Call from Jersey (9781468301625)

by Kluge, P. F.

  “The south … in America … plenty heroes among the Confederates. Gone With the Wind! And the first World War. This silly business about the Red Baron and …” He gestured at Mr. Jacobs. “Snoopy.”

  I was surprised he knew the name. America had this way of getting its paws all over everything.

  “Forget this hero business,” my brother said. “I only wondered. And you’re leaving in the morning.” He sounded back in control. How-the-war-ended. He had kept it locked away in a trunk, I guessed, and when he opened the trunk, this was on the top, neatly folded, the last thing that he’d put away. So I thought. But his first sentence ended that.

  “I hated shooting prisoners, Hans,” he said.

  I must have flinched. This was going to be awful. And I was sure he hadn’t said that he’d hated the shooting of prisoners, like it was something that happened he had nothing to do with, the way I hate television commercials that are louder than the rest of the program, but it’s got nothing to do with me personally.

  “The war goes bad,” he said. “And then this comes along. Who started it … Did you see what they did to … did you see what he looked like when they finished with him … animals … take no prisoners … a see-saw battle … us or them … no one available to guard … take them back of the lines … a waste of time. A group of unarmed men, huddled together. Standing. Kneeling. Sometimes facing forward, bravely, other times, turning their backs not caring anymore what we said or did … all of it … Disgusted … Praying or pleading sometimes, in broken German. Cursing. That they did in their own language. Once, I heard some singing. Not so good, but it was there. And then … one minute it’s a group of men. As many as forty … I saw forty … and then it’s a pile of …”

  He turned away from me, pounding his hands against the edge of the pool. He’d had things nicely under control, at the start. Made in the shade, wrapped with a ribbon. I was practically out the door. Then he decided he should talk to me. His brother. The easiest of audiences, takes what you give him, believes what he gets, but it didn’t matter how easy the audience, it didn’t matter about me, because his memories were as out of control as the war itself. You didn’t come to them on your terms. They came to you.

  “It wasn’t only us, Hans. The Russians and the partisans … you should see what they did. Once, we recaptured a village and found a group of our boys who’d been captured by the Russians. And executed. Maybe that doesn’t bother you so much. Things happen in the heat of battle. But listen, brüderchen, they hadn’t been shot. They’d been tied up and then they’d been strangled, one by one. And you could say … someone did say … maybe the Russians were saving bullets. Maybe. Then again, maybe they were having fun. Also, the British. ‘Too late, Fritz,’ they shout at some men with their arms in the air and then they shoot them. The Americans—the Amis—at Anzio. And in France. And all over the Pacific, I hear. Piles and piles of Japanese. Both sides. Both. That was how it was with us and the Americans, that last winter. Fighting back and forth and finding bodies in the snow. Don’t fool yourself about the Americans. They made their piles.

  “So, January, 1945. Already, our push is over. The last great effort falls short. Of course. The end is coming. Why do I say that? The end was always coming, coming from the beginning. But it was close now. Still, we kept dying and killing and sometimes murdering. The war didn’t end, like a storm passing, fading away. It kept getting worse. As if, now, it knew. It was in a rush. Things to do, before peace came.

  “So. Snow. Forest. Bitter cold. Someplace in Belgium. Not Antwerp and Ostend. We’ll never see the Channel. No second Dunkerque. It’s not orderly. In defeat there are these little victories, these temporary things that no one writes about afterwards, not as long as winners write the history. This was one of them. We took a farm-house back and there were five Amis sitting inside. So Lieutenant Greifinger is ordered to take charge of the prisoners, along with Private Beck and Corporal Peyser, and march them to the rear. Where they would try to escape and we would shoot them.”

  The Americans were worried at first, he said. But the more they walked, the less they worried. Every step took them closer to a safe captivity. That was what they thought. The further you got away from the front lines, from the heat of battle, the better your chances. That’s what one of them was saying, reassuring another captive who was extra scared. Heinz understood. The worried one looked left and right, looking for a chance to run. The others relaxed, waved at jeeps and ambulances coming up the road. The more traffic, the less likely their murder in a lonely place. Only one stayed worried and Heinz knew why: he was a Jew. And the Jew’s name was Tauber. The others had to keep him from bolting. Every step we take, we’re closer. We’ll sit behind the wire and wait this baby out, Tauber. Won’t be long now.

