by Kelli Stuart
“It’s really better this way,” Father says, his eyes narrowing. “She was sick for some time, and the pain grew intense. It was cancer.”
“Why didn’t you write and tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me to go home and see her?” I ask. My voice wavers.
“Oh please, Frederick. Don’t act like such a child. You had a job to do. There was no sense in distracting you from that. Your coming home wouldn’t have changed your mother’s fate any more than it would have had I returned home before she passed. My leadership was needed in Berlin, so of course I had to remain there. The difference between you and me is that you needed to stay just so we could keep your head in the game.”
Father wasn’t there when she died, either. Mother died alone. At once, the colors around me ignite, and I slam my hand against the table.
“What the hell does that mean?” I shout, looking my father straight in the eye for the first time in my life. I don’t waver from his gaze as my chest heaves up and down. Father returns my stare, and very quickly I regret my outburst. I’m conflicted, afraid and angry, each emotion pushing over me like a tidal wave.
“Forgive me,” I mumble. My words sound slurred, my voice foreign. I lower my eyes again, but I can still feel his hot, angry stare.
Father places his hands against the table, and he slowly rises to his feet. He’s bent forward at the waist, his face lit with fury. “You have the nerve to lose your temper with me, and then you take it a step further and ask for forgiveness?” he hisses. “You’re both disrespectful and weak.”
I blink hard as Father pants in anger before me. After a moment, he lowers himself back into his seat. He’s tired. I can see it in his movements.
We sit silently for several long minutes before I speak again. “Does Talia know?” I ask. “Have you found her?”
At the mention of his beloved daughter’s name, Father’s face drops. His eyes are drawn, and the sadness puts out the heat of his anger.
“Your sister is no longer a part of our lives,” he replies. “She has disappointed me even more than you. I’m a scorned man by both of my children.” And just like that, the air leaves my lungs, and I slump. For the first time, I accept the thing that I think I’ve always known deep inside.
I will never please my father.
I gulp in a few deep breaths, willing the oxygen to bring back my vision. Pushing my shoulders straight, I look once again into the eyes of the old man before me. He’s broken and ruined: alone without a wife to speak of his invisible virtues, and with two children who have let him down. And in an instant I realize I hate him.
“Is that all you came here to tell me?” I ask icily. Father looks at me with dark, cloudy eyes.
“I came here to tell you that you’re a disappointment,” he says. I stand up abruptly, pushing the chair back with such force that it clatters to the floor.
“All I have ever done, Father,” I say through clenched teeth, “is try to please you. It has always been my desire to bring honor to your name. Always.” Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and my whole body quakes. Again I see my mother’s face, and my vision clears, Father is finally coming fully into focus before me. He’s weak. The man I have longed to emulate is a coward, and I am just like him. There is no longer a future for either one of us.
I take a deep breath before speaking again. For the first time in months I feel my head clearing, the fog slowly burning away the lies as the truth ignites before me. “I see now there’s nothing I could ever have done to make you happy,” I say.
Father stands and grabs his hat. He puts it on his head and draws in a long, deep breath. “Well, then,” he says, his voice weary, “I believe we’ve both said all that needs to be said.” He looks at me, and I see nothing but scorn and shame. “You’re a failure,” he says softly.
“And you’re a coward,” I answer back. Father looks shocked, but I leave no opportunity for him to respond. I spin on my heel and march out of the room, leaving him with nothing but the shame of his own failings.
Slamming open the door leading into the street, I welcome the bitter cold that rushes over me like a flood. Turning to the left, I march up the sidewalk, the hill sharp and steep. My feet skid and slip, and I fall to my knees with a thud, pain shooting through my leg like a knife. I push back to my feet and continue forward, wincing with each limped step. My shoulders shake, a mixture of anger, grief, and cold.
I reach the top of the hill and stop next to a blackened building, the effects of this war leaving stains everywhere. I turn to look back down at headquarters. It’s mostly dark inside, but I can still see the faint orange glow of lights. I assume my father is still there. I wish him dead.
Then it hits me, and a sob escapes before I can hold it back. My mother is gone—my meek, quiet mother whom I always saw as weak. I understand her more, and regret and remorse send me into waves of grief. Like me, she was always bent to Father’s will. She didn’t agree with him, but she couldn’t rock the boat. To do so would have cost her everything because it would have meant forfeiting her children to his grasp. She tried to protect us from him. I think of the night she tucked me in as a small boy and whispered her secret to me.
“Don’t grow up to be like him.”
Her words pierce, and I know now that she wasn’t weak. My mother was strong. She was strong enough not to be swayed into believing Father. Talia had this same strength. But nothing could save them from Father, and nothing will save me, either. I am finished.
“I’m just like him,” I whisper into the void. “I am weak.” The night sky sweeps up my despair and flings it into the cavern of space between the present and eternity. I’ve spent my entire life with one goal, one purpose: to win father’s approval. My life is wasted.
I lean against the wall and drop my head back with a crack. I rest against the rough surface and take notice of the frigid air against my body, so cold it burns.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper, pushing away from the wall and picking a sorrowful path of purpose down the hill toward the barracks.
“Frederick.”
