by John Smolens
About a week after Braun had left, I brought Chinese food in just before the Tigers game started. I sat in the living room, eating off of a tray, with the television sound low, when I heard a noise outside. There was a deck off the back of the house, and it was not uncommon, particularly after the long winters, for a branch to snap off one of the pines that loomed over the yard and land on the deck, wood knocking on wood.
But it could also have been footsteps.
Gordie began growling at the back door.
I went into the kitchen and took my Colt from its holster, which hung on the hook next to my spring jacket. After shutting off the kitchen light, I stood at the back door. Gordie quieted down and we remained there, listening. Finally, I eased aside the curtain over the door window, switched on the outside light, but saw nothing unusual in the yard. I opened the door, then the storm door, and we stepped out onto the deck. It was cold, and there was a gusting east wind off the lake. I could hear the waves pounding the beach on the other side of Lakeshore Boulevard. Slowly, Gordie walked out into the yard and stood still. Looking to my left, I saw that one of the wooden deck chairs had been knocked over. I folded it up, leaned it against the wall, and then took one more look around the yard before calling Gordie and going back into the house.
The Tigers had just scored. I sat down in the living room and watched the replay, Trammell’s line drive into the left-field bleachers.
The next day I was coming out of the post office when I noticed a car parked down Washington Street, almost to the Mining Journal building on the corner. I’m not sure why it caught my attention. The afternoon was chilly and damp, spitting sleet, and I could see vapor pouring out of the exhaust pipe. Nothing unusual there: in the U.P. people often leave their vehicles running while parked, particularly in cold weather. But there was someone—a man—sitting behind the wheel. I used to be able to identify almost every car on the road, but now they’re imported from Japan and Korea and Mexico, and they look pretty much alike. It was blue, a blue sedan. The man, though, caught my attention. From such a distance, I couldn’t determine any distinguishing features; couldn’t tell his age. He wore a wool hat with a narrow brim—something you might see in Scotland or Ireland, but seldom in northern Michigan. There was nothing really remarkable about him except that he didn’t move while I stared in his direction. He remained absolutely still, making himself harder to see.
I walked in the other direction, crossed at the corner of Third and Washington, and got into my built-in-the-USA Jeep Wrangler. I drove through the intersection, and then past the blue sedan. The man was still sitting behind the wheel. I didn’t turn my head to get a good look at him. I only had the sense that he was middle-aged. And that he still didn’t move.
I continued on down Washington Street, heading west, away from Lake Superior. After a few blocks, I turned right and went up the hill to Hewitt, which would take me into the East Side. When I looked in the rearview mirror I saw the blue Ford behind me, about half a block distant.
I decided not to go home.
I drove out of town, going south, and the blue sedan remained a few cars behind me. I took Route 28 east along the shore of Lake Superior, and after about thirty miles turned south at Au Train Bay. Once or twice a year I made the drive out there, always on my own. This time there was no question; the blue sedan cruised behind me, and in the rearview mirror I could tell that it was Anton. His face was severe, gaunt, and bunched up, like a fist. Like his father’s face.
We rounded Au Train Lake and climbed into the hills to the east. I was returning to these woods again. I had driven through here in a U.S. Army jeep with a white star in a circle on the hood, and now I was in a Jeep Wrangler. I was driven out of these woods by Vogel’s death sentence, but truly, I’d never really left, and now I was being chased into the hills by his son Anton.
When I turned off the paved road, the blue sedan followed me up the dirt lane that became a two-track with tall, dead grass in the middle. The first sign of the camp was a series of weathered posts that ran off into the trees. Farther on, there were the remnants of a guard tower. Other than that, what had been Camp Au Train had been reclaimed by the forest.
When I stopped, the blue sedan pulled up behind me. I sat there, looking at the rearview mirror. Anton didn’t move. As I got out of my Jeep, I reached inside my jacket and pulled the Colt from its holster. I walked toward the sedan, holding the gun at my side where he could see it. Slowly, he got out of the car and closed the door. He faced me, his hands empty.
“It’s remarkable,” I said, “how much you have come to resemble your father, when he was here at Camp Au Train.”
His eyes scanned the woods about us. “So this is it.” There was something about his voice; it was devoid of any accent, which was no surprise, but there was an uncertainty, perhaps even curiosity that was baffling. “This is all that’s left?”
“And me.”
He looked at the gun in my hand. “I am not armed.”
“No gun? No knife?”
“No weapon.”
“What did you plan to use, your bare hands? Is that what you used in Arizona?”
He shook his head.
“Then what is my punishment to be? I’m sure your father told you; he gave you specific orders. If you don’t stab my heart and hands or flay me alive, what?”
“No.”
“What then?” He only looked at me. “I’m not putting this away.”
“I understand,” he said. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
He looked about at the woods again. “He said that this was the most difficult command he’d ever had, because of the inactivity. Discipline was difficult to maintain when soldiers weren’t able to fight. He said it was essential to remind them that there was an enemy.”
