Winter Men

by Jesper Bugge Kold

  Losing a child was indescribable. The doctors said there was something wrong with Laura’s heart, and Laura was taken from them in one devastating blow. When she died, it was as if all the world’s evil came together and wedged itself between them. There was nothing they could have done. Their powerlessness led to tears, and when they were out of tears, it was replaced by emptiness and then an oppressive grief that would never go away. Grief consumed them like a corrosive liquid. Their family tried to console them, saying things like “there must be a reason,” “you can still have other children,” and “life goes on.” But to lose Laura was to lose Laura forever. The feeling would never go away; it was a feeling without beginning or end. They didn’t lose just Laura; they lost a large part of themselves. They’d had her for only five months and nine days, but they would never be the same.

  Afterward, they tried to hold onto the fragments of their life, but the pieces were brittle and kept splintering in their hands. They struggled, and they struggled, and in the end they struggled against each other, and their grief became a protracted fight that only ended with more loss.

  Today marked precisely ten years since Emma’s death. The prospect of spending the entire day alone in his own company forced Gerhard out of bed. He dressed slowly, not caring that he was putting on the same clothes he’d worn the day before.

  Karl had forgotten the day’s significance, but Ingrid had called the night before to invite Gerhard to dinner. He’d declined. He regretted it as soon as he hung up, but he was too proud to call back.

  He dragged himself to work. Pedaling was difficult, and the bicycle seemed heavier than ever. He’d hoped to make the day feel like any other by going in to work, but he couldn’t suppress his memories. They eventually turned into stomach cramps, so he went home and vomited, and spent the rest of the day lying in bed staring at the ceiling. The next day he got up and went back to work.

  In August 1939, Senior Squad Leader Gerhard Strangl had begun his work in the transport division under SS Major Dr. Walter von Amrath. His escape from the Gestapo was short-lived, since his department underwent a massive restructuring just a month later. The transport division was assigned to Branch IV in the new Reich Main Security Office, and Heinrich Müller became the head of Branch IV—also called the Gestapo.

  The department was located in a three-story whitewashed building in Mittelweg. Built at the turn of the century in the art nouveau style, with ornate cornices on each story where doves liked to sit cooing all day, the property had once housed a Jewish law practice, but the owners had immigrated to the United States, so the SS had acquired the building cheaply. Gerhard knew perfectly well that “cheaply” meant “confiscated.”

  He’d been in the division for two years now, and the work wasn’t the least bit taxing. It consisted of making logistical calculations, which came down to calculating space in cubic feet. X needs to be moved from A to B, and there can be Z number X in each Y. X was materiel, food, and sometimes troops. He was rarely tired when he sat down at his typewriter every afternoon. He had a lot of time to work on his book, and the stack of pages next to the black Continental grew daily. Soon he’d be done with his first draft, and then he’d begin revising it. He’d once gotten his best ideas down at the harbor—the entire skeleton of the book had come to him there—but the harbor had lost its appeal.

  Gerhard shared his first-floor office with Norbert Seitz-Göppersdorf and Friedrich Olmo. Seitz-Göppersdorf’s and Olmo’s desks were shoved together in the center of the room, so the two men sat facing each other. Gerhard’s desk extended out from theirs.

  A portrait of Hitler hung at one end of the high-ceilinged room. His face was turned to the right, but his eyes gazed to the left, and his expression was stern. His hair was perfectly parted; his mustache emphasized the width of his nose. The Iron Cross Second Class—which he’d been awarded in the Great War—hung from his chest pocket. A dark-brown leather strap stretched across his chest. The portrait was positioned so that Gerhard couldn’t help but see it every time he glanced up.

