By midmorning the sun had burned through the mist. An unusual light breeze had cleared the smoke from the dying fires. The day was the first real spring for them after a week or more of promise. The guards shed coats and unbuttoned tunics. The air was fresh, and for the first time in months Peter could not smell the smoke from burning flesh.
Max approached and flashed written orders. “Time to leave, boy, and not an hour too soon. The Mongols will be here in no time. This is the plan. I've gathered a half dozen prisoners with connections. These orders say get them to Berlin. They're good until we arrive. I've got us a lorry and enough petrol to get the hell out of here. We go until it is not working for us, ditch the prisoners, put on some civies I've got packed and join the civilian refugees. Then it’s every man for himself. No problem. Orders say four. I’ve got a spot for you even if you can’t pay for it like the others.”
Peter shook his head. “No.”
“Don't be a fool. This is the only chance you’ll get. There’s no other way. Go alone and anything can happen. Most likely the Russkies will get you. They'll be here soon enough. Then it's every guard to the wall.”
“I'm staying.”
“But why? What's the point? It's over.”
“Maybe ... because it is over.”
Max looked at Peter as if he were mad. He thought by then they all were. “All right. Have it your way. There's plenty of others.” A short time later Peter watched the lorry drive off down the road with Max and the others. Towards noon SS-Obersturmfuhrer Wolff, who Peter had thought long gone, dressed in a dapper civilian suit, drove off in the Kommandant's second car, a Mercedes Benz coupe. Why not? he thought.
The dogs were barking from their kennel. No one had fed or watered them. Well, good. Maybe no one would, ever again.
On one side of the KZ was a meadow. Peter had never been to it before. At the gate he dropped his gun and unfastened his harness. He removed his helmet and let it fall. It was warm. Uncle Hans. He wondered if he got his wish, with so many dying, he surely must have.
Uncle Hans had been right. It was spring with flowers and bees. Summer would follow. A spring and summer without war. He could not clearly remember a time like that. It had been war since he was thirteen years old.
During the night he had thought about his father's death and considered what Hans had said. He still could feel nothing at the loss. He had cried several times, but the tears flowed spontaneously, without emotion.
The memories coming to him now were not of his childhood, however. He was remembering the family he had killed , the people he had crammed into the shower, the endless, grotesque bodies he had dragged to the crematorium.
He had joined the SS, been assigned to this place, to save himself. Instead, he had been destroyed. He could no longer think clearly or make plans. He had suppressed all emotion for so long he was empty.
Eva was right. He was what he had become, just another Nazi brute. He had killed and raped. He had at times enjoyed it. There was nothing for him.
In saving himself he was destroyed. You cannot brutalize without becoming a brute, or murder without being a murderer.
Peter heard vehicles, then shouting followed by shots. On the other side of the KZ soldiers were approaching wearing the familiar Russian helmet. Guards sprinted from the KZ, forced into panicked action at last. A group ran towards Peter, making for the tree line behind him. They shed gear as they ran.
“Come on,” one shouted as they approached. “Russians!” He could see the dirty Russian veterans now clearly. They were approaching rapidly in scrimmage line. There were bursts of automatic fire, the measured shots of marksmen. One of the guards running by him fell with a bullet in his back. Peter instinctively bolted with the rest and was at the trees in a few seconds. Two more of the guards fell. The one who had first called out to him shouted something incoherent again as the survivors vanished into the trees.
Peter had stopped at the tree line and turned to face the Russians. They were at the edge of the meadow now. He had unbuttoned his tunic to his waist earlier and in the running it had fallen open. He stood motionless and waited.
About ten meters from him a very young Russian, no more than seventeen, took aim with his Tommy gun and let loose a burst. The impact was like a heavy blow to Peter’s chest. He looked down and saw blood at once.
He dropped to his knees. The Russians ran past him and let loose a volley into the trees. It was as if the air had been knocked from him. He tried to stay on his knees but pitched forward into the new spring grass. Russians gathered around him like hunters crowing over a newly killed deer. One was asking if he should finish him off. An older voice said he was already finished. There was some laughter, some bragging, a quick shout of orders, and boots tramped off. Peter could feel the sensation through the ground quite distinctly.
The grass was a bright green. Blades were right at his eyes. He had trouble focusing. The smell of the grass and of the earth under it was pungent. He struggled to breathe so he could get a last smell of the grass and earth.
There was a yellow flower only a few inches away but already it was a blur. He tried to focus on it but could not manage.
There was a moment’s panic as Peter realized he could not get air. He felt no pain, no bodily sensation at all. He perceived an arm was caught awkwardly under him but he could not feel it.
A dirty, well-worn boot blotted the flower. It was precisely located where his eyes focused and he could see it quite clearly. The boot needed cleaning badly. Peter opened his mouth to tell the soldier that, that his boot needed cleaning.
Cimmerian: A Novel of the Holocaust Page 13
