The Devil's Blessing Read online

  ❧

  The next morning, the first words Otto heard were, "Get up." The words seemed to have come from miles away, yet they felt like they were right next to his ear. "Get up," the voice said again, only this time more concretely, and with a push of a boot.

  Otto rose from the cover of high grass to see that they were no longer alone that morning. Off to the right, just out of earshot, were both Ingersleben and Lafenz, talking to another Nazi. Their band of three had become five, but these men had cleaner suits and well-oiled machine guns at the ready. They must’ve been stragglers from the previous day’s troop movements, Otto thought.

  Ingersleben and Lafenz were both smoking. As Otto approached, they offered him a cigarette, which he quickly said no to with a raised hand.

  Laughter was coming from the group, but he could feel an uneasiness about it. Maybe it was just the past days' events, but more than likely, it was the way the German who had woken him was walking behind him, as if he was transporting a prisoner. Maybe he was.

  The light was blinding that morning. The sun was out, something they had trained their eyes not to see in days. Adding to Otto’s disorientation was the fact that it felt as if they had just gone to sleep a few hours ago. He was so tired and in no mood to be awoken; he thought that if the news came right there and then that they were to be shot, he wouldn't fight the news. He was that weary and still that depressed.

  “We're just wondering where your orders are." The voice came from behind him, a man whose name Lafenz muttered to him—Boesch.

  "And I was informing these men, our orders were with our commander, Oberfeldwebel Peter Haas. Who we all know was tragically killed when those Red Army animals attacked our position. We had no choice but to flee."

  Otto nodded. It was the story that they had gone over. A version of it, at least. But it was a good one and sounded right to him.

  "But we have our orders," said Wildgrube, the other man.

  Gerd Boesch and Christoph Wildgrube seemed like near twins. Both men were young men, neither outside of his teens. The only real difference was how they styled their hair. Both had tapered hair, meaning they came from a well nourished group—something that Otto hadn't thought existed anymore.

  "And those orders are to check everyone’s papers—military, soldier, and civilian alike."

  "And like I've been trying to inform these fine young men, we don't have them. They were blown up along with our dear Haas."

  "Then the order is to have you accompany us and to call on our superiors,” Boesch said. “I’m sorry." It didn't seem that he meant it. He wasn't sorry and wanted everyone to know it.

  “And by accompany us you mean arrest us.”

  “No, sir. Our orders are quite clear. We are to—”

  “Fine, fine. I hate to do this, but it seems you leave us no choice. We are on a top-secret mission to Berlin, and you cannot interfere with it. We are to go and report directly to Berlin, no questions asked," Ingersleben said.

  With a wry smile, Wilgrube said, in a very relaxed manner, "Of course. And you'll be right on your way. We must just take you back to our commander, radio Berlin, and let them know that you are here."

  "There is no time for that! We are on a very sensitive mission, and time is of the utmost importance!"

  "So important that you would be asleep on the side of the road?" Boesch asked, gripping his machine gun just a little tighter.

  "Are you questioning me? Do you know who I am? I told you, Boesch, I am not the one who should be answering your questions. It is you that should be answering to me." Ingerselben gave an angry look around, as if to convey to everyone how much of an annoyance this was. "You're lucky I have been so cordial. If you knew the sensitivity of our mission, you would not only move out of our way, but you would help us in our haste to continue on with it."

  "And we will," Wildgrube said, "just as soon as you come with us. There is no need to be upset. We are stationed no more than a kilometer to the east.”

  "No. That will not do. We need to go and we need to go now."

  "But if you are on such an important mission, and your commanding officer, this..."

  "Haas."

  "Haas has been killed. Wouldn't you want Berlin to know about it?”

  Ingersleben shook his head even more fiercely. "No, no. Radio silence is of the utmost importance. Calling it in opens it up to the enemy to intercept. We have been directed to commit to complete radio silence. There is no other way."

  "If you are in such a rush and you need to leave, why don't you just tell us what your mission is?” Boesch said. Ingersleben gave him an annoyed look.

  "You know more than me that that's not possible. Now, if you let us go on our way, I promise not to report the both of you, Wildgrube and Boesch. I am, after all, a lenient person. I understand that this is a misunderstanding and that you are two Germans acting in good faith."

  "I'm sorry, sir," Wilgrube said. "But we are going to have to pass on your extension of kindness and leniency. If we are to get in trouble by not listening to you and thereby overlooking our orders, then that's something we will take a risk on."

  "Really?”

  "Yes, really." The just stood there and looked at one another, not saying a word. The cold air seemed to freeze the world. It was as if nothing or no one on earth was moving except the wind that was whistling in their ears, reminding them that they were still on earth.

  "And if we don't come with you?"

  Wildgrube seemed very calm when he said, “Then our orders are to shoot you."

  Ingersleben looked stunned. Lafenz had long since finished his cigarette, but the end of it still stayed in his mouth. As for Otto, he was just an observer of a war of words. He no longer cared about the outcome of this game. He was now fully awake and aware of the stakes, and those stakes involved his life. He did not want to lose it.