  The same serious expression met Gerhard whenever he rotated his head to the left, where Norbert Seitz-Göppersdorf sat; with his slightly awkward and stiff mannerisms, he always seemed uncomfortable in the company of others. He was a withdrawn man with a narrow face that lacked any distinctive features, and his personality was just as complicated as the pronunciation of his unwieldy name. Gerhard knew nothing about him but assumed he was around thirty. He’d already begun to lose his blond hair, and his scalp was visible through the locks that remained. Every morning he sat down in his chair, then meticulously scooted it forward, gripping his seat with both hands. He would place his brown leather briefcase on the desk and open it with a metallic click, then remove the fountain pen that he always placed on the right side of his left shirt pocket. He would rake his thinning hair with a wide-tooth comb and clasp his hands, which revealed no discernable evidence that he’d ever committed himself in marriage to a woman. Gerhard wondered if he prayed. He wasn’t sure what Seitz-Göppersdorf had done before this, nor did he want to know.

  Olmo, on Gerhard’s right, was Norbert’s opposite. He was, like von Amrath, quick to smile and put others in a good mood just by his presence. Gerhard had known him at the university, where he’d been part of the science faculty. If he ignored Norbert’s chronic bad mood, the division’s atmosphere was pleasant. Walter von Amrath had been a transport officer in the Great War, which was why he’d gotten the job as commanding officer; it was fine by him since, as he said, “We won’t get any blood on our hands here.” Gerhard and von Amrath got along well. They often dined together and regularly discussed literature, philosophy, and food, among many other things. They deftly avoided any reference to the political situation in the country, and only rarely did they speak of the war.

  Gerhard sat with his hands in his lap, staring out the window as Olmo entertained Miss Reinfeld with stories about his offspring. When the secretary forcefully jerked up the window to frighten the doves off the cornice, he was startled.

  “Their nonstop cooing is making me crazy.”

  “Do you mean the men?” Olmo asked with a boyish smile.

  Ms. Reinfeld was laughing as she exited the office. Olmo had told them about his youngest daughter, Martha, who’d just started walking. It always pained Gerhard to hear about other people’s children, and it was unfortunate that Olmo liked to talk about his a great deal.

  Just then von Amrath thrust open the door and rushed into the room. His face was beet red and he was panting. All three men turned in alarm toward their superior, who stood in the doorway gasping for breath.

  “The Jews,” he wheezed. “Goddamn it, they’ve unloaded the Jews on us.” A small, fine splatter of spit arced from his lips and landed on the floor.

  Stunned, they stared at their boss, who’d never been so out of sorts. Norbert always looked distressed, but that distress had intensified and his eyes were wider than ever. Gerhard’s thoughts raced, but he couldn’t grasp a single one: they whizzed past like a train, and his eyes flickered as he tried to focus. Olmo gathered his wits first. He stood, gently took von Amrath by the arm, and helped him into an empty chair by the desk. He poured a cup of ersatz coffee and placed it beside von Amrath.

  Gerhard thought of Aaron and Hannah. He’d stopped hearing his Jewish neighbors upstairs a while back, and Jakob and Rachel hadn’t knocked on his door in a long time. Then one day, he suddenly heard footsteps and the scrape of chairs in the apartment once again. He went upstairs to say hello. He wanted to show the family that he didn’t consider them animals—an appellation that had become popular—and he’d purchased a bouquet of yellow and orange gerbera daisies for Hannah, her favorite. But an overweight woman he’d never seen before opened the door. A short, balding man with a mustache appeared behind her with two plump children. Gerhard handed the woman the bouquet without a word; then he nearly stumbled down the stairwell in his eagerness to return to his apartment.

  Von
Amrath stared absentmindedly at the coffee cup on the desk. “This wasn’t part of the deal,” he said to himself. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

  Gerhard, who’d recovered by now, got Olmo’s attention. The other man understood immediately and pulled out a bottle of French cognac from a desk drawer. Gerhard got four glasses from the cabinet behind him, then set out one for each of them. Seitz-Göppersdorf, who hadn’t said a word since von Amrath entered the office, gazed at the others, a terrified look on his face. Olmo, however, remained calm, and his hands did not even tremble as he poured the cognac.

