Fire and Steel, Volume 2

by Gerald N. Lund

  The quotes from Friedrich Nietzsche come from http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/f/

  friedrich_nietzsche.html#dqDrgB2Ikz6CwpKU.99

  December 1, 1918, 7:15 a.m.—Pasewalk Military Hospital solarium

  The swinging door to the solarium had a round porthole window so people could see who was coming through from either direction. It did not surprise Emilee when she looked through the window and saw that Hans was already inside. He was still in his pajamas and a bathrobe, pacing back and forth. She looked around, then, seeing he was alone, she pushed the door open and went in. Hans was instantly across the room and taking her hand. “I was afraid after last night you wouldn’t—” he stopped, gaping at her face. “Oh, Emilee. I did that to you?”

  One finger came up and she gingerly explored the purplish-brown half circle around her eye, which was now half shut. “You didn’t mean to.” Then she smiled. “But, the staff didn’t buy my fourth-story explanation. I’ll need to think of another excuse. Did you sleep?” she added.

  “I did. I slept hard. It felt good.”

  “No more nightmares?”

  “No.”

  “I’m glad.” She pointed to two overstuffed chairs in front of the large window that looked out over the south lawn. “Let’s sit. I don’t have a lot of time. As I mentioned, my mother is coming in from Königsberg later today. I have to get things ready for her.”

  As they sat down facing each other he asked, “You’re from East Prussia?”

  “That’s where I was born, yes. My father was a smelter worker at a steel plant there. When the war broke out, a family friend suggested I become a nurse, which I did. And I came down here to work at the hospital. I’ve been here not quite two years now. My mother and two brothers still live in East Prussia.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re from East Prussia. I hear they’ve got a distinct accent.”

  She smiled. “No, it’s the rest of the country that has the accent.”

  Laughing, he nodded. “I guess that’s how we Bavarians feel, too.”

  She hesitated for a moment, looking for a way to ease into this, and then decided there wasn’t time to finesse it. Reaching into her pocket, Emilee gripped the letters in her fingers. “Hans, I have something I need to give you.”

  He brightened. “Is it your address and phone number?”

  “You are hopeless,” she said, shaking her head. “No, it is not. Not until you are no longer a patient here.”

  She pulled the letters out and laid them on her lap. Hans’s eyes widened slightly as he saw what they were. “What are those?”

  “You know what they are.”

  “You took them out of the waste bin?”

  “I did.”

  “You had no right to do that,” he said, scowling at her darkly.

  “I know. And you had no right to throw your mother’s letters away without even opening them.”

  He didn’t answer. Neither did he take them from her.

  “Are they from your mother?” she asked.

  Still he wouldn’t answer.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Did you read them?” he snapped

  The sudden coldness startled her. “Of course not.” She thrust them out further. He still didn’t take them, so she tossed them onto his lap and stood up. “I have to go, Hans.”

  That finally got through to him. He picked up the letters. “No, Emilee. Don’t go. Not yet.” Then, shocking her deeply, he lifted the three letters and tore them in half. Then he got up and tossed them in a nearby rubbish bin. “Please sit down,” he pleaded.

  She was too shocked to respond.

  “Emilee. Please.”

  She glared at him. “Are they from your mother?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And you tore them up? Why?”

  His mouth pinched into a tight line. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, if you’ll just let me.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  He motioned to the chair, and after a moment she sat down. Then he sat down next to her. He turned and looked out the windows at the pristine snow that now covered everything. And then he began to talk, speaking quickly and almost in a monotone. He told her quickly about how his father had engineered his early education with Herr Holzer in Oberammergau, even though it was beyond the family’s means. He explained how that had led to his acceptance at the Von Kruger Academy. Emilee was struck by how open he was about his superior achievements, about the awards he had won and the honors he had received.

  “Halfway through my fourth and final year, I was accepted into the engineering program at the University of Berlin, with a full scholarship, including books, housing, and living expenses.”

  That got through to her. “The University of Berlin? That’s incredible.”

  There was a diffident shrug. “The whole academy was envious of me. Me. Hans Otto Eckhardt. The son of a dairyman from Graswang.”

  Emilee said nothing, just watched as his fingers began to pluck at unseen threads on his robe and his voice grew more and more subdued. Finally, his eyes lifted. In them she saw shame, anger, defiance, humiliation.

  “I graduated on the 28th day of May, 1914,” he said. “Exactly one month later, Archduke Ferdinand and his wife were assassinated in Sarajevo. Exactly two months after that, on July 28th, Austria declared war on Serbia. Three days later, Germany declared war on Russia, and three days after that, on France. On that day, I quit my job, went to the nearest army recruiting station, and enlisted.”

  He stopped, and silence filled the room. Finally, Emilee leaned forward. “Did you tell your parents what you were going to do?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Hans?”

  His head came up, and she nearly burst into tears at the anguish she saw in his eyes. His jaw was set like stone, but his lower lip was twitching slightly now. “Once it was official and I was given my uniform, I took the train from Munich down to Graswang. I hadn’t said anything about it to my parents. I wanted to surprise them.” He hooted softly in self-disgust. “Which I did.”

