killed them. I prayed it was the former.

  In a quick motion that caught me by surprise, the German removed the blade from my neck and replaced it behind his back. He stood erect and glowered at me with those murky eyes, as if he were contemplating, wrestling with himself, what he should do with me. I decided then that I had to stay alive. If Dad, Pop, and Henry were still alive I was their only hope.

  The Nazi turned his back to me and stuck out his hand toward the other three. The smaller German slipped a black Luger from his belt and handed it to him. With his back still facing me, the leader fiddled with the pistol. I could hear metal sliding against metal, then a solid click. When he turned around, he was holding the pistol in his right hand, shoulder level. A wicked grin stretched across his face, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

  I swallowed hard past the tightness in my throat and said a quick prayer. This was it. I was going to die right here in a stranger’s house somewhere on Bear Mountain in western Maine. In America. And I was going to be killed, execution style, by a German Luger in the hands of a Nazi. In America. If not for the fear that had pierced my heart like a pitchfork, I would have laughed at the irony of the situation.

  And I was certain that when he was done with me, my kin would be next.

  The monster lost his smile and his face became stone. Cold, detached, hard stone. He took one step forward and placed the barrel of the Luger against my left temple. I shut my eyes and imagined my brains spattered against the plaster wall to my right. Strangely, I wondered if I’d feel anything, a jolt or thump or knock. I wondered if I’d feel any pain. Or if my brain would be dislodged from my head before it could even process the neural signals.

  Seconds ticked by and nothing happened. I dared not open my eyes for fear that that was what he was waiting for and as soon as my lids lifted he would pull the trigger.

  Then I felt his breath against my ear and, in his gravelly voice, he said, “Ich werde dich töten.” I’m going to kill you.

  Again seconds ticked by. The room was silent and still and the only sensation my body registered was the cold hard barrel of the Luger still snug against my temple. I thought of Mom at home on the farm pulling a loaf of fresh-baked bread from the oven, her hair tucked back into a tight bun, apron dusted with flour. I pictured a light breeze combing through the wheat field, bending the stalks in running waves, as Henry sat behind the wheel of our tractor, his hat tipped low on his brow. I thought of Pop, sitting atop his John Deere, waving me up to sit with him, and Dad smiling after he delivered a calf. I thought of Aaron somewhere in France and hoped he would survive to take care of Mom. My time had come.

  “Ich werde dich töten.” He said it again in a low voice, almost a whisper. Then the barrel’s pressure increased against my temple, and I heard a click. I flinched and my heart jumped but nothing happened.

  Moments later the room filled with laughter. I opened my eyes and saw the two thick-shouldered Germans slapping each other on the back, enjoying a good chuckle at my expense. Anger flared inside my chest and heat poured down the back of my neck. “Let us go,” I hollered, not caring what repercussions my boldness might bring. “You’re crazy! I’m an American.”

  At that, the leader stiffened his back and approached me again. He leaned forward, and I saw a shadow of hate flash in his eyes. “Dummen Amerikaner,” he said, spraying spit in my face. Then he raised his hand and brought it down hard on the side of my head. My neck snapped to the right, and stars danced before my eyes. The laughter resumed, and I heard the four Germans exit the room, leaving me alone with a thundering headache and a spirit that was clinging to life.

  No more than ten minutes passed before the smaller of the quartet poked his head around the corner and gave me that coyote smile again—wide, flat grin, ears pulled back, eyes narrowed—and nodded at me. He disappeared for a second then entered the room, walking lightly on the floorboards. He sat Indian-style on the floor across from me, clasped both hands in his lap, and leaned forward like a child ready to share a secret. His skin was an odd off-white, almost translucent, which made his eyes look even darker. His beard covered most of his jaw line but was patchy and thin; he couldn’t have been any older than Aaron. Somewhere in Germany there may have been a seventeen-year old thinking about his older brother in some forest in America, wondering if they would
ever be reunited. But chances were my German counterpart wasn’t in the hands of psychotic American bandits.

  Coyote licked his lips with a small pink tongue and began to slowly rock back and forth, a look of wonderment brightening his face. Suddenly, he stopped and leaned forward again. “I vas at Auschwitz.” He said it in broken English in a low voice laced with excitement, like it was a Christmas secret he could keep no longer from me.