  Von Amrath explained—in a disjointed and confusing way—that their department was to assume practical arrangements like ordering trains and materiel, and then, together with the German Reich Railways, organize route planning so that the transports wouldn’t get in the way of troop transfers and other freight traffic. “We’ll begin moving them in six to eight weeks. I don’t know where we’re supposed to begin or what we’re supposed to do with them.”

  “Move them? Where?” Olmo asked.

  “Away, out of the country, to the east,” von Amrath said shrilly, making a sweeping gesture with his hand.

  “But Walter, we can’t possibly do that,” Olmo said. “How in the world are we supposed to move all the city’s Jews? And why?”

  He got no answer.

  Kiev, Ukraine, September 19, 1941

  He ran. His legs trembled, and he wouldn’t be able to run much farther. But he had to go on. His lungs were about to explode. Don’t panic, August, he kept telling himself. His growing despair made his head feel warm. Where were the others? Loud and insistent, his fear and a ringing in his ears drowned out all thought.

  He stepped on a brick, and his foot slipped. He saw the wall just as his shoulder struck it with great force. He fell to the ground and remained there. He closed his eyes and tried to suppress the pain, but it was impossible. He listened for sounds around him but could hear nothing but his own heavy breathing.

  He raised his head cautiously. He’d dropped his weapon when he fell, and it lay in front of him. He tried to reach the strap with his right hand, but it hurt, so he got it with his left. As quietly as possible, he dragged it over the cobblestones, the sand, and the dust. He glanced around. There was a small shed about fifteen feet away that appeared to be undamaged. Behind it were the remains of an apartment building that had been reduced to a few fragile-looking walls and a heap of rubble. All the windows were missing, and the frames reminded him of empty eye sockets. He crawled cautiously toward the small wooden building. The door was unlocked. He squatted inside the small room, which was no more than six by nine feet.

  He tried to spit. His mouth was full of sand and blood, and a trail of blood ran down his cheek. He tried to locate where it was coming from, but the sand made it difficult to tell. When he rinsed his mouth with water from his field canteen, his tongue found the explanation: a large wound in his cheek. He must’ve bitten himself when he fell.

  When August’s eyes had acclimated to the semidarkness, he examined his hand; sand and pebbles were pressed deep into his palm, and he brushed them off to reveal an abrasion. Blood issued from the tiny scratches—which looked as though they’d been made with the fine blades of a grater. Now he noticed the smell of a latrine.

  He was eighteen years old, and he’d become an adult today. Yesterday he had still been an untested soldier who’d yet to face his first battle. Now he didn’t quite know what he was—and even whether he was. Every illusion he’d ever had about heroes and bravery had been eclipsed by the ugliness he’d witnessed over the last few hours.

  The Germans’ strategy had been to drive the Russians out of Kiev, so they could fight them in the open. August’s regiment had been sent to eliminate the few remaining pockets of Russian troops in the city. But when he saw Peter Christian’s head explode, he forgot everything he’d learned about military tactics and advancing techniques. In his panic he’d lost track of his platoon. The lieutenant had probably already added his name to the list of dead. Right below Peter Christian’s.

  He heard fighting, the pop of handguns. It was coming from a few streets over, but he could see nothing through the narrow slit between two boards. He couldn’t stand not being able to see what was happening. He had learned how gruesome sound can be, and also that you can vomit without making a sound. More than once he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor of the little shed, the stink merging with the smell of shit.

  For a brief moment the gunfire ceased. He heard shouts in Russian and then the gunfire began anew. A figure turned onto the street. He carried a rifle or a submachine gun in his hand and had the sun at his back, but August immediately recognized the contours of the heavy Russian helmet. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

  The Russian looked frightened and was glancing uneasily from side to side. He was walking toward the shed, now around eighty feet away. August cocked his Mauser and tried easing the cartridge into the chamber as quietly as possible. Only fifty feet separated them now. The soldier stared directly at the shed, reminding August of a bloodhound that’s caught a scent. The fleeting glances had been replaced by an intense gaze, as if he hoped to see through the boards. Thirty feet now. August held his breath. The Russian’s footfalls grew cautious, and fear returned to his eyes. He appeared to be the same age as August. The soldier paused, slowly raised his weapon and pressed it against his cheek, then took another step forward. August would have to shoot first. He wouldn’t wait until the door opened; he would fire the magazine’s five cartridges straight through the door. He squeezed the trigger of his rifle halfway down. Then another soldier appeared and waved at his friend. The soldier seemed relieved, and he turned and ran after the other man, following him down an alley. The street was empty, and August vomited again.