  “What did they say?” She waited for several seconds. Nothing. “What did they say, Hans?”

  “Vati wasn’t home when I got there,” he whispered. “Only Mutti.”

  “And what did she say?”

  His fists clenched so tightly, his knuckles were white. “She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. ‘Oh, Hans,’ she cried.” His shoulders began to tremble as he fought for control. “‘What have you done?’ she said. ‘Oh, what have you done?’”

  Emilee was close to tears now too. “Have you not seen them since then?”

  “I’ve seen them twice. I had a week’s leave after basic training. And I got a four-day pass when they discovered my father had cancer.”

  She understood now, but her emotions were in such a whirl that she could hardly speak. Finally, a thought came. “Hans?”

  He looked up.

  “Those letters were written to the War Ministry, who forwarded them here.”

  When he looked up, there was a touch of defiance in the set of his mouth. “So?”

  “You’ve been here for over a month now. Have you not written to your parents and let them know where you are? Do they even know that you were wounded?”

  “That’s none of your affair.”

  She just stared at him.

  Finally, he held out his hands and showed her how they were trembling. “I can’t let them see me like this, Emilee. I can’t. I’m in a fury one moment and crying like a baby the next. I wake up screaming in the night. I can barely keep my food down sometimes.” He shot her an imploring look. “It would destroy my mother.”

  “Not any more than thinking you are dead!” she cried. “Hans! What are you thinking? You have to write them. The war’s ended. They’ll be desperate to know where you are. You have to let them know that you’re alive and well.”

  “I’m not well!” he shouted. “I’m nothing but a shatter
ed hulk of what I once was.” He shoved his hands beneath his legs to stop them from shaking. “And I cannot—I will not!—see them until I am better.”

  Emilee wanted to jump up, drag Hans out of his chair, and shake him like a little boy. He must have seen that in her eyes because he meekly added, “If I write, Mutti will come up here and find me. I think my father is still too sick to travel, so she would have to come alone. She’s never been farther than Munich, which is only thirty miles from home.”

  “Then ask her not to come!” she exploded. “Tell her you’re too sick to see anyone. Lie to her about it if you must. But let her know you are alive, Hans. You owe your parents that much. That’s the very least you can do.” The horror in her was making her voice shrill.

  But then she remembered the note in his chart. “But, I guess if you’re being released tomorrow, you’ll be home before a letter can reach them.”

  “I’m not going home.”

  She leaped to her feet again. “What?”

  “You heard me. And you heard why.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He managed a sickly smile. “I’m not going anywhere. I was hoping to spend some time with a nurse I’ve met at the hospital.”

  “Then you will write them today. Now! Or better yet, call them. The main receptionist can connect you to the telephone exchange in Pasewalk.”

  His head turned away to stare out the window again.

  “Hans?”

  “There’s no telephone exchange in Graswang. Not yet. Oberammergau is five miles away.”

  “Fine. Then write them. Get it in the morning post.”

  Suddenly Hans went from anguish to anger. “I have explained to you that I do not have the emotional resilience to face my parents at this point, Emilee. I thought you, of all people, would understand. It saddens me deeply that you do not.”

  “Emotional resilience?” she cried incredulously. “You won the Iron Cross for carrying your best friend to safety under fire, even though he was dead. And you’re afraid to face your mother? You can do this, Hans. You must do this.”

  He was staring at the floor, his face sullen, his body rigid. But she was having none of his passive defiance. “Remember what Nietzsche said: ‘To live is to suffer. To survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.’ My heart breaks for what you are suffering, Hans, but don’t let there be no redemption in your suffering.”

  “What would you know about suffering?” he asked quietly. Then, seeing her reaction to that, he quickly capitulated. “Never mind. All right. I will write them. But you have to let me work this out in my own way. And in my own time.”

  “Do I?” she cried. She strode back to the waste bin. A moment later she had all six pieces of the letters and shoved them in her pocket.

  He was to her in a second. “What are you doing?”

  “What you should have done three weeks ago.”

  “No,” he cried. “You will not write my mother. I will do it.” He held out his hand.

  “When?”

  “Stop it, woman!” he shouted. “I’ll do it when I’m ready and not before.”

  She shook her head, laughing incredulously. “You still believe it, don’t you?”

  He blinked. “Believe what?”

  “That you’re the victim here. That you’re caught in your own little tragedy with no way out.” His hand shot up, and one finger touched the scar beside his eye.

  “Little tragedy?” he roared. “I was nearly blinded. I can feel pieces of shrapnel inside my body whenever I move. What do you know about tragedy? You, in your shiny white uniform, all starched and prim? Walking your rounds like some angel from heaven, dispensing loving cheer as if you were serving up Bavarian torte and ice cream.”

  “Good-bye, Hans.” Pushing past him, Emilee started for the door.

  “Emilee, stop!” He lunged for her, one hand grabbing for the letters. She slapped his hand away with a vicious swipe of her other hand. He came at her with a roar. Her reaction was instinctive. She slapped his face with every ounce of strength she had. The sound rang out in the empty room like a gunshot.