  “You speak English,” I said.

  Coyote looked surprised that I would make such a statement, like I had deeply hurt his feelings. “I vent to University,” he said. “to study music.” His eyes dropped to his hands, and he studied his long, slender fingers for a few moments. “I apologize my English is not better. Is very difficult language to learn.”

  “Who are you?” I asked, hoping to get some information out of him, some explanation of how four German Nazis came to be wandering around the woods of Maine and why they would take four Americans captive.

  “At Auschwitz, ze first thing you see when you enter the compound are the vords Arbeit Macht Frei.” He looked at me with wide eyes. “Do you know vhat they mean, ze vords?”

  I absently answered, “Work makes one free.”

  “Ja. They think vork makes one free, but they are wrong. It is lie. Only death frees.” He looked around the room, then found something interesting about one of his fingernails, picking at it with the thumbnail of his other hand.

  “Why are you here?” I tried again to pry some information from my new friend.

  Instead of answering my inquiry, Coyote clasped his hands again and smiled at me. “Oh, ze people ve set free. Millions. An ocean of souls, trapped in dying bodies, that ve . . . I . . . had great privilege of setting free. Releasing from prison of flesh.”

  My stomach tightened and the taste of bile burned the back of my throat. Auschwitz was the largest and most infamous of the Nazi death camps. Some reports were surfacing that said as many as four million Poles, Soviets, Gypsies, and Jews were murdered there. Most by gas, some by starvation, torture, shooting, and medical “experiments.” The atrocities committed there by the Nazis were on a hellish scale, and the world had been reeling from the gruesome reality since the Soviets liberated the camp in January.

  With a faraway look in his dark eyes, Coyote licked his lips again and said, “Auschwitz is great place, a gift from God. A place vere freedom rings. Is that not vhat you Americans say about your homeland? Freedom rings from mountaintops? But true freedom, real freedom is found at Auschwitz.”

  “The war is over,” I said, “and you lost. Auschwitz was liberated by the Soviets. It’s over.” I enjoyed the way the words sounded to my own ears. You lost. It’s over. There was something sweet and vengeful about them.

  “Lost? No my friend, ve cannot lose. Our struggle is not vith flesh and blood, you see. Ve battle principalities and powers, spiritual foes that battle for souls. It is never over.”

  Either Coyote had been brainwashed into believing this nonsense he was uttering or he was grandly deluded. Either way, a man who saw death as freedom and murdering innocents as liberation was not the friend I wanted to make in my present circumstance. In the spirit of friendship, he was apt to feel compassion on me and set me free. And his freedom was not the freedom I sought. Given the choice, I’d have taken my chances with a real coyote.

  Coyote ran his pink tongue over his lips again and continued. “I vas stationed at gas chamber.” His eyes fell on mine, and I felt the weight of the evil that lurked inside him, like a hungry crocodile prowling a swamp just below the water’s surface. I didn’t want to hear anymore. “You should have seen look on their faces vhen they realized they vere not taking showers, merely cleaning dirt from their bodies, but having their souls vashed and freed. Oh, ze joy, ze bliss that covered them. They even danced with delight. A beautiful, poetic dance, hundreds of them, singing, dancing.”

  Forget the brainwashing, my dog-faced friend was delusional. The gas chambers were equipped with showerheads that released cyanide. Cyanide causes seizures right before death. What he interpreted as dancing and singing was something much more grisly.

  Coyote unfolded himself and stood. He bowed slightly and donned an eager grin. “Ve vill talk again soon.”

  I watched as he exited the room, hands behind his back, head bowed as if in reverent thought. He descended the stairs with light footfalls.

  And then I was alone in the room, alone with my fears and questions. Were Dad and Pop and Henry in the house? Were they still alive? Or had Coyote “freed” them already? Was I next to experience his demented form of liberty? Cold chills traced tracks across my skin, raising goosebumps along the length of my arms. I tried to pray but words didn’t seem adequate; it would have to do to just allow my spirit to groan.

