The Devil's Blessing (13 page)

The message was clear enough. They didn't want to shoot anyone, 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.

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—” "

"No!" Lafenz barked, anger returning to his face. "You don't understand. We are not splitting up. I stay here as well. With him. With the man who made me into this," he said, wiping away the blood from his face.

"But they'll kill you when they find you. Both of you. And look at his wound. He's not going to survive it. Just come with me."

It was Lafenz's turn to laugh. "You still don't get it, do you? I'm staying behind with this bastard because this gun, this very gun that I'm holding, will be the death of both of us."

It took a few moments for Otto register what Lafenz was saying, and even when he did realize it, he dared not say it. Finally, Ingersleben spoke.

"What the little shit is saying is that he's going to kill me and then himself."

Otto's mouth was ajar. "What are you talking about? Why? You don't need to do this. You're just a boy. We'll get you to the west, and you'll have a long, new life. It'll just take some time."

"I'm already dead," Lafenz said. "He killed me that day when he made me shoot that man, Haas. I've been dead since that moment. Everything I was or was ever going to be ceased to exist from that moment on. What I've become. What I am. I can't even look at myself. I hate being inside this boy’s body."

"No," Otto said, finding a reserve of strength he hadn't known he had in him. "I won't let you do this." He held out his hand. “Please. Come with me."

For a few moments it seemed that he gave it a serious thought. But that moment lasted only a heartbeat as he raised his gun and pointed it at Otto.

"No," he said. "I stay here. You can either choose to join us or leave. This is your only warning."

Otto was stunned. He didn't know what to do. Was this some type of sick joke? Was he to turn and run, or was he to stay and try to convince the young man to spare his own life? He looked at Lafenz and saw a mind that was made up. And if it wasn't totally made up, it wasn't worth the risk of his own life to try to change his mind.

Otto gave Ingersleben one last look, as if to ask his superior what he was to do, a habit so ingrained that even death couldn't shake it. For Ingersleben's part, he just smiled through bloodied teeth and gave a shrug to Otto, silently laughing.

Without saying another word, Otto turned his back and began to walk away. He wasn't sure what else to say, or if there was anything else to say. Goodbyes? One last plea? This was not a situation he was prepared for.

He wanted to turn back around, to tell that little boy that he was being youthful and restless, yet his feet said otherwise. He kept walking.

As he heard the gunshot echo through the land, Otto paused out of habit. Amazingly, he wasn't shot. Lafenz had indeed spared him. Then he heard the second shot, and knew that everything was done.

He had seen enough death. He wasn't going to turn around and confirm his suspicions. He continued to walk away, even though his mind was telling him to run.

Part III of IV

Week № 15 of 1945

✠

9th April through 15th April

Near Luckenwalde

Brandenburg

The weather was erratic. Erratic in that it rained heavily one day and then would stop the next, each with varying lengths of time, without rhyme or reason. At first, Otto thought that it was miserable to be inundated with the ever-changing weather, day in day out, like some sort of slow torture, but then he realized this was worse. Even the breaks were a small hell. It was as if the world was just one large joke waiting to pull its next cruel prank on him.

But no matter how distraught Otto was, no matter how terrible he felt about the events of the past few weeks, he still felt a weariness that would not go away.

He was now the last survivor of the prison camp. Aside from the Cougher, who knew how the Russians they had liberated fared. The word from the captives was that all Russian prisoners of war were considered enemies of the Soviet State. There were varying stories about the capture of Stalin’s son, Yakov Dzhugashvili. The Russians claimed that he had been caught. The Germans claimed that he had surrendered. One thing that wasn’t disputed was the fact that Stalin didn’t want anything to do with him.
His own son!
Were the Soviets such monsters to think that their captured own were enemies as well? In this war, nothing should have surprised Otto, but it still did.