  This time, it was Boesch who cleared the uncomfortable silence and spoke up, trying to calm the escalating situation. "Sir, you must understand. There are men, cowards, who are running away from their responsibility to the Reich.”

  "And you think that I would be one of those men who would abandon his post and run? Run to where? There is nowhere to run!"

  "It doesn't matter. There have been several cowards who have been fleeing the battlefield. Some to their country homes to hide in their family barns, others..."

  "Others that?"

  “Well, to put it bluntly, sir, others that have been running towards the west, trying to surrender to the enemy there."

  "And you're saying I'm doing that? That us three are running to French arms?"

  Wildgrube shrugged. "We're not sure, sir. But men higher than your rank have been caught doing it. This doesn’t matter, none of this. The situation is settled. You are coming with us to check on your whereabouts, or you will be shot. Those are our orders. I'm sorry."

  Ingersleben walked right up to Wildgrube and put his nose right to his. "Yes, Christoph Wildgrube," he said. "You will be very much sorry indeed.”

  ❧

  The walk towards the command post was a slow one, filled with an uncomfortable silence.

  "You do understand, we’re just following our orders, don't you, sir?" Boesch asked.

  Ingersleben said nothing, letting his silence answer for him. He was angry and wanted the world to know.

  A nervous Boesch continued, "If this was your order, I wouldn't change it either. I would follow it to the letter."

  Even though Boesch gave words of encouragement, that still didn't stop him from walking behind them, accompanying them like prisoners.

  "He's right, you know." This time the voice that was speaking up was Wildgrube. Maybe even he was a little afraid, too. While just a few moments ago it seemed he'd wanted to kill the men, now he wanted to make sure that they didn't take anything that they were doing too personally. "We are just doing our jobs, just like you. This way no one gets shot."

  The message was clear enough. They didn't want to shoot an
yone, and they didn't want to get shot, either. They were making total sense and Ingersleben knew it; he just couldn't let them know that their worst nightmare was, in fact, true.

  They were men who were traitors.

  They were men who were escaping the fight.

  They were men who were running from their responsibility to the war, and running as the cowards they were.

  He knew—all three did—that under the rules that they had been following just days ago, they should be rounded up and shot. But their lives were too important to them. They had to continue forward with the lie.

  All of a sudden, Ingersleben stopped. He turned to face the men in an abrupt manner.

  "Do you?" he asked.

  "Do we what?" Boesch said, this time, more sheepish than ever.

  "Do you understand what you're doing? That you are not, in fact, following your orders. I am your superior and you should be listening to me and my orders, not the other way around. Regardless. It doesn't matter. Even if you were to let us go back on our way, I would decline it. I am now looking forward to meeting with your commanding officer. I can't wait to talk to Berlin and get back to you with our mission and how you hampered it. There may actually be some people getting shot today.”

  And with that, Ingersleben turned and continued his walk, at a faster pace.

  "Sir," Wildgrube said, "no one wants that. No one wants anything like that. We just want to follow orders and rid the land of our enemy. And our orders are to stop anyone and everyone, regardless of rank. You must understand that, sir."

  Ingersleben stopped again. He turned again. This time, he walked directly up to Wildgrube's face. "Then I take it you will not be letting us go on our way. No matter what fate may befall you? Even at the risk of death?"

  "No, sir."

  "Very well." As Ingersleben began to walk again, he faked his turn and punched the man that was facing him.

  As Wildgrube hit the ground, Lafenz pounced on him like a dog, biting at him. Ingersleben then turned his attention to Boesch, who was bringing up his weapon. They both grabbed the machine gun and stared into each other's eyes, trying to wrestle the gun away from each other.

  All Otto could do was watch. He was stunned by what was happening, not sure what to do. The numbers were in their favor—three against two—but with one man frozen in fear, it was more like two on two. For now, at least.

  A scream rose from the ground as pieces of flesh came flying out from Wildgrube's body. Lafenz's transformation into an animal was complete; he had ripped off the flesh from the top of Wildgrube's hand, and blood was spurting everywhere. Red flesh was falling out from between Lafenz's teeth as he made a beeline to the gun that was now on the ground.

  Ingersleben wasn't thinking at the moment when he heard the scream, and he relaxed his grip, ever so slightly. Boesch was undeterred, pulled the weapon away, and pointed it right at Ingersleben, pulling the trigger.

  But no bullets came out. He still had the weapon on safety. As he moved to remedy the problem, Lafenz moved into action. With Wildgrube's weapon in his hands and his body in his teeth, Lafenz squeezed off a few rounds into the body that lay on the ground, relieving it from its pain. He calmly moved it towards Boesch, who was still nervously getting the gun ready, and Lafenz pulled the trigger again, shooting him in the belly several times.

  Once more, they were the only three men standing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Time took a turn like the weather and froze. The grey sky, already dark, took a turn into more darkness, as if some unseen cloud above had come over all of them. Maybe it was just God, shielding His eyes from seeing anymore horror.

  The wind was just as steady, just as strong, but after the loud noises of gunfire, it seemed to whistle that much louder, as if to announce that there were otherworldly witnesses there, and they too were taking account of what happened. The only things that moved were the grass and the scattering of trees, their hair and their clothes flapping like small flags in the wind.