  Hours passed without an appearance or word from the foursome. I could hear them tramping around the first floor, their baritone voices carrying unintelligible words up the steps. Occasionally, one or all of them would laugh but mostly their talk held a serious tone. I remained isolated in the room, abandoned to the chair throughout the afternoon and into the evening. When the sun finally hid itself behind Bear Mountain, darkness crept into my cell like a phantom, surrounding me with a black shroud.

  Surprisingly, I hadn’t had to relieve myself all day. Granted, I hadn’t taken in any water since early morning and probably sweated out whatever fluid was in me. I was in more danger of dehydrating then having to empty my bladder on the chair. My stomach was in a state of rebellion, though. Hunger pangs stabbed at my gut and rumbled through my abdomen like peals of thunder during a mid-summer storm. I needed food, but even more so, I needed water.

  After a long while (or what seemed like a long while) of sitting quietly in the dark, contemplating my current state of nutritional needs, sleep began to tug at my eyelids. I was in no mood to resist.

  The last thought to float through my mind before clouds of slumber moved in was if I would live through tomorrow or if I was next on Coyote’s list of those to free.

  Every day, every moment, was now a gift from God.

  16

  I awoke the next morning mumbling something about helping Mom gather eggs before I hit a homerun. Why I was dreaming about baseball and egg collecting was a mystery but in times of stress the mind will do strange things and conjure queer scenarios.

  Morning sunshine filtered through the torn shades and dappled the floor with bars of pale light. I was still in the chair, still bound by the wrists and ankles, still fighting off the ache in my shoulders. My buttocks and legs were numb again. And I still had a thundering headache that stretched all the way into my shoulder blades.

  I blinked the remnants of sleep from my eyes and looked around. Nothing had changed. I was alone in the unfurnished room, still center stage in my wooden armchair. Quiet talking came from another room on the second floor. It was muffled enough that I couldn’t make out what was being said but could tell it was German. My new friends were up and about, probably trimming their beards, plucking their eyebrows, and primping for a day of social revelry.

  Looking around the room, searching for anything that would birth an idea for escape, I wondered how long it would be before my hosts grew tired of my company and decided I had overstayed my welcome or before Coyote saw fit to grace me with his gift of dark freedom. I was sure if Coyote didn’t get to me first that execution was in my future; the Nazis had no need for my kin or me. If they were truly Nazis that had somehow infiltrated America, the last thing they needed was to be dragging around a bunch of Americans, especially when one was lame and one was senile. I was most certainly a goner. By what means I could only imagine, though it was something I earnestly tried not to dwell on and was very grateful my dream time was occupied by a fantasy of knocking a leather ball over a fence instead of watching my own head absorb the impact of a Luger’s slug.

  The thought of dying put a knot in my stomach. It wasn’t so much the actual departing of the spirit. I was sure of where I�
�d be the moment my heart stopped beating and brain stopped signaling. What frightened me were the events leading up to the event. Nazis were very practiced at making it a most awful journey, long and slow and treacherous. If I was going to die, I wanted it to be quick. A bullet to the head.

  Footsteps thumped down the hall and Coyote poked his pale face around the corner, made eye contact with me, smiled his dog-like grin, nodded good morning, then turned and said something to the other three. They laughed in the adjacent room. He then rounded the corner and walked toward me, stopping when his knees were only inches from my own. I was disappointed to see that he hadn’t trimmed his beard or plucked his eyebrows and had done nothing about his dirtied drab uniform. I guessed there would be no revelries in my immediate future.

  Coyote clasped his hands behind his back and looked down his nose at me. “Schliefen Sie gut?” He spoke louder than he needed to, and I knew right away that he did so and in his mother tongue for the benefit of his comrades. He didn’t want them to think he was fraternizing with the prisoner.

  He asked me if I’d slept good. I hesitated, wrestling with the idea of showing my trump card. I didn’t want them to know I understood a little German, but if today was to be the last day of my short life, what did it matter? Maybe my revelation that we shared something in common would buy me extra time, extra hours or even days. I wasn’t a gambler in any sense of the word, but I did know there was a time to hold on to your cards and there was a time to fold. This was my time to fold. I nodded. “Ja.”

  His eyes widened a little. “Haben Sie Deutsch verstehen?” Do you understand German?