The Devil's Blessing Read online

  He began to press, on the side of his neck, just as she had done.

  "Harder," she said.

  "Right," Otto responded, realizing he wasn't applying that much pressure. He didn't want to be near a child ever again, terrified of what he might do, and yet here he was, again, with his hands around one's neck. He wished the landmine would've hit him, instead of Ulrich.

  He began to apply pressure again, real pressure this time. The child was still screaming and the fact that someone was now squeezing his neck only added to the volume and unhappiness of the small babe.

  The child's color was changing, too. First pink, then red, and then finally to a terrifying blue. Otto was going to let go. He was going to have to let go. The child demanded it.

  Just as soon as he was about to release his hand from Richard's neck, Ursula jabbed the needle into his neck.

  Without being asked or even caring if it was right, Otto let go and fell back to the ground.

  The child seemed stunned as he looked up into his mother's tear filled eyes. All while Otto was busy wondering how this was making him feel and how this would be affecting him, he had forgotten to take into account that the real horror being felt that day was with the mother's feelings, not his.

  She shushed and shushed as she pushed on the metallic plunger. Richard neither cried nor smiled. It was as if even he was surprised to see the courage his mother had to infuse him.

  After the penicillin was fully injected, she just as quickly pulled out the needle and covered the wound.

  All three sat and exchanged looks that seemed to last an hour. Everyone was relieved.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next day was a nervous one.

  Their fear was about what was happening to Richard—more precisely, what was happening to his neck. It had become swollen where Ursula Wolter had infused him the previous night. It was as if someone had inserted a small rock into his skin and covered that mound in hues of red and purple.

  "I missed," Ursula said, through tears.

  "No," Otto said, as comfortingly as he could.

  "Then why is his neck so swollen?"

  "It has to be that his body is so weak that he wasn't ready for the trauma. Plus," Otto added, "that bruise, as big as it is, isn't as big as it would be had you missed and put the penicillin into his skin."

  "True," she said, genuinely knowing that Otto was right. She had given him an entire vial of penicillin, and, had she missed the artery, his neck would have been the size of an apple. But still, his swelling was concerning.

  Richard's neck was bent slightly away from where he was infused. Had she given him too much? Too little? No one was sure. And even though it did look terrible, Richard was no different. No greater difficulty in breathing. No more cries of pain than usual. He seemed to be the only one oblivious to the small hemorrhage on his neck.

  The day after infusing him, he seemed both worse and better. He was still coughing, but there was no more sign of blood. He was also smiling more— something that Otto hadn't seen since he'd arrived.

  ❧

  The next day, what troubled Ursula was the bruise on his neck, and how it had spread.

  "Great," she said. "I went from trying to save his life to killing him." She wasn't sobbing like before, but instead the tears rolled down quietly.

  "Let me have a look," Otto said, slightly moving the mother away. It was nice, sleeping two nights in a row in some decent shelter. He nearly slept the entire time. He saw what he had expected and relayed the good news.

  "See," he said, pointing to Richard's neck, "he's getting better."

  "How? The bruise has gone from his neck all the way up to his ear. It's nearly gone to his face!"

  "But that's where you're wrong," Otto said. "See, here, where you stuck him? The swelling is actually down. That bump isn’t as large as when you stuck him. It's now more like a normal bruise. And that swelling you think is spreading? It isn't. It's just the dead blood from the original bruise. It's just spreading since it has to. No, if anything, this is great news! His wound is healing like it should be."

  She took a closer look, and again, Otto was right. The color was different. Otto pointed out that it was yellow and green, the colors of a wound that was healing. He had seen it plenty of times in the field. Men would get bruises all the time, and this was just the natural course. But still, she was a mother, and wouldn't be satisfied until the wound was completely healed.

  "Thank you," she said, with a smile that mirrored her son's. She went off to make them dinner.

  ❧

  "Where are you off to?" she asked. They were sitting on the ground. It wasn't as uncomfortable as Otto had thought it would be. Although the home was modest, the floor was made of wood. Not polished, but still finely sanded.

  For them, they were sitting near the oven and the rest of what made up the kitchen. She had pillows for them to sit on, and the pot of soup was easy for them to share. They could have moved the table the few feet that they needed to get near the warm, still burning oven, but it was as if Ursula wanted to do something different. In times like these, one needed to find something to break up monotony of daily life.

  "I'm a deserter," he said. "I'm off to the west to hand myself over to the Americans or the British."

  "I figured as much," she said, much to his surprise.

  "Oh, really? How did you come to that conclusion?"

  "Look at you," she said, motioning her spoon at him. "You don't look like a civilian, and you surely don't look like a soldier."

  He gave himself a quick look and saw what he already had suspected, but was never told of. His pants were that of a soldier—there was no doubt about that—but they were dirty beyond any commander's allowances. His boots were loosely tied, and he walked around with an untucked shirt, something that was definitely not allowed. His jacket was ragged but that was to be expected in a time of war.

  "Your face," she said, answering the question in his mind. "No soldier would have a face like that."

  "My beard, you mean?"