The whisper haunts, but I cannot see the source of the voice. I peer into the darkness, squinting my eyes for some glimpse.
“Come to us, Frederick. Come and see what your greatness has accomplished. Come, Frederick. Come.”
I take a step toward the whisper. My heart beats quickly, and my palms sweat. I squeeze my hands into fists in an attempt to steady myself. A faint light appears in the distance. I quicken my steps toward it. Ghosts can’t stand in the light.
“Come closer, Frederick. Come and see.”
The words are breathy, almost a hiss. I run now toward the growing light, longing to break free of the darkness.
“Frederick.”
I come to a halt as the light overwhelms me. I shield my eyes with my hands, trying to see who it is that whispers my name.
“Frederick.”
The whisper is right next to me, cool lips pressed against my ear. I whirl to the right, and open my mouth in a silent scream. It’s her: the redheaded waitress from the nightclub. Her eyes are completely black, her skin pale. A thin trickle of blood drips down her upper lip. Her head lolls to the side as she fixes her death stare on me.
“See what you have done, Frederick,” she whispers. I follow her pointed hand to the mound of bodies, each of their faces familiar to me. They are my dead. The pile writhes and squirms together like worms fighting and pushing their way to the surface, and in the center, a space opens up for something that wishes to escape.
I want to look away, but my eyes are frozen on the image before me. As the bodies part, two figures emerge. They turn slowly to stare at me, their eyes deep and sunken into blue-streaked cheeks. It is Mother and Talia.
Their mouths move slowly, thin lips calling my name in short, staccato gasps. I try to scream but can’t, so I throw myself to the side.
I wretch myself from my bottom bunk and thrash on the floor for a moment, the weight of the nightmare leaving m
e disoriented and confused. After a short moment, I realize where I am and quickly pull myself back into bed.
I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to block out the visions of my dream, but as soon as I do so, I see them all—every person I’ve killed since the war began. I see the woman with the fur coat and the husband and wife clinging to one another at Babi Yar. I see the sobbing, pleading mother as she grasps her infant. I hear the cries of the farmer’s wife as I force him to his knees. I feel the spray of blood warm against my cheeks when I pull the trigger.
And as each person dies again right before my eyes, I hear his voice, the man from the woods. The only one I ever let live.
“You are not a killer,” he whispers over and over. His voice overcomes the awful whispers of my dead. His terrible loop of lies.
I am a killer, I think as I force my eyes open and stare at the bed above me. I am the most evil of killers because I killed without conviction. I killed to please. I killed not for sport or with purpose but for approval.
I killed in vain.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I push myself up, my joints stiff and tight from a night of tension. I fell asleep in my uniform, and it’s wrinkled and disheveled. I don’t bother to change. I slide my hat down low over my forehead and carry my shoes out of the room before putting them on. I desire no attention, no questioning eyes. I know they’re all curious as to what happened last night.
Let them wonder.
Stepping out into the early morning sunshine, I squint and allow a moment for my eyes to adjust. The light is intense and stabs like a dagger. The air still bites, but the sunlight takes away the sting. When my eyes have finally grown accustomed to the brightness, I turn and walk back toward headquarters.
Stepping inside, I look around the still, quiet room. A young soldier sits in the corner, a steaming mug of Soviet chai sitting before him. He looks at me with eyebrows raised.
“I need to speak with Blobel,” I say, my voice gruff and clipped. “Is he here?”
The soldier nods and juts his chin toward a closed door at the end of the hall. I walk quickly to the door and give two short, staccato raps.
“Enter!” Blobel barks. I push the door open. He stands at his desk, a box sitting before him. He looks at me in surprise, his eyebrows high on his narrow forehead.
“Herrmann,” he says as he turns to face me. “I trust you had an … interesting discussion with your father last night.” As he speaks, his long neck stretches forward so that he stares up at me. His gaze is both amused and sarcastic.
I resist the urge to cringe and answer with only a slight nod. Blobel narrows his eyes, studying me closely before shifting his round eyes from my face and leaning back against his desk.
“So what are you doing here, Herrmann?” Blobel asks.
“I need permission to take one of the cars, sir,” I answer. I look steadily at him as I make my request, and Blobel pushes himself up, trying to lengthen his stance to match my own. I don’t break my stare, my eyes piercing his in defiance.
“And why do you need to take a car, Herrmann?” he asks.
“I need to run an errand … for my father,” I answer. I’m not asking, and as our eyes remain locked I defy Blobel to deny my request. I have never made such a bold and assuming demand, but I no longer care about the rules that Father so tirelessly drilled into my head. Blobel laughs, a mirthless, ugly sound that sends chills down my spine.
“Well then,” he says, eyeing me closely. “Who am I to deny the son of the great Tomas Herrmann?”
This time I cannot hide my disdain. I am the son of Tomas Herrmann, a man scorned and shamed by his entire family—a man impossible to please. Yes, I am his son, and I’m shamed for it. I think of Talia’s bold words that final day with Father, and at once I understand her anger, and in my understanding, I feel connected to her once again after so many years.
