by Meg Lelvis
“You’re on a roll,” Sherk said as carrot top wandered off.
“So tomorrow we should discover how Ariana and Pa met up. The part we’ve been waiting for.” Jack took another bite of burger. “By the way, I emailed Tommy last night, hoping he’d tell me which regiment Pa was in. He’ll check the discharge papers. I never thought about the specifics before. Just knew he was in the Army and was there for the liberation of Dachau.”
Sherk set his fork down. “Yeah, I’m interested too. I did more research last night about the Seventh Army and which division actually was first to arrive at the camp. There’s contradictory information on whether it was the forty-second Rainbow Division or the forth-fifth Thunderbirds.”
“Can’t see my old man in a division called Rainbows,” Jack scoffed.
Sherk shook his head in mock annoyance. “Different connotation back then. Anyway, he probably was in the forty-second because the forty-fifth Division was Oklahoma-based. They didn’t accept out- of-state recruits until right before the Korean War.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “But why the conflicting reports? Wouldn’t the Army have documented who got to Dachau first?”
“Everything was bedlam.” Sherk took a bite of potato salad. “The Americans were in shock when they found the camp. It was a week before the official end of the war, and both divisions wanted credit for the liberation. Look online and you’ll see all the soldiers who wanted recognition for getting there first.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Gimme a break. Some pissing contest that was.”
On second thought, wouldn’t it be something if Cpl. John Bailey had been one of the first to witness the worst atrocities in history?
. . . . .
The next morning Jack and Sherk arrived at Renate’s apartment at nine-thirty. Her sky-blue blouse matched her eyes, her cheeks flushed. After shooing them into the room, she offered the usual coffee and pastries. Because they’d just eaten breakfast at the hotel, Sherk declined.
Sitting on the sofa, Jack thought Renate seemed a little keyed up, but happy and excited. She eased herself into the armchair and reached for a worn-out folder or pamphlet and held it in her lap. Could be she had more pictures to show them. She looked at Jack, her eyes shimmering.
Chapter 18
Renate – 2012
Today I have a big surprise. This part of the story will be special to Jack because he’ll understand the truth of what his father dealt with. That is why I have this notebook. Since we first met, I’ve been waiting for this day so I can show it to you.
You see, Ariana persuaded John to write down everything he witnessed when his Army unit came to Dachau. So he wrote this diary after the war in 1946. Yes, can you imagine it? Even though he said she wouldn’t understand all the language, Ariana told him she wanted to learn more English in school. She promised she would learn his words, and some day she would return it to him.
When Ariana’s memory started failing, she brought John’s journal to me for safekeeping. I want you to have this, Renate. When you pass, then it will go to Monika.
I must’ve mentioned Ariana and her husband Walter had a daughter? Monika is her name. She has an excellent job and lives near Stuttgart. She was just here last week, and is good about visiting her Mutti, even though Ariana doesn’t recognize her on most days.
But let’s get back to John’s journal. He didn’t want to write the terrible details of what he witnessed, but she insisted he write them. For whatever reason, she needed the information. Perhaps for people to always remember?
So here it is for you to read. It begins in the winter of 1945, a few months before the war ended. That will lead up to how John met Ariana and the rest of their—I’m not sure what to call it, except what it was. Their love story.
Perhaps Jack would rather bring the notebook back to the hotel. Then he can take his time and read it by himself.
Chapter 19
Weimar
After Sherk translated Renate’s words, Jack couldn’t stop staring at the journal in her hand. His old man wrote a diary? Nothing frilly about it. Looked like a spiral notebook without the spirals, its brown leather cover worn to a shine, the corners frayed. He stood and turned to Sherk.
“Yeah, why don’t we head for the hotel. Then I can concentrate on it.” Jack shook his head. “God, this thing has been here for—”
“Sixty-six years,” Sherk said. “If he wrote it in nineteen forty-six, then sixty-six years.”
“Right, Einstein. Point is, it’s pretty damn old.”
Renate rose from her chair and handed the journal to Jack. His hands trembled as he slowly took it and held it cautiously, like a Fabergé egg. This notebook had belonged to his father, so light in Jack’s hands, yet heavy on his heart. He turned to Sherk, his voice raspy. “Sure wasn’t expecting this.”
They walked toward the door, Renate chattering away.
Sherk turned to Jack. “She wants us to come back tomorrow to visit Ariana one more time.”
“Fine with me.” He guessed his father’s journal would help him see Ariana in a different light.
They said their goodbyes to Renate and walked down the hallway.
Jack said, “We’ll come back tomorrow to visit Ariana again, but I’m ready to ditch Weimar and head back to Munich.”
“You don’t say? We haven’t toured the main palace or the Goethe garden house—”
“No offense, Sherk, but I like Chicago. Always been a big city guy except for those years in Texas. Damn near died of the heat. This town doesn’t have the vibe of Munich, not to mention the biergartens.”
. . . . .
Riding back to the hotel, Jack held the notebook in his lap and gazed out the window.
“Aren’t you going to sneak a peek at it?” Sherk glanced over.
