Winter Men

by Jesper Bugge Kold

  “. . . has sustained contusio regio thoracis sinistra cum pneumothorax, and we have performed a thoracentesis. Good, good.”

  The voice was far away, sealed in, little more than a deep, rumbling bass without treble or pitch. He had no idea whether he was awake, or whether what he’d heard was part of a dream. Everything was dark. He thought his eyes were open. And yet he could not see. So he must be asleep. But a jabbing pain on his left side made him question that. The man’s voice spoke again, sounding subdued.

  Karl felt the blanket covering his legs being pulled aside, then roughly put back. “Good,” the voice said.

  He heard a pen against paper and an odd gurgling noise, as when a glass is sucked empty with a straw—a hoarse, bubbling noise that came in brief intervals.

  The pain intensified, and fire ravaged his body. The flames consumed his skin, which contracted because of the heat. His muscles burned, and his eyes. A pain of that magnitude must mean that they’d fallen out. That’s why he couldn’t see. He raised his hand to touch them and found that a rough bandage was stretched across much of his face. As the man droned on, Karl tried to speak, to indicate that he was still alive. When the man didn’t respond, he screamed.

  “Easy now, easy,” the man said, squeezing his arm as he called for a nurse. “Easy, Major.”

  He heard someone else rush over and felt the stab of a needle into one of his thighs.

  “I’m Dr. Johan Kirchbaum,” the doctor said, slowly releasing his grip. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.” Karl had difficulty recognizing his own voice, which had lost its strength and was drowning in that odd gurgle that followed each of his breaths. He held his breath and the sound ceased, but when he exhaled again, the noise returned.

  “Your lungs have been punctured, Major. We’ve inserted a drain and connected it to a ventilator, which is the sound you’re hearing.”

  With regard to his leg, Kirchbaum explained that a grenade splinter had sliced a deep gash in his thigh, but that wasn’t the worst part. Kirchbaum told him with an apologetic tone in his voice that they couldn’t save his vision in his left eye, and the chances that he would regain vision in his right were slim. Bandages covered both eyes. It was the same claustrophobic sensation he’d felt inside the enormous warehouses on the outskirts of Berlin at the beginning of the war. He felt constricted, panic-stricken that he would feel this way for the rest of his life. What if his sight never returned? What if he was blind forever? It was impossible to imagine what that could be like.

  “Do you remember anything?” Kirchbaum asked.

  “Thomas, where is Thomas?”

  “Can you remember anything, Major?”

  “No. No, only Thomas. And the horses. Is Thomas alive?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot answer that.”

  Karl sighed, dozing off under the influence of the morphine. When he woke again, Kirchbaum explained that he’d first been transported from Ukraine to a hospital in Kraków, Poland. He recalled nothing of this and wasn’t sure whether he’d been conscious at any point during the journey. From Kraków he’d been driven back to Germany in a hospital train. Now he was in a military hospital in Konstanz, on the northwestern shore of the Bodensee. He remembered only snippets of the nearly 750-mile train ride, mostly sounds and smells. He remembered the stench, the constant moaning and groaning, the shrill hiss of the signal whistle when the train departed after resting on a siding to allow troop transports or war materiel to pass by. He remembered the nerve-racking screech of the wheels on the rail joints, mile after mile, but most of all he remembered the pain.

  The morphine kept the pain at bay now, and every time one of the nurses gave him a dose, he thought of Thomas Remmel. Karl had been fond of the doctor, whom he was convinced must be dead.

  Every day around noon, the same nurse visited him. She was kind and spoke to him in a pleasant voice. A faint lavender scent trailed her whenever she came and went, and he could almost hear her smile. Her name was Helena. He didn’t ask her age, but her voice indicated she was young. He heard her shake the thermometer, after which she would ask him to turn his rear toward her, and she would always make some disarming remark that made the otherwise humiliating experience bearable.