Blobel waves his hand at me. “Take any car you want, Herrmann,” he says, his voice trembling with laughter. “Just report back to me when you’ve finished your … errands.” A wicked smile cuts across his face, and I spin on my heels to escape the heat of his stare.
Rushing to the front room, I hold my hand out to the soldier on guard. “I need keys to one of the cars,” I demand, my voice sharp. He glances toward Blobel’s door, then back at me. Shrugging his shoulders, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a set of keys. I grab them and race out the back door, quickly find my car, and slide into the front seat. The leather is icy, and my teeth chatter involuntarily. I start the engine, giving it a brief moment to warm up before kicking it into gear and pulling out.
I know where I’ll go.
Twenty-five minutes later, I allow the car to roll to a stop. I stare out the window at the vast expanse of land. This is the place where it all began, where my spiral into shame and death took root. And this is the place where it will end.
I push open the door and step outside. Immediately, I sense the oppression of this place. I feel the heat of hell, a heat I helped ignite. I walk slowly through the fence toward the clearing. Articles of clothing still lie in small piles, and I stop briefly to look at them. Reaching down, I pick up a small brown teddy bear, a child’s companion until death parted them.
I study the bear closely, noting his button eyes and the worn patch on his arm where he was obviously dragged. I close my eyes and try to chase the images away, but they’re there, waiting for me. The smell of death is strong in this place, and the haunting cries of women and children chase my thoughts.
I open my eyes and drop the bear. My hands feel as though they’ve been burned, and perhaps they have. I walk past the second gate and step over the threshold that looks down over Babi Yar. The sight brings a wave of nausea that I cannot fight as I lean forward with a violent wretch. The bile and acid from inside my empty stomach come out with such force that I feel my throat go instantly raw.
I cannot look away, though the pain of the sight cuts me deeply. More have been killed in the sixteen months since we began our cleansing here in Babi Yar. The tangle of bodies is deep, and high, and long. The cold temperatures have preserved most of them in such an unblemished state that I must fight the urge to shout out to them.
Get up! my heart screams, but I know it’s no use. They’re dead, and it is I who killed them. There are so many bodies piled up that it looks like a woven braid of knees and elbows, all locked together and topped with mouths open wide in pain and horror. Thousands and thousands lie here, naked and exposed, and I cannot remember why.
Why have we done this? What use was it to us, to me? What sort of darkness sees such suffering and looks the other way?
I think of the men in my group, the men of Einsatzgruppen C, and I’m stunned at the images that fill my mind. The men are laughing, smoking, playing as they kill. This was sport to them. Shooting these men and women was as common an act as shooting a deer in the woods.
“But why shouldn’t we have done this,” I say out loud, my mouth and throat still burning. I must remember what brought me here, because the sight before me is too horrible to have been created in vain. “They said this land was ours to make holy,” I whisper, repeating the words I’ve heard over and over all my life. “We’re to build a nation pure and set apart.”
Looking up, I stare at the blue sky through the trees, searching for confirmation from the heavens that what I accomplished here had true weight. I try to see the faces of the ones who once held such deep respect in my heart. I search for the conviction that makes this all worthwhile, makes it right. But I see no justification for my actions. I see only the face of my father, and I feel at once that I have been terribly tricked.
“I am a fool,” I whisper. I take a step forward, and my foot slips, tossing me down the steep, slippery embankment. I land hard on top of the pile of frozen bodies. The stillness is nearly suffocating. There are no sounds to be heard outside of the beating of my heart. Their mouths are open, but they are silent. I sit up and turn around to s
ee whom I landed on.
She’s young—three, maybe four. Her hair is dark and curly, her lips blue. Her eyes are open and vacant. She doesn’t look sad or scared. Instead she seems peaceful, perhaps even calm. The only evidence of her horror lies in the large, gaping hole that splits her forehead. This is the place where all the world was cut off from her. Was she the owner of the bear?
I stand up and look down the ravine, the bodies piled high as far as I can see. I look back at the girl and feel the weight of my guilt upon me like an ever-tightening vice. I look up the embankment and realize I’m trapped. I will never climb out of this ditch.
I pull my gun from my jacket and turn it over in my hands. I try to remember the pride I felt the day I was handed a Nazi-issued Luger, but there’s no pride to be seen, no honor to be found. I pull away my thick gloves so that I can feel the metal cold in my hands. I turn it over again, then release the lock, listening to the click echo through the cavern. Cocking the gun slowly, I imagine the bullet slipping into the chamber. I hear no sound as I raise it up with shaking hands.
I gaze out over the sea of bodies one last time, then down at the tiny girl. I long for her forgiveness—hers and all the others. But I know I shall not have it. There will be no peace for me. Heaving in a deep, ragged breath, I scream from the very pit of my soul, the tears flowing freely and hot.
“Heil Hitler!” The scream is guttural and primal, but the sound of my own voice no longer shocks me. I’m already dead.
I always thought I’d grow up to be a great man. I had to look no further than my father to see what greatness looked like. The face of a great man was framed by the accomplishments he attained in front of all who watched. I look slowly around at the hollow eyes. They’re all watching me, and I feel their stares settle upon my soul. They see now what took so long for me to see myself.
I am not a great man.
I press the gun hard against my temple and squeeze the trigger.