“So he created one,” I said. “But I wasn’t the enemy. The others—Agostino, and Germans named Gerhardt and Ruup—they weren’t either. We were all just men, living here in the woods, removed from a war that our side was bound to lose. He was unable to accept that.”
“No, my father never accepted defeat.”
“The war was over for us, and we were all doing our best to survive,” I said. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I would like a walk. I would like to see what’s left of this place.”
As we walked, I remained a couple of steps behind him, to his left. This, I had never imagined. He seemed willing to allow me to take control. I was the one with a gun. I told him when to stop, when to turn as I pointed out where things had been: our barracks, the mess hall, the latrine. For the most part it was all just woods again. Our feet shuffled through a thick layer of soggy leaves that gave off a rich smell that I have always associated with my time in the camp. Upon careful inspection, there were certain signs. I pointed out a straight ridge in the dingy snow, which was the foundation of one of the barracks. We found another guard tower, this one having toppled into a tree so that the boards were entangled in the branches.
We came to an open area where there were smaller trees and bushes. “This was the football pitch,” I said. “We cleared and leveled it with rakes and shovels. It was our field.”
As we looked out at the overgrown pitch, Anton said, “Mind if I have a cigarette?” He held his arms out from his sides, turning his empty palms toward me.
“All right.”
He reached inside his coat and took out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. After lighting a cigarette, he offered me the pack.
“I quit,” I said. “My lungs are bad enough since Detroit. I don’t remember it too well. All of a sudden I was shot and lying on the ground, drowning in my own blood. What did I do?”
Anton put the pack and matches away. “Nothing. But I knew what you planned to do. We both knew why you were there,” he said, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaling. “We thought you were dead.”
“I was dead. In the hospital, my heart stopped and the doctors revived me.”
He nodde
d. “My father always believed you were different from the others.”
“How so?”
“I’m not sure. I guess he thought, more than the others, you were brave.”
“No, Adino was brave.”
“Father admired you, but you were wrong. Too independent to follow orders. And what you did—running away—made his job in the camp almost impossible.” He glanced at me. “You don’t know what happened after you escaped from here?”
“No.”
“They rioted,” he said. “The men revolted against my father’s command. It was . . .”
“A revolution.”
“They shipped some men to other camps, and soon after that the war ended. And this place. My father has been bitter all these years.” Anton studied the field. “But no one remembers now. Except you.”
“And for that he wants me punished.”
Anton began walking across what had once been the soccer pitch. I followed, and we worked our way through the smaller trees, around dense patches of brush; some of them now produced good blueberries in the summer. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, his head lowered so that he could stare at the ground before his feet—the posture of contemplation; the posture of a prisoner, of one who is not free. My right hand, which held the gun, was cold, so I stuck it in the outer pocket of my jacket.
“He had his orders,” he said.
“After the war, they were all he had.”
“And I had mine.”
“You were his son, an obedient son. I met your mother, years ago. She was devastated when you were taken from her.” When he glanced at me, I said, “You do know who my second wife is?”
“Yes. My half sister.”
“This is largely due to the way you were raised. You were bred for this. That’s not the same as belief, is it?” When he didn’t respond, I said, “So now. Doubts?”
“There’s a phrase they use here in the newspapers when describing some murders. They say it was perpetrated by a ‘ruthless killer.’ They’re saying that the murderer—my father always insisted on the word executioner—has no thoughts, no emotions. One just performs the act. Not even instinctual, like an animal bred to protect or kill to survive. More like one of these robots you read about now, these machines that are programmed to perform specific functions.”
“So you discovered that you weren’t like that. When?”
“A while ago.”
“Your father—”
“He was upset, at first. It was his work. With him, it was a question of honor. He couldn’t perform his duties without me. I was a disgrace—at first.”
We had reached the south end of the pitch and were facing a distinct line of taller trees, many of them pines, with stands of white birch among them. There was a rock at this end of the field, just as before, and I sat on it.
“During halftime we’d retreat to this end of the pitch, and I’d often sit here while we discussed strategy. I hated being here, but I’ve always been thankful for those games. You have no idea what they meant to us.” I looked at Anton, who was gazing down the field. “You said ‘at first.’ Something changed? You changed, and then your father?”
“He became increasingly philosophical with the years. First there was just work, but then there was greater consideration of the significance of it. There’s another term you hear in America: that someone is conflicted. My father became conflicted. I became conflicted.”
“I find that hard to believe, about your father. Doubt is good, but it’s not enough.”
“He had doubts.” Though Anton spoke quietly, he might have been speaking to that stretch of open land, or even to imaginary people who occupied it. “One does not simply get up one morning and abandon one’s beliefs. There is great torment. My father and I discussed this often. But we remained obedient. We wanted to be honorable. Perhaps you understand this: it was a question of honor. My father concluded that if anyone would, it would be you.”