  They talked whenever she came to care for him. It seemed like years since he’d talked, and it felt like decades since anyone had listened to him. But Helena did. He looked forward to her visits. Her voice was soft and airy, like the strike of his Steinway keys. One day he asked her what she looked like, and she took his hands and guided them to her cheeks, letting him feel her face. He touched her high cheekbones. A pair of long eyelashes tickled his fingertips, and with his index finger he felt the narrow arch of her eyebrow above her eye. Her face ended in a narrow, pointy chin, and above it he traced the line of her lips. He parted them slightly and could feel her faint breath against his fingers. Her face was close to his, and he smelled lavender.

  The military hospital was huge. He had no idea how huge, but judging by the constant whimpering and moaning—which mercilessly cut straight into his bones—there were hundreds if not thousands of patients in the place. There were soldiers who’d lost limbs from mines and burned men who’d been victims of grenade splinters and bullets. Those who’d either gone into shell shock or descended into madness were housed in a separate unit. The same was true of officers and privates; they were located in two separate wings.

  After a few weeks they removed the bandage from his eyes. He was blind. His left eye didn’t respond when the doctor swept a finger in front of it, but just rested in its socket as if pinned in place. With his right eye, though, he registered a faint light. He began blinking in desperation, and as he did so, the film that blocked his vision faded. Everything came slowly into focus, and he started to see contours. The room began to take shape, and he soon saw a man standing before him. The doctor must have known that Karl was able to see him, because he smiled, relieved. Standing behind him was another doctor, and next to him was a pretty woman who was smiling shyly. Instinctively he knew that it was Helena.

  A few hours later she rolled his wheelchair out onto the large veranda, from which he could see across the Bodensee. The Rhine ran through the middle of Konstanz, and a bridge bound the numerous residential areas and industrial districts on the northern bank with the old city on the southern side. A skiff was sailing on the lake. He thought of August and was overcome with an overwhelming surge of grief. Now, too, he saw for himself the other soldiers’ terrible wounds and amputations he’d only been able to hear of before.

  To the doctors’ surprise, his leg healed quickly. Before long he could walk without pain, albeit with a slight limp. When spring arrived, he would often head down to the lake, where he put his shoes and socks on the small fingers of grass-covered land that jutted into the lake and ambled out into the clear water with his pants rolled up to his knees.

  One evening Helena invited him down to the beach. She’d packed a basket with food, bread, and wine. They lay on a blanket and drank chilled Riesling, and it suddenly seemed as though she were the only person he knew.

  Helena had been engaged. Her betrothed, Ernst, had been killed in Poland. They had planned to marry when he returned, but it had been three and a half years since a party member had knocked on her apartment door and given her the news.

  Karl rested on his elbow while she studied him. He didn’t like being looked at. He’d been more or less satisfied when he’d glanced in the mirror earlier, but now he felt a little grotesque wearing the black leather patch Kirchbaum had given him. Helena was beautiful. The last rays of the evening sun gave her brown, slightly curled hair a reddish tint. The skin around her narrow nose was so fine and youthful, and he recalled how soft it was to touch. Her brown eyes pulled at him in a way he’d never felt, and he thought of the golden-brown mare in the Ukraine. Helena’s eyes drew him in, and he felt like a piece of soft iron that she’d heated on the hearth and could now bend and shape to her will. He sipped his wine and t
ilted his head back. A pair of clouds drifted across the graying sky, forming abstract art, but before long all he saw in the white clouds was a single image: Helena’s face. The chilled Riesling was making him a little woozy, and he shook his head so that he could think straight.

  Helena shifted closer to him. It was an open invitation, an invitation to take her in his arms and kiss her. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, because he did, but he couldn’t. It was as if a huge sign suddenly hung in the air, blocking his view of Helena. On the sign was written “INGRID” in capital letters. He took a deep breath and made a decision. He couldn’t do this to Ingrid; he wasn’t the kind of man who betrayed his wife.

  Karl stood. A little wobbly, he thanked Helena for a wonderful evening, put on his socks and shoes, and headed up to the hospital without looking back.