  "It had to be done," Ingersleben said. "You did well," he said, now looking at Lafenz. "All of you."

  Otto turned to him in shock. He wasn't sure what he meant by telling him that he had done well, since he hadn't done anything. The only good thing that Otto had done was not piss himself, but he didn’t think that was a call for celebration.

  Lafenz began shaking his head, slowly but constantly. He was thinking about something—of what, the men weren't sure—but the tears of anger that had been there the first time, when he had shot Haas, had returned. They streamed down his face, the warm water creating small rivers of mud on his face from the days of grime that had compounded on his skin.

  He spat the flesh that was still in his mouth. He spat it out again and again, trying to get the human remains from out of his mouth, not wanting to taste the blood of the man he had just killed.

  "This isn't me," he said. "None of this is me. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. This wasn't how any of it was supposed to happen."

  Otto and Ingersleben shared a look. They weren't about to interrupt the young man. He was having a moment, and was saying what was on his mind aloud, and they would let him have it. That was the least he deserved.

  "I was supposed to be a schoolteacher," the boy said, almost in a dejected manner, more frustrated than anything. "I didn't want to fight," he said; this time his words were coming through in sobs. "I love our land and I know our fight is just…was just. But I didn't want it. I just wanted to go to school and go to class and become a teacher. Just like Mr. Buchholtz."

  This brought the rare smile to his face.

  "Mr. Buchholtz was like a second father. Mr. Buchholtz taught me that I could be a good man.

  "He was called up, like the other men. He couldn't fight, of course; he was too old and not trained to fight, but he was a smart man with an able body, something that our Reich always needs.

  "He was sent off to France, to do some type of work. Paperwork or something, I'm not sure. His job was a simple one: to help the French become the best that they could be under the Thousand Year Reich. And how was he thanked for his tireless work and giving? They shot him. Some Frenchman who called himself part of something called the Resistance just shot him while he was coming back from the market. Even when we try to help the world, the world doesn't want it. They reject our ideas. Who knows. Maybe our ideas are even wrong—"

  "Don't talk like that!" Ingersleben said, not so much in a yell, but as in a strong plea. "Our cause is just. It was just. We're just going to have to wait another day for it to happen."

  "When?" Lafenz asked, becoming more angry as he ground his teeth. "How? Will the German people even exist in a few years? After this war is over there will be no more Germany. Our people will be wiped out. They will do to us what we wished to do to them, but unlike us, they will succeed. No, we are running from one death to another. And even if they do allow us to live, we will die as prisoners in a world that hates us, imagined in a way that is against all common decency.”

  Ingersleben and Otto waited for the speech to continue, but it just seemed to stop.

  In those few moments, Lafenz had said more that he had in their entire time inside the camp. No one wanted to break the silence, and it wouldn't be Otto, so of course Igersleben spoke up.

  "Look. We need to leave. We have no idea how close we were to the checkpoint. For all we know they could have heard the gunshots and are on their way already. We need to—"

  Otto jumped so high at the sound of the gunshot that he landed a full foot backward.

  As for Ingersleben, who had just been shot in the belly—he just put his hand over his stomach, blood overflowing from his fingers.

  Lafenz, he just stood there. The tears had stopped, as had his angry grimace. All that faced the world now was a near stoic boy who seemed as comfortable in the act of killing as he was in the act of looking at a lake.

  Ingersleben dropped to his knees. Blood started to come out of his mouth. The shot was
fatal.

  "You little shit," Ingersleben sputtered out through saliva full of blood. He looked up at Lafenz, squinting one eye; already the dark sky was becoming too bright to him. "I thought I had a chance," he said. "A small one, but a chance nonetheless. If I was gonna get it, I was sure it would have come from a German. A Russian. But one of my own men? Well," he let out a soundless chuckle, "that, I did not see coming."

  Fear had become so common for Otto—the feeling that death was finally going to take him—that now, at his time of death, he wasn’t scared so much as he was numb.

  Numb to the fact that the child killer would soon turn the gun on him and kill him too.

  Numb to the fact that, after all the fear and worry, this would actually be the time. He only hoped that the oncoming bullets wouldn’t hurt too much. Maybe there was still some mercy left in the child, and he would shoot Otto in the head.

  "Well, at least one of us has a chance to live," Lafenz said. He held all the power in his hands. He was Death. Maybe these were the final moments of his madness. A madness that had swept through so many men through war on all sides.

  "Go," Lafenz said, still looking at Ingersleben, further confusing the two men. Where could Ingersleben go? Finally, he turned to Otto. “Go! If one of us has to live, let it be you. You've done monstrous things, sure, but at least you've not become a monster. Something that I can't say for myself.” Lafenz was going to let him live. Not only that, he was going to let him go. But why just him? What about Lafenz? Did he plan on going out on his own? Otto couldn’t even imagine going out in the world alone. He needed Lafenz. At least he was a fighter. Something that Otto was not.

  "Come with me," Otto said. "There's no reason for us to split up. If we work together, we can make it to the Western Front. Separated, we are weaker. Look, I know, I haven't been the strongest soldier, and I know that I have been more of a burden than a help at times, but still—” "