“So you continued to carry out your orders.” He didn’t answer, which I took as confirmation. “The latest being Klaus Stemple, down in Arizona.”
“My father died six months ago. While he was in prison we could exchange coded letters through an intermediary. He and I discussed what I should do and decided that I must carry out my work—his work. Until now. And here we disagreed.”
The revolver was still in my hand and for a moment I considered taking it out of my pocket. But I was quite certain by then that Anton wasn’t armed. If I was wrong, I could still fire the gun through the jacket. My anxiety wasn’t out of fear of him, what he might do; it was because there was something else going on here, something entirely unexpected—coupled with the fact that I was back in the Au Train woods—and all of this made me feel weak and frail. I had been so young and strong here, clearing the forest every day, playing football, and eventually feeling such overwhelming desire for Chiara. And now I was an old man.
“How?” I asked. “How did you and your father disagree?”
“The day before he died, he got a message out from his prison cell. He sent word that I should contact you, tell you that you were free, that your conviction and sentence had been commuted. And he encouraged me, no he ordered me—I was still the obedient son—to leave America for good. We have been very adept at changing identities, as you have, and he said I should return to Europe and start a new life. He was never fond of America, always missed Europe.”
“You would be pursued by the authorities. And possibly by the Nazis.”
“Over the years, arrangements have been made, documents procured, funds put aside, which would enable us to ‘disappear.’ He wanted me to disappear. I should be in Eastern Europe now.”
“Which is where your father’s career started, in Romania, at the beginning of the war. But you aren’t there. You’re here. You came of your own volition.”
Anton, as he had been in the car, was very still, very economical with his movements—a consummate, practiced stillness that seemed potentially threatening. “I guess you could say that my decision to come up here is a sign of my own liberation.” There was, for a moment, the faintest smile. “The irony is that my intention was to ask you to take me out here, to the camp.”
“I simply didn’t know where else to go.”
“No.” His eyes became bright, almost happy. “Somehow, instinctively, you knew, you understood what was necessary. You led me back here, to this place I’d heard about my entire life. You knew that I wanted to see it, to witness it myself. Really, my father spoke of it so often that I feel as though I’ve been here before.”
“You remind me so much of him. And now that we are . . . here?”
“I can die.”
I couldn’t look at him, so I stared at the trees beyond the far end of the pitch. “No.”
“It’s the only way. Don’t you see?”
I got up off the rock. “No.”
“You have that gun. You have given thought to this, what you might have to do.”
“That was before I met you, before we talked. That was a matter of survival.”
“It isn’t any different now.”
“Now, it would be murder.”
“You’d be doing me an honor.”
“We have very different notions of honor.” I began walking back across the field, using my arms to push branches aside, walking so fast that I was having difficulty breathing. I could hear Anton behind me, crashing through the brush behind me.
It began to snow. Big spring flakes, heavy enough that I could hear them pelting the leaves on the ground. When Anton caught up he walked beside me, to my left. We might have been two old friends strolling through the woods.
“I am not a murderer,” I said. “Or an executioner, if you prefer.”
“You are a soldier. You have a responsibility.”
“To what—all those people you killed?”
“Well, then to your friend, Adino.”
When the cars were in sight I stopped, nearly ou
t of breath. I placed one hand on the trunk of a maple for support. “I will take you to the police, if you want. That’s what I should do.”
“I am not a common criminal.”
“True.” I straightened up and began walking again, slowly. “You’re much worse.”
“That would not be acceptable. It would not be honorable,” he said.
“Stop talking about honor. You’ve committed crimes.”
“All right.” He made a sarcastic snort. “But how will you turn me in? Shoot me?”
“I could put a bullet in your foot. Consider it compensation for what your father did to Adino. Your father said he believed in justice? So do I.”
“You won’t shoot me.”
“You shot me, years ago.”
“It’s not the same, not now.” He shook his head and held his hands out away from his sides. “Unarmed.”
“Anywhere else, no,” I said. “But out in these woods, everything’s different.”
“You’d really turn me in?”
“You shouldn’t have come up here, Anton. No matter what your father told you, you can’t understand this place.”
“These woods, what don’t I understand?”
“From the moment I arrived up here,” I said, “there was something about the land, the nature of the forest, which made me feel invisible. I wasn’t who I had been, who I thought I was meant to be, and this seemed like a slow, laborious death, until years later I came to realize that the only way to survive was to lose who I was, entirely. But survival isn’t enough. You don’t have one life, but many lives to live. With luck, you will live them all.”
“We all have just one life.”
“I said, you don’t understand. All these years you and I, and your father, we’ve been forced to live different lives, different names, different occupations, so many residences—everything changed to conceal who and what we really were. Tell me this didn’t happen to you often. A man looks at you and you feel he’s seeing something—or perhaps someone—very different from who you really are.”