  Neuengamme, Germany, May 7, 1943

  “We can talk shop after supper,” Lorenz said, offering Gerhard a dish piled with meat and vegetables. Gerhard wondered whether the vegetables had been grown in the SS’s gardens. He’d heard that the ground was littered with the ashes of the dead, but it was just a rumor. He scooped up a few carrots and some cauliflower.

  “Are you married, Mr. Strangl?” Lorenz’s wife, Hannelore, asked, and Gerhard couldn’t help but notice Lorenz giving her a reproachful glance.

  “My wife is dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Hannelore said, giving him a sympathetic look.

  They ate in silence, their only accompaniment a piece of classical music that Gerhard assumed was Brahms. He wondered if they always listened to music to drown out the noise of the camp; judging from the size of their record collection, he figured he was probably right.

  After finishing the meal, he thanked Hannelore for dinner and followed Lorenz into his office.

  The camp commandant closed the double door, and they sat down, Lorenz behind the desk and Gerhard on the opposite side.

  Lorenz cleared his throat. “I like you.” He paused. “I will be sorry to lose you, but I know that you would like to leave.”

  Gerhard stared at him, confused. He didn’t respond, but waited, curious what would come next.

  “You can have my job. Well, not my job,” Lorenz corrected himself quickly, “but a similar job. On a smaller scale, however.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Listen,” Lorenz said and started to explain. The SS planned to open a new subcamp in Neugraben. They’d begun to build wooden barracks on a patch of land there for some five hundred prisoners who would be arriving soon from Auschwitz-Birkenau. What the commandant said next caught Gerhard completely off guard. The majority of the five hundred prisoners were to work for the Strangl Clothing Factory.

  He composed himself for a moment. “At my brother’s request?”

  “Hans Müller’s. The factory quite simply cannot keep up with the demand. All the men have been sent to the front, and the women are working in important branches of the war industry.” Lorenz lowered his voice and continued in a kind voice: “And you are the perfect choice for camp commandant. It’s your chance to get out of here.”

  “Why are you letting me go now? You’ve ignored all my transfer requests.”

  “Like I said: I like you.” Lorenz smiled apologetically.

  Gerhard lay down on his bed. He exhaled. He felt a sudden joy, a feeling that had lain dormant in him for some time now. Now it returned at full strength and warmed him from within. Neugraben was a way out; Neugraben was his way out. He smiled in the dark. Lorenz had given him what he’d wanted ever since he’d first set foot at Neuengamme.

  In some bizarre way he’d grown used to life in the camp, but the only person he would miss was Borg. And yet he wouldn’t truly miss him, either. Perhaps he simply liked Borg because he was the least crazy of all the degenerates who worked there. Or was he? No, Gerhard was deceiving himself, because even though he and Borg might have enjoyed a few cultivated conversations, Erwin Borg was and always would be a monster. A psychopath. It was his job to select prisoners for transport to Bergen-Belsen, and Gerhard knew this was tantamount to sending them to their deaths. He signed all death certificates, though the causes of death were never listed as hangings or beatings. And he was responsible for the brothel, too. No, he shouldn’t confuse him for a good person.

  After some consideration he decided Lorenz was also a horrible person. He was the only one who had the power to change the conditions in the camp; he alone could stop what was happening. But it was obvious that he didn’t want to know what went on, even though he lived right in the middle of it all. It was like having an address in the middle of Dante’s Inferno. Of course he knew what went on.

  Gerhard imagined that he could make a difference. He could make sure that the prisoners at Neugraben were treated better. He would make sure that they were given enough to eat, that they weren’t beaten, that they could lead a relatively decent life. He would make sure that they wore clean clothes, could shower, and went to bed with full stomachs. It would be entirely different from Neuengamme. He smiled again. He couldn’t wait to get away from Neuengamme.

  Konstanz, Germany, July 5, 1943

  He was overcome by an intoxicating feeling, and for a moment he thought he might faint. For a few seconds his entire body tensed like a bow. As Karl relaxed, he couldn’t control the smile that formed on his lips. The quivering sensation that had just filled every fiber of his being began to recede and was replaced by a surge of well-being. He remained on top of Helena.