  "Ha!" she spurted out, grateful she didn't have food in her mouth, or that her laugh didn't wake the baby. "Sure. If that's what you want to call it."

  Otto stood up. "Do you have a mirror?"

  "What do you mean? Now?"

  "Yes," he said. He knew it wasn't civilized to get up in such a start during a meal, but the curiosity was too much.

  "Yes. Give me a moment." She returned with a wooden mirror that was just twice the size of a brush.

  "My God," he said, looking at himself for the first time in a long time. "Is this how I look?"

  She seemed a bit confused with the question, and, after eating a piece of potato, she simply said, "Yes."

  He didn't really have a mustache so much as there were small scatterings of hair below his nose. His beard, or what could be called that, was nothing more than short hair that came from one ear to the other, completely under his chin, and random islands of hair on his face.

  But the most startling thing to him was his face. It had changed.

  His skin was darker. He didn't understand why, but it was, and he had lost weight. A lot of weight. He instinctively looked away from the mirror and grabbed at his stomach. All this time he had been losing weight, becoming more bone than meat, and he hadn't even realized it. He looked at his belt; he had created new notches to fit his ever-slimming waistline. It never occurred to him that it was out of the ordinary; he just continued making new notches as his pants continued to fall.

  But the worst part was his eyes. They looked the same, of course, but it looked as if his eyes were in a state of always being wide open. Then there was the color under his eyes. They looked a near yellow, like the bruise on Richard's face. He handed the mirror quickly to Ursula in disgust. He was no longer hungry.

  "Would you like to shave?"

  "What?" He seemed confused. Ulrich had had a beard when he met him, so he was sure that he didn't have a razor. Perhaps it was hers.


  Answering the unsaid question, she said, "My Ulrich has--had--a razor. He didn't always have a beard." She smiled when she remembered. "He only did it for winter months."

  "Would it be alright, Frau?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

  "Of course," she said. "What use is it to me now?"

  ❧

  After cutting his beard down with sewing scissors and finally getting the shave he so desperately needed, he looked at his face again. It had a weird tan line where the scraggly beard had been.

  He had aged, significantly so. There were no grey hairs, but there were a few new lines, none too deep. No, it was his eyes, he realized. They seemed like a wild man's, wide open in some sort of shock.

  "Are you alright?"

  The voice startled him, probably because the mirror in his hand told him that the man staring back at him was a nervous one.

  "No. Yes, I mean. Thank you." The day was going from gray to black. "I leave in the morning."

  "Take me with you."

  It was the response he had been dreading.

  "I can't," he said.

  "Why not?"

  He couldn't answer her, so he just looked down. How could he tell her that he was afraid he had turned into some sort of walking nightmare that killed little children—children like Richard? Otto didn't know who he was anymore. Most of him thought that all that was behind now, that he had learned his lesson, that he would never kill again, least of all a child. But if he did it once, he could do it again. As Otto looked up to Ursula's eyes, those beautiful eyes, he wanted to tell her that the biggest threat wasn't the invading hordes to the east and to the west of them. Her biggest threat was quite possibly right in front of her.

  "It's just that--"

  "Hold that thought," she said, jumping up from off the ground.

  Otto was stupefied. One moment she wanted to know why he wouldn't take her, and the next she went running off. He had to follow her.

  "Get away from the door!" she said, closing it behind her. Apparently she had heard some sound and bustle outside that Otto had missed. "They're coming! You must hide!"

  "Who?" Otto said, realizing he was now back to his most comfortable of emotions—fear. "Who's coming?" he asked. "The Russians? The Americans?"

  "Worse," she said. “The Germans.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There was no time for questions. Germans were on their way, and as soon as they saw him, he'd be made.

  He wasn't a child, an older man, or a cripple, which made him someone that should be fighting. Plus, with the clothes he was wearing, it was obvious that he was a soldier. What would he be doing in place like this? Hiding and running. He knew, and as soon as they saw him they would know it, too.

  As Ursula grabbed his hand and rushed him towards the corner where baby Richard was, a thought crossed his mind. What if I came across some men who would be understanding of me? Who understood why I was running? As soon as that thought struck him, he knew how wrong he was. Those German troops would want him dead. Those in charge, because those were the orders, and especially the men. If they couldn't run, neither could he. There would be no safe arms in those closing steps.

  "Here!" she said. "Lay down! Hurry!" Her voice was hushed but still very stern. Otto sat down for a bit near Richard's crib, confused. "No!" she said. "I said lay down! Under the crib."

  Otto moved himself below the crib in a very uncomfortable position. He bumped the crib more than once as he tried to position himself the best he could, but the crib had four legs, and each pair had low-hanging crossbeams that made it difficult to move. Luckily, baby Richard didn't make a sound. Ursula threw a blanket over his still-exposed legs. "Cover yourself!"

  Before Otto could ask how the door slammed open, with a howl of the wind outside.

  "Everyone! Outside in the courtyard! Now!" a voice said. "Is this all that's with you?"

  "Just my child," she said, motioning to the screen in the corner. As the soldier began to make his way over, Ursula gently put her arm on his chest, stopping him. "He's asleep. Please. I'll come outside, but let him sleep. He has the White Plague."