“Naw, I’ll wait till I get to my room. You can amuse yourself while I dig into it. Go tour a palace or two.” Jack wasn’t sure what emotions the journal would evoke, but better they manifest themselves in private.
“Nah. No palaces for me today.” Sherk stopped at a red light. “I’m going to lie down. Didn’t sleep well last night. I was concerned about Erica and the tests she’s having in a couple days.”
Jack turned to him. “Shit, man, I forgot about that. I’m sure they’ll be fine like last time.” Easy for him to say.
Sherk sighed. “Yeah, she’s been fatigued lately, but that’s normal. We’ve been texting or talking every day, and she’ll update me when she finds out something.”
Jack was uneasy about Erica’s well-being. The thought of Sherk’s wife dying of ovarian cancer was something he tried not to worry about. He’d hate to see his old friend in the same boat as him. Losing Karen and his little Elizabeth had damn near killed him. He figured Sherk was anxious about Erica’s illness and treatment, but did a good job of hiding it. He should broach the subject again, but surely Sherk was confident he could talk to Jack if he wanted. Guess women were better at communicating about personal stuff.
Still, he couldn’t rid himself of his own selfishness. For days, Sherk had done nothing but help Jack chase after his own interests. He hoped his friend enjoyed the time spent, and didn’t figure Jack was using him. He needed to dream up a way to repay his pal. But how?
. . . . .
Later in his room, Jack sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the journal in his lap. He ran his hand over its smooth, worn surface. Why was he hesitating? Did he truly want to get inside his old man’s head? He might discover uncomfortable things about John Bailey’s war record that he’d be better off repressing. He’d gotten word about some American soldiers breaking military laws. And there was the connection with Aria
na. Didn’t want to visualize his father getting it on with a woman other than Ma. Although, given the circumstances—
Jack told himself to quit being a chicken ass, so he slowly opened the cover. The first page was unlined, yellowed with thinning, creased edges. A faint musty smell drifted in the air. He recognized his father’s large, steady handwriting, a tiny blob of ink hanging from the occasional stroke on a letter. Must’ve used a fountain pen. His gut tightening, Jack studied the words:
John Bailey, Cpl.
US Seventh Army 42nd Rainbow Division
June, 1946, Munich
He slowly turned the page.
Chapter 20
Journal Entry—June 3, 1946
Dear Ariana,
You wanted me to write everything I remember about the last couple years, but I won’t include much military information. It would bore you. I’m skipping over a lot of our combat that happened far away from you and your family. After all, you didn’t want a history book.
I’m sure you will go back to school or the university like you plan to do and learn enough English to read this. I hate to tell certain details, but you insisted. You said it will be important someday to you and my relatives as part of history. You might want to cross out the swear words, but remember, you said you wanted this notebook to be my true thoughts.
I’m no Hemingway and I’m like a fish out of water writing this, but here goes.
. . . . .
Winter, 1945
All of us in the squad were fed up and tired, ready for the damn war to end, just like everyone on the home front. In December of ‘44 we were in southern France for a short time, then headed north in kind of a zigzag pattern and ended up fighting along the German border in January of ‘45. It was freezing cold, water turned to ice in the bottoms of our foxholes.
Guys were sick. Coughing, fever and the runs. You don’t want me to write what that was like, running to the makeshift latrines, buddies telling you to hurry up. Ariana, you don’t appreshiate the value of decent toilet paper until you ain’t got it.
Then in March, we crossed the Rhine and captured a few towns along the way, can’t spell them though. We rode in trucks, jeeps, or armored vehicles, and even bicycles some guys snatched from deserted farms. It was still cold and snowy. Like we were in Siberia.
By mid-April, we seized nearby villages and suburbs of Nuremberg, and headed south. In late April we crossed the Danube at Donauwörth and made our way down toward Munich. Still colder than a witch’s than the Arctic, snowing off and on.
Our goal was to capture Munich, but we made an awful discovery along the way, just when we were nearing the outskirts. It was Sunday morning, April 29, and we were closing in on the city. We were freezing our asses off. The fields and trees, covered with snow. We wore those damn brown Ike jackets, as they were called, that weren’t exactly parkas. Almost useless against the cold. I thought of those poor Red Army bastards coming from Russia.
Anyway, we noticed a string of railway cars on the tracks beside an empty-looking storage-type shed. They looked like abandoned boxcars, all shabby. It reminded me of a western movie, a cowboy riding up to a lonely scene, right in the middle of the boonies.
Since a lot of railroad tracks were bombed out, we thought we were just seeing another line of rail cars sitting there going nowhere. We got closer, a few guys jumped off the trucks and said they looked like cattle cars open on top. We got closer. I remember someone yelling.
“Hey, are those dead animals by the tracks?”
Then closer.
The men called out, ‘Holy Fuck’, over and over. The stench hit first. Rotting, putrid stink was like an attack on us. I pinched my nose and jumped from the tank and headed toward the tracks. Bullet holes riddled the sides of the wooden cars.
Then the discovery.
The corpses were human. Or had been.
Men swore, wept, vomited.