  He pulled out and rolled onto his side, to look at her. A sudden modesty caused her to pull up the blanket. He tugged on it gently so that her body was slowly revealed again. He studied her. Her breasts were neither small nor large, but round and well formed; her belly bulged slightly, and her hips were narrow, but not in the skinny way he disliked. They’d made love three evenings in a row, and he had already grown accustomed to her body: the tiny mole on her lower back, the scar tissue on her elbow, and the little crack her neck made whenever she stretched. Now her beautiful body was exposed to him again, and for a moment he considered making love to her once more, but then he decided he was too tired and too lazy. He closed his eyes.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  He shrugged.

  “My mother thinks you’re too old for me.”

  He rose up and leaned on his elbows. “You told her about me?”

  “She wasn’t happy. She probably imagined that I would marry a doctor, since I work in a hospital.”

  He didn’t know how to respond. He kissed her, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and began putting on his clothes. “Since we’re on the subject of the hospital, they’re sending me home soon.”

  The satisfied expression vanished from her face. “Are you going back to your wife?” She pulled up the blanket again.

  “I’m going home to Hamburg. I have to.”

  Helena was silent, and he was annoyed at himself. He’d just ruined the mood. Why had he said it aloud? He should’ve just kept his mouth shut and, when the day arrived, taken his leave of her. He would miss her, of course, but hopefully he would also forget her. He’d enjoyed their time together, but he knew it was temporary. Ingrid was his wife, and he would simply have to erase Helena from his mind.

  He was overcome by a strange feeling as he left her apartment. The previous mornings they’d eaten breakfast together, drunk coffee, and read the newspaper until she had to go to the hospital. He had stayed in her apartment or walked around the city, aimlessly killing time. He’d never had that kind of freedom before, and it was liberating to suddenly get to know a new side of himself. He wasn’t the conscientious major here, or the chairman, or a father—he was just Karl.

  Karl was released a few weeks later. A day later, he stood at the central train station in Hamburg with a pass for an extended leave in his pocket. Because he hadn’t told anyone that he was coming home, no one was there to pick him up at the station. He and Ingrid had exchanged letters wh
ile he was in Konstanz, and though she’d wanted to visit him, he’d insisted she remain in Hamburg.

  He began walking through the city. He was stunned to discover that the Alster Pavilion had been bombed, and the city had been scarred by several air raids.

  An unfamiliar sensation raced through him as he strolled up his graveled driveway. As he ascended the steps to the front door, he wasn’t sure whether he should simply go inside or ring the doorbell. He rang the bell as if he were a guest. He heard steps behind the door. Karin opened it, then gaped at him in shock. She put her hand to her mouth and dashed into the house. Unsure of what to do, he remained standing outside. Fast steps now echoed inside the dining room, and Ingrid came running. She threw herself into his arms. They hugged for a long time, and she started to cry, something Karl had never seen her do. She fiddled with his eye patch, and he let her. When she guided him into the hall, she held his waist a little too hard.

  “Be quiet!” He’d missed Sophia and Maximilian, but now they seemed noisy and irritating. He retreated into his office and looked around. What had he ever done here? Suddenly he had no idea what to do. Everything seemed trivial, unimportant, utterly meaningless. He’d been home for two weeks now, and he’d felt the same way every day. Would he ever get used to being home again?

  One afternoon the telephone rang. Karl answered in the hallway.

  “You can’t call here. How did you even get my number?” he whispered into the receiver.

  “Kirchbaum just gave me an exam. I’m expecting.”

  He pretended he hadn’t heard. “I need to go.”

  “You can’t.”

  He could tell that Helena was on the verge of tears. “I need to.”

  He hung up and stood staring blankly at the telephone. He expected it to ring again. The loud noise would resound in the hallway, and he would grab the receiver as if he could hide the call from everyone in the house. But what was he supposed to say? The phone remained silent. When the door opened he turned, startled, and saw Karin rushing down the hallway. He didn’t move. How pathetic he was. He’d been a fool, and now he was unable to own up to the desire he’d felt for Helena. He felt despicable. He was despicable.