  The soldier first nodded that he did see, and then took a step back, realizing that he might be sharing the air with a sick woman. "Follow me!" he said, leaving the door open.

  Richard began to make a sound or two as the cold air came in, but soon he stopped. Maybe the medicine was working. Otto wasn't sure. Then he thought that maybe it wasn't working, and maybe the child was closer to death. Whatever the case, Otto had to return to the task at hand: hiding himself.

  He was still nearly fully exposed, with the blanket comically strewn over his legs. He had to fix it as quickly as possible. He had no idea when she would return or if she would have company. They would probably do a check, not just for people, but for supplies as well.

  Just as Otto had nearly covered up his entire body with the blanket and made it crumpled, as if formless, he heard voices enter the room again.

  "Fräulein," the new man said, "My name is Alfred Tresler. And this is Edgar Von Essen. We are with the 2nd Mountain Division. May we come in?" he said, even though they were already inside.

  Tresler was dressed rather well, given the state the war was in; Von Essen seemed to show the wear and tear more so than the man in charge.

  "As you heard outside in the courtyard, we need to do just a quick, tiny search of your place. Also, we will need a place to stay for the evening, and your town will do us good. Von Essen?” He gestured to the soldier, who began to look around the one-bedroom home, lifting every cushion, opening every box, and sliding open every drawer. He then made his way to the curtain.

  "Wait!" Ursula cried out, almost too loud.

  "Is there a problem, Fräulein?" Tresler asked.

  "No," she said, nervously covering up her mouth, trying to find the right thing to say. "It's just...it's just that...it's just that my baby's asleep in that corner, that's all."

  "Oh, well that's no problem. We'll be quiet, I promise. I want to have a look at this child. Boy or a girl?"

  "A boy, but he's--" But before she could finish, they were off to the curtained room.

  As the steps came closer to Otto, he allowed himself one eyehole through the blanket, albeit towards the wall. But before they came he gave himself a quick one over, and then panicked. His boots were exposed. He had spent so much time getting the top of his body ready that he had inadvertently pulled up the blanket too high. In a panic and not knowing what to do, Otto looked around. The shadows from the men were upon him, and he grabbed and threw the closest thing he could find at his feet—a dress.

  "Ah. There he is! What's his name?" Tresler asked.

  "Who?" Ursula asked, frightened. They must have seen Otto.

  "Your son, of course," he said, with a grin that soon turned to a pout. "There wouldn't be anyone else, would there, Fräulein?"

  "No, of course not," she said, letting out a relieved breath. “And it’s Frau, not Fräulein. It's just this damned war and your presence has startled us. I'm sorry."

  "That's perfectly fine, my dear, I understand. So, what is his name?"

  "Otto," she said, mistakenly, and quickly closed her eyes and grimaced at her mistake.

  Not noticing, Tresler exclaimed "Otto! That was my father's name! Can I have a closer look?"

  "I don't think you'd want to."

  "Oh," he said, this time with a face of genuine concern. "And why's that?"

  "He has the White Plague, I fear." Upon hearing that the child had tuberculosis, Von Essen stepped back, looking around as if there were some invisible bee waiting to sting him. As for Tresler, he remained unmoved.

  "I see," he said, putting one hand over his mouth in concern and another over her shoulder in comfort. "I'm sorry," he said, taking his hand off of her. "I regret to inform you that our medic has long since died. Funny, is it not?" he said through a smile.

  "Yes," she said, through a forced smile that was fooling no one.

  "Well t
hen. One or maybe more of my men will be spending the night here tonight, if that's alright with you."

  "Even with my sick child, and the sickly air?"

  He nodded aloofly. "Why not?" he said. "Something has to kill them eventually."

  ❧

  Otto began to get up from the ground when Ursula came over to him and nearly shouted, "What are you doing, you damned fool?"

  "What?" he said. "They're not coming back."

  She looked perplexed. "Apparently you didn't hear him. They are coming back. Many of them, maybe."

  "No, they're not," Otto started to say as he began to lift a leg that Ursula quickly stepped on. "Ow! Why did you do that?"

  "Because you're not moving. You're staying there."

  Otto let his head fall back to the ground in frustration. "Why?" he asked to his ceiling, the bottom of Richard's crib. "Because he said they would?"

  "Precisely because of that."

  "Look Ursula, I don't--" She applied more pressure on his leg this time as he tried to move again. He paused for a few moments of anger, then began to say again. "I don't think they're coming tonight."

  "And why's that?"

  "And why's that?" he mimicked. "Because of him!" he said pointing up to the crib.

  "They won't mind a child."

  Otto was tired of dancing around it. "Because your son has tuberculosis. Which means this whole house has tuberculosis. Which probably means that you and me also have tuberculosis. Ow! Hey! I didn't move!"

  "That was for being stupid," she said, finally taking her foot off of his leg, much to Otto's relief.

  "Tuberculosis, the White Plague, whatever you want to call it," she said, "isn't transmittable like that."

  "No?" he asked, in a condescending manner.