  Then, they turned off the road and took a path into the forest. The Americans turned ashy, turned silent. Tauber had been right, not only for himself, but for all of them. They were going to be shot in the woods. Off the road a little bit, out of sight a little bit. That was all the modesty that was left in the world: like motorists pulling off a road to piss, the murderers took their business behind the trees.

  Beck led the way, an anxious little scout, a Hitler Jugend, recently arrived. Peyser and Heinz followed the prisoners. He’d been with Peyser in Russia, from the start. Two left out of two dozen. The rest, dead or prisoners, missing or wounded. Those weren’t separate categories: they were synonyms. Through all of Russia, they kept their distance, the outgoing Hamburger and the dour Bavarian. But, as the others dropped away, the survivors drew closer. Waiting for their turn to come. And then there were none. But when they moved west, when they faced the Amis, things changed. In the deadliest of winters, Heinz talked about Florida. In bitter snow, he blended fantasy and memory. Heinz furnished Florida in incredible detail, nuances of weather and water, tin roofs and leaking porches, orange groves and fishing piers, one-lane roads through palmetto swamps, pelicans and stone crabs. He tested Peyser and he probed and finally the Bavarian said yes, he’d take a chance on Florida. And now the moment had come: to make themselves the prisoners of their prisoners. It was simple. “Florida?” Heinz asked. And Peyser nodded.

  Peyser joined Beck at the front of the prisoners. Odd, it came to Heinz, that prisoners never—almost never—ran. What was it that kept them together till the end? Was it courage or discipline or something else? Lack of imagination? But that, he decided, was the wrong question for a German to ask.

  “The war is over,” he said. Beck was standing in front of him.

  “You really think so?” Beck was a kid, dressed up in a uniform that seemed too big for him. His helmet almost covered his eyes. A teenager!

  “I mean for us,” Heinz said. “You know what we’re supposed to do here.”

  “I think so,” Beck said, swallowing hard. “We have orders.” Beck was scared every minute. He rushed through everything, jumped when you spoke, ran when you called him. He obeyed orders, though. That was the problem now. He should never have been there, Heinz thought, but saying that was saying nothing. “It ends here,” Heinz said. “We’re going with the Amis. We’re giving up.”

  “Giving up?” he asked. His eyes welled with tears. For years, Heinz regretted saying it that way. He should have said, we’re taking the Americans across the lines. Or, there has been a change in orders. But when he said giving up, Beck took it to heart. Heinz could see him picturing his family and playmates, everyone he was betraying.

  “You can come with us, Beck.” Another error. He was giving Beck a choice. “Or, you can go back and tell them what we’re up to and they’ll send a patrol after us.”

  “I won’t tell them.” Beck said. And he probably meant it, Heinz thought. But when he came back alone, they’d ask him why. And he would tell them. This was a fine and truthful boy, ready to save lives and sacrifice his own. Innocent and ignorant: they came together.

  “You don’t want to come with us?”

  “No,” he said. “I�
��m sorry.”

  “Well, then, off you go,” Heinz said.

  Beck turned and ran. Peyser raised his rifle, aimed, hesitated, looked at Heinz.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Peyser fired, hit Beck as he was running, hit him in the back. With a huge final effort, Beck turned over where he’d fallen, looked up at the sky, lay still. Heinz walked over. It was the least he could do, making sure the boy didn’t need another shot. When he reached him, he was relieved: no need. But as he looked down at the young face, the blonde hair, the gentle hands, he knew that he’d remember this forever. You’ll try to forget it, he told himself, and you won’t. Fair enough.

  The Amis didn’t know what to make of it. But they knew this much: a moment ago there were three Germans guarding them. Now there were two. Heinz could see them getting restless. Then, the Jew—Tauber—saw that Heinz was staring at him. Heinz could have approached any of the Americans. Some of them looked reasonable. But he approached Tauber, whose face was full of fear and—because he was also brave—hate. He thought he would be the first to die. To him, to all of the Americans, it looked like Beck had protested against their execution.