  He had to find his platoon, and soon. But which way should he run? If he remained where he was and his comrades were forced back, he would be cut off from them. He found a canister of Scho-ka-kola in his satchel and wolfed down a few chunks of the caffeine-rich chocolate that they’d been given before the operation commenced. The chocolate would give him the boost of energy he would need to make the sprint he sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to. In his pocket he found the little brass compass and opened it. When they’d crossed the broad boulevard with the trolley tracks, his platoon had had the sun at their backs, but the Russian had the sun at his back just now. He tried to recall their route through the city. He heard gunfire and explosions in the area, which must mean that there were Germans nearby. He would count to ten, then run. But when he reached ten, he didn’t move. He tried again, but he couldn’t do it that time, either. A pain shot through his shoulder, and he vomited again. And then he ran.

  There was no one in the street. He ran to the wall he’d bumped into earlier and followed it until he made it to the side street that the Russian and his comrade had gone down. He continued running, cocking his ear for the sound of battle. At the next side street, he spotted a few Russian soldiers heading in the same direction as he. He squeezed himself against the wall and tried to muster the courage to continue. He got his legs moving again, albeit reluctantly. As he got closer to the crossfire, he halted, trying to peer down the street while staying invisible. There was no one. The body of a Russian soldier lay curled up a few feet away, his wide-open eyes staring directly at August. A bullet had pierced his cheek. Suddenly the man’s chest heaved. His mouth parted slightly, and a bubble of blood emerged. When the bubble burst, the body emitted a lengthy sigh. A bullet whistled past August, boring into the wall beside him and loosening a chunk of mortar. The shot had come from behind him, and he instinctively turned to find the sniper. A figure, half-concealed behind a street corner, was taking aim. August ducked as another bullet penetrated the wall right above his head. Left? Right? He ran to the left.

  He sprinted as fast as he could with all his equipment as shots were fired both in front and behind him. He had only one hope: that the shots fired
ahead of him were from German weapons. He thought he recognized the pop of German carbines, Schmeissers, and MG 34s, but he wasn’t sure. It was all happening so fast. Maybe he would be out of harm’s way in a few moments—or maybe his war would be over. His life, too, for that matter. Suddenly he pictured himself at that moment and saw something comical about his situation: a German soldier running at full speed, unsure whether he was running toward or away from the enemy. He felt cumbersome, heavy, slow and wished he’d inherited his father’s agility. This wasn’t how he’d imagined his first war efforts, and it wasn’t the story he would tell when he got back to Germany. If he got back. He began to feel desperate, trapped as he was just then between two armies at war.

  Straight ahead of him was an abandoned trolley car. When he came to it, he leaped sideways through the door. The bottom of the car was littered with shards of glass, but he didn’t pay them any mind. He gasped for breath, his chest pumping like a piston—up, down, up, down—and he didn’t even notice that the glass sliced one of his hands when he pushed to his feet. He peeked out the back window and spotted a few Russians in the distance walking toward the trolley car. So he’d run in the right direction. He nearly slid on the shards as he walked cautiously through the car and out the front door. Though still out of breath and drained of strength, he bolted again. He sensed his legs were about to give out on him, and his shoulder failed him at the most crucial moment. He dropped his weapon. Suddenly he felt trapped, confined by his burdensome equipment. He tore off his rucksack, tossed the metal canister containing his gas mask to the ground, and instantly felt lighter, faster.