  Hans fell back, so shocked that when he tried to respond, nothing came out of his mouth. Emilee stepped around him and plunged out the door. He started after her but pulled up short when the door slammed open again and she stormed back in.

  She stepped up to him, eyes blazing, chest heaving, face white, nostrils flaring. “What do I know about tragedy?” she cried. “I have three brothers, one older, two younger. As I told you before, my oldest brother is a bachelor. He was engaged once to a lovely girl from Pasewalk. But when my mother went back to Königsberg, she begged him to go with her, so he broke off the engagement and went with Mama. The girl was so angry, she found someone else and married a few months later. He was heartbroken. I don’t think he’ll ever marry now.”

  Hans tried to say something; Emilee rode over him. “My youngest brother is mentally deficient. He has the mental capacity of a ten-year-old. He lives with me because he cannot take care of himself. My other brother, who was three years younger than I am, was drafted into the army at age fourteen. They gave him one week’s training with a rifle and sent him off to the Russian front. We have not seen or heard from him since. That was two years ago.”

  “Emilee, I—”

  “My father had to retire from the steel mill four years ago because he had emphysema from all of the smoke and chemicals in the air. And from smoking too many cigarettes. Two years ago, the government conscripted him and put him back in the mills. He was dead less than six months later.”

  Her words pummeled Hans like machine gun fire. Stricken, his head dropped to his chest. “I . . . I didn’t know, Emilee. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He started for her, hands out, imploring her for forgiveness.

  She jerked away. “There are thousands out there—no, millions!—who are facing their own private hell. My family is just one of them. So forgive me for not falling on my knees and begging your forgiveness for not showing you the sympathy you think you deserve.”

  Her face was a mottled pink, and her chest was heaving as she stopped for breath. “And while we’re quoting the great philosophers, here’s another one from Johannes Goethe.” Her voice mocked him now. “My, my. Will wonders never cease? Emilee Fromme quoting Nietzsche and Goethe, and both in the same day.”

  “I never. . . .”

  She ignored him. “Goethe said, ‘It is easier to die than it is to endure a harrowing life with fortitude.’ I’m sorry that your life fell apart on you, Hans. I weep when I think of the horrors you have endured. But that’s life, Hans. Especially now in Germany. Take it or leave it. Like it or hate it, but at least acknowledge that you are not alone in your suffering.”

  Beaten, Hans turned and walked back to his seat and slumped into it. “You’re right. It’s not your burden. I’m sorry that I’m not stronger for you.”

  “Stop it!” she snapped. “I didn’t ask you to be strong. All I asked was that you do the right thing and let your parents know you are still alive. And if you had agreed, then. . . .”

  She bit her lower lip and looked away.

  He was up again in an instant. “And if I had agreed, then what?”

  “I . . . I had hopes that somehow you and I could—” She stopped, her cheeks flaming, and quickly looked away.

  His eyes widened. “Could what?” he cried.

  There was one quick, angry shake of her head. “Life is a gift of infinite worth, Hans. It is not something to thrust aside in some fit of childish angst because it doesn’t meet your every expectation. When you come to understand what I’m trying to tell you, then come and find me.”

  And with that, she turned, yanked open the door, and disappeared. Hans stood there, staring at the door as it swung shut again. The slap-slap of the soft soles of her shoes sounded faintly and then died away as she strode down the corridor and out the main entrance.

  December 2, 1918, 9:00 a.m.—Pasewalk Military Hospi
tal administrator’s office

  “Full name, bitte?”

  “Hans Otto Eckhardt.”

  “Spell the last name, please.”

  He did.

  “Date of birth?”

  “Twentieth of February, 1896.”

  “Place of birth including district and state?”

  “Village of Graswang, District of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Bavaria.”

  “Spell the district for me, bitte.”

  He did, growing irritated. Hans watched the man in the white doctor’s coat sitting across the desk check the spelling against the form in front of him. The name plate on his desk read Dr. Artur Schnebling, Hospital Director.

  “Military serial number?”

  Hans rattled it off automatically. “Six-zero-one-one-four-nine-seven-five-three.”

  Annoyed, the doctor looked up at him. “Again, only more slowly this time.”

  He repeated it, emphasizing each number. The pencil moved down to the next line. “Highest rank achieved?”

  “Really?” Hans snapped. “You called me Sergeant Eckhardt when I came in. I have not received a promotion since then.”

  The doctor ignored him. “Number of months of active duty?”

  Hans folded his arms and set his jaw, staring out the window.

  That finally brought Dr. Schnebling’s head up. His green eyes were flecked with brown, and at the moment, they did not look particularly pleased. “I know this is tedious, Sergeant, but when you go to the War Ministry to apply for benefits, you will need this form. If there is anything out of order—one word misspelled, or one line left empty—they will send you back here to correct it. Berlin is eighty miles from Pasewalk. If the thought of a round trip of a hundred and sixty miles doesn’t bother you, then, yes, I will review it no further. Your choice.”

  “Sorry,” Hans mumbled. “I enlisted in the summer of 1914 but didn’t start boot camp until September. So four months in 1914. Then twelve months in each of 1915, 1916, and 1917. And eleven months so far this year.”