  “You want to get out of this, Tauber?” Heinz asked. Tauber was startled hearing English. Yes, he nodded.

  “You, especially, I suppose.” Heinz studied Tauber. Among Germans, it was well known, the Jews had an extra score to settle. Stay away from the Jewish soldiers. Heinz could have talked to him some more, felt him out, what kind of man was this. He might have asked where he was from, maybe New York. So how’s Joe Louis?

  “Ernst,” Heinz shouted. “Komm mal her.” Peyser was standing next to him.

  “Give him your rifle,” Heinz said. Peyser looked at Heinz, protested. “Not him!”

  “You used it enough,” he said. Peyser passed the rifle over to Tauber. He put his ammunition on the ground in front of him. And some grenades.

  “What …” Tauber didn’t want to touch it. He suspected a trick, a way of provoking an incident. He was sure the rifle was empty. And Heinz was standing in front of him, fully armed. And that moment—facing each other, studying—lasted until Heinz took his rifle, his pistol and put them on the ground as well. Then he stepped away, unarmed, hands in air, wondering what would happen, curious in that indifferent way you are curious when you watch the ending of a movie that doesn’t involve you, all you know is that the film is ending, no matter what. Oh, so that’s how it turns out.

  Two days later, Tauber walked Heinz and Peyser into the prison stockade, spoke to the officers in charge. Heinz didn’t know what was said but the next day the two Germans were working in an American officers’ mess. At the end, Tauber walked over to Heinz. They didn’t shake hands—that wouldn’t feel right. They never considered it. But they nodded at each other.

  “My lucky day, back there,” Tauber said. “Mine also,” Heinz responded.

  “You should have seen him, when he finished talking,” I told Pauline.

  “I see you,” she said, “if that’s any indication …”

  “He looked terrible. That was all the stories for one night, he said. He told me, I should go upstairs and get some sleep, I had a long drive in front of me. I don’t have to leave tomorrow, I said. Seeing him the way he was. Knowing it was my fault. I don’t have to leave tomorrow. I repeated it. Expecting him to be delighted. Just what he wanted. Then a third time I said I don’t have to leave in the morning. ‘Yes, you do,’ he answered.”

  I stop. Give myself a break. Breathe deep. Feel shaky. Not just tired, shaky.

  “You ought to rest,” Pauline says.

  “In a minute,” I answer. “Sorry I’m dumping all this on you.”

  “Well, it’s a lot to hold in. To have to yourself.”

  “That’s it. That’s exactly it. That’s what I realized when I left him down there. I went upstairs. I put some water in a dish for Mr. Jacobs. Heinz was still in the pool, easy to see in the moonlight. I took a shower. He still hadn’t come in. Only moved to the table. I crawled in bed. And here’s what came to me. I admit, it’s odd. Just listen. You know that I believe in … in remembering things. It’s important. But my memories that I play with are puppies. They roll over on their backs, wanting their tummies scratched. His memories are wolves. They go right for the throat. And in this country … we make a big brave deal out of facing up to the past and how we got treated when we were kids. That’s what shrinks do, no?”

  “That’s part of it …” She balked but decided not to correct me.

  “Talk it through, work it out. Come to terms with it. Heinz did something else. He put it away. He went on with his life. And he was doing alright, until I came along. Even then, he handled things. Until that last night.”

  “That was just a beginning,” Pauline said.

  “I know. And now I’m in it too. I’m with him.”

  “He needs you.”

  “God knows where it’s headed. God knows where it’s been …” I say. Then I finish the story. The story so far.

  “That last Florida morning I got up early. And it would have been alright with me if I just slipped away. But first, I had to take Mr. Jacobs around the car lot, pissing on tires, taking care of business. And when I got back to the car, Heinz was there, all red-eyed and wrinkled and this was a man, mind you, who doesn’t just get up in the morning, he sails out into the Florida sunshine, he drinks at the Fountain of Youth, pink cheeked and spiffy dressed and smelling of aftershave, up for another perfect day.”

  “‘You’re ready to leave?’” he asked.

  “‘Heinz,’” I said. I wanted to offer to stay. I said I was sorry for coming down and starting all of this.