I was one of the first in my squad to look inside an open boxcar. I was hollering, “Don’t look.” Dumb on my part. Of course, they had to look.
In minutes, they all saw.
I tasted bile in my throat.
Oh God, Ariana. Piles of bones wrapped in skin were crammed inside the rail cars. Car after car, same cargo. Later we’d find out there were forty to sixty boxcars full of 4,800 prisoners.
Some corpses, eyes wide open, stared right at us, their liberators, too late to do them any good. I tried, but couldn’t look away from them. They were like piles of bluish-gray mannequins. Ghastly remains of men, women, children. One little girl still had a pink ribbon tied around her hair. That choked me up. Someone must’ve cared about her.
Some bodies were naked, legs and arms two inches wide, hipbones jutting in the air. Others wore rags of gray striped cloth. Some fully clothed in prison uniforms. It struck us. These were no enemy prisoners of war. They were civilians. Women and children. They’d been starved, shot, or beaten to death.
Then there were the survivors. Some looked worse than the dead. One old woman’s face was withered away like a rotting apple.
My buddy, Bill, pulled a groaning man from underneath the corpse of a woman, her hair like brown straw, dark circles carved under her eyes. The poor guy was whimpering in a foreign tongue, probably Polish, another buddy said. Bill carried him like a child onto a Jeep, his striped prison pants falling to his ankles. Poor man had no rear end at all.
I can’t tell you how shocked and filled with rage we were. We craved revenge. Several men ran toward the railway shed trying to find the first SS guards they could. I remember they yelled, “Shoot those Nazi swine. Shoot the bastards.”
But that would come later.
Chapter 21
Journal Entry
Ariana, I needed a break, so I put this away for a few hours. But now I’ll write on.
The boxcars were crammed with bodies, like I wrote. Some had been crushed and suffocated, many starved to death. We found out later they had been stuck on the train for days without food or water. There were rumors of cannibalism but thank God I never saw any evidence.
We kept searching from car to car looking for survivors. Shit, what we witnessed, you should never have to see, Ariana. No one should. And all the while the stench. Human waste along with rotting corpses. One guy’s head was bashed in, his brains oozing onto the ground by the tracks.
Me and Bill got to the 5th or 6th boxcar and looked inside. At first, it didn’t dawn on me what the hell I saw. I asked Bill what it was.
Bill started to talk, then quit.
A bald skeleton of a man, head bent, sat moaning. I couldn’t understand what we saw at first, but he sat beside two decaying bodies and another man who was barely alive. Bill asked the half-dead guy what happened to the man who kept groaning. Looked like he had some of his leg gone, lots of blood and seeping crud. Bill understood more German than me. Sein Bein wurde amputiert. Wundbrand.
Bill turned pale, gasped. His words are still in my head. ‘Jesus, Bailey, his leg was amputated.’ He guessed he had gangrene from frostbitten toes and feet. After everything I’d seen in combat, never saw anything like this. The guy kept wailing. The other man kept talking. Er hat es selbst abgeschnitten.
Bill covered his mouth and gagged. He translated that the guy somehow amputated his own leg. He had covered the stump with old paper he’d found somewhere. Clotted blood and brown, yellow pus turned the paper a greenish black color. Stunk like sewage.
I damn near gagged myself. I still can’t get that sight out of my mind. We couldn’t figure how the poor bastard got something sharp enough to cut off his own leg. Then somebody figured the gangrene had rotted away the skin and bone, so he
just used his own hands.
We looked around, saw a few buddies. I hollered for help. Two guys came to the car. They damn near puked when we tried to lift the poor man up without hurting him more. He screamed like a banshee. I remember one of our GI’s yelling that the leg was falling off. It was coming apart all over the soldier’s arms as he tried to carry him. The paper was coming off the stump, looked like skin was crumbling, falling on the ground.
The rest was a blur. I may have blacked out. We finally got him in the truck. Someone said later the poor son of a bitch guy ended up in a makeshift hospital tent. Never found out if he survived. Just one of many I wondered about in months to come.
The Dachau Death Train, as it was later called, was the worst thing I’d ever seen. Until then the reasons for the war were pointless. I never realized why the hell we were fighting until now. Of course, we were in the war against the Germans, and we were invading their country on land, so they had to defend it, and we had to kill ‘em.
But this whole war — way beyond battles over territory. I wasn’t the only one who hated the Germans more than you can imagine. Seeing what they’d done. On this train.
At Dachau. Buchenwald. The others. Now fighting this war had a reason.
We were fighting evil. Actual evil. How could they do that to their own people?
What the hell was this? The middle ages?
This was in my lifetime, for God sake.
My own fuckin’ lifetime.
Chapter 22
Weimar
Jack put the journal on the end table by his bed and wiped his brow. Why was he sweating? He couldn’t wrap his head around his old man seeing all that. No wonder he took it out on his wife and kids after he came home. The drunken rages. The ruined Christmas dinners. No one could ever be the same after witnessing what he and his buddies saw. No way in hell could anyone even imagine what it was like. And there we were, in the decades that followed, lounging in our air-conditioned homes, complaining about lousy TV reception, putting on weight.