  “‘I’m the one who sent the postcard, no?’”

  “‘I hope you don’t regret it. I hope I don’t, either.’”

  “‘I didn’t tell you half of it last night,’” he said. “‘I didn’t tell you ten percent.’” Then he looked at me and for the first time in our lives, he’s the little brother. “I did the best I could,” he said. And it was unclear to me whether he was talking just about last night—that he’d done the best, talking to me—or whether this was about the war itself, I did the best I could. I repeated the phrase to myself, driving north, driving against the current of snowbirds headed south, all those New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania license plates and Canada too. I did the best I could. Say it one way, it sounds fine. Did the best you could? Who could ask for more? Or … the best you could … too little and too late.

  “‘So here,’” Heinz says. Another eloquent German farewell. He opens up a plastic bag from Eckerd’s Drugs. It’s a hairbrush for Mr. Jacobs and—this I never heard of—a special toothbrush with special paste. Also, from a local vet, a vaccination card and some heartworm pills. ‘Once a month,’ he told me.

  “‘Thanks,’” I said. At our age, I might not see him again, I thought. You never know. There’s something crazy about the way our lives arrange themselves. All the time we spend on people who are just so-so. Still, none of this stopped me from getting in the car. The last I saw of him, he was standing in the rear-view mirror, already watching for my return. I lifted the coffee, which had gone from warm to cold. “You have this look on your face. What is it?”

  “Your brother pointed it out himself. You didn’t interrupt his life. He initiated this. He wanted to see you. And he knew what it would involve.”

  “I know. I know what it involves.”

  Pauline sits there, just waiting. She knows what’s coming.

  “It involves me. That’s what I’ve been thinking. In that Belgian forest, what would I have done? Would I have been Peyser, aiming to execute a scared kid? Or my brother, ordering it? Or was I Beck rushing off in the wrong direction, all for nothing? This much I knew: the story wouldn’t have changed one bit, if I had been there. I was no stronger than my brother, no braver and no better. Smarter? Maybe so, but it was nothing to brag about. Luckier. That I was. Luckier for sure. But that was
nothing to brag about either.”

  “You’ll see him again, won’t you?”

  “Yes. I’m in it. His wife doesn’t want to hear about it, I’m sure. His kids … forget it.”

  “Good … it’s good you went. You’ve got your brother back.”

  “I just don’t know what I’m letting myself in for. And if I stayed up here, he wouldn’t push it. He wouldn’t come after me. He’d fade out, all over again.”

  “You left him behind once,” Pauline said. “And regretted it for years.”

  “Sure … but Pauline! … I keep telling myself, what I don’t know … won’t hurt me.”

  “Wrong. And you know it. Why are you even talking this way. You’re going back to Florida. Period.”

  “Yeah. Would you go with me?” That stops her. Stops us both. We just stand there looking at each other. “Are there any presidents buried down there?” I ask.

  I was staring at the sunlight on the wall, which was late afternoon sunlight, getting more golden by the minute. That took all my attention, that sunlight, it soaked me up. Then I heard a whispering outside. The door opened just a crack and Mr. Jacobs shouldered his way into the room, saw me, jumped up.

  “Two paws on the floor,” I said. “That’s the rule.”

  “You slept all day,” Pauline said. She’d made me take the bedroom. “You can stay in bed if you want, but if you want to get up, do it now. Your dog wants a walk.”

  So we walked. South Jersey has never been my favorite place. To me, it spells sandy soil and scrubby trees and abandoned farms, chicken farms mostly. South Jersey is pancake flat and I go for land that rolls. Still, that walk restored me. There were trails in the woods around the edges of the retire ment community … although, before long, another subdivision would swallow them. Mr. Jacobs went rushing ahead, disappearing, running back to make sure we were coming. The cold air made him younger and it revived me too, all those cells in your skin that go into a coma south of Jacksonville. And the sunset was a winter sunset, sharp-edged and bright, colors holding their own, not melting together like five flavors of ice cream, Florida style. After a while we came to a lake—well, more of a pond—and though by now it was dark in the woods around the shoreline, the water caught the colors of the sky, splashes of orange, red, and purple.