Joseph continues his labored, marvelous breathing, too absorbed in his own body to witness the strange drama on the other side of his iron lung.
They wait there all night, keeping vigil, keeping Death and I at bay.
I wonder what it feels like to be loved so fiercely. I wonder why I'm still alive, still waiting.
They take coffee from the nurses, ignoring their suggestions to return home for the night. Joseph is stable, the nurses say. It's in God's hands now.
I look down at the hands only I can see. My hands, but I am not God. Not unless God is a kind of cosmic shorthand for the power that flows unexplained through this world, of which I am some small part.
In the early hours of the morning, another of the infected dies. A girl. Very quietly. I feel the disturbance in my world and drift across the hall to her side. She's even younger than Joseph, even paler, even frailer, and her death makes me angry. It's an emotion I've never felt before. I've never tallied up enough time in this world to feel such things.
The girl is not mine to take. Why am I here?
She speaks without opening her eyes (though glints of green light glow through translucent eyelids) and without opening her lips. "The time has passed. Wait for another. The boy's father had a flash of the true sight, but he is not long for the world. Wait for him to pass, and his protection with him. Awake again. Take the boy then."
There's no need to acknowledge the command. I'm a fragment of Death's will. Her right hand... no, not even that. The trailing touch of her littlest finger. I have no free will, no choice. In God's hands.
I just hope that Joseph won't suffer in the waiting.
But by sunrise, his breathing is less tortured, his body less racked by spasms. When his mother wipes his forehead with a handkerchief soaked in warm, weak tea, he cracks open his eyelids and smiles.
It's the most fragile, beautiful thing I've ever seen.
September 1941
"You should be dead right now," a gratuitously stern-looking nurse says. I wonder if her disapproval extends to all her patients—all young men, all injured in the fighting—or if she reserves it just for Joseph. "Stupid foolhardy American."
The latter, apparently. I watch her as she stands by his bedside, giving his chart a perfunctory once-over before fitting him with a blood pressure cuff. There isn't much for her to do, not after my intervention. Joseph's horrible accident has left him with some bruising, is all. For now he's under observation, but she'll soon declare him stable and send him away again, perhaps sooner than she would have before the war. She needs the bed for her own countrymen. Hell, for any man who had orders or at least permission to follow the front.
Joseph rests for a few hours on the narrow cot. I wait, not sure what I am waiting for now. The other shoe to drop, maybe.
He springs awake, triggered by nothing in particular, and casts around, looking very much like his father in that moment. We have to go now, I tell him. A hospital is no place for a rebel like me to hide from death.
He sees right through me, but my influence has, perhaps, touched something deep in his mind, below perception. He nods (to himself?) gathers up his possessions, and leaves quietly, cautiously, edging his way between rows of men in cots. Their faint groaning and heavy breathing fades away as he reaches the last door. Sunlight creeps in from the cracks in the frame.
Is this really it? Have we won free?
Of course not. It's war. Death is everywhere.
He walks away from the big stone hospital, taking very small steps. I don't know if his slow, hesitant pace means he's timid after what happened to him—and just what, exactly, does he think happened to him?—or if it's simple exhaustion, his polio-afflicted calf muscles pushed to the brink and failing after the last long hours.
There's a pile of wreckage on the hospital's side street, swept into a neat mound. Joseph picks through the mound until he finds what he's looking for: a long stave of wood with one end smooth enough to lean on. Ugly cane in hand, he begins the long walk home through the cobbled streets of Helsinki.
I remember what he wrote in his notebook when we first arrived: The Karelian refugees would give me such strange looks, though never to my face; rather, they looked down to my feet. Someone told me they envied my shoes. Joseph's salary from the news service is not generous by American standards, but most Finns live on far less.
Joseph's approach to life has always been characterized by the balance between luck and lack. He knows he has two loving parents, a strong and resourceful family; he knows he was granted a miraculous reprieve from the most feared disease of this century. His father's last name protects him from the hatred often directed toward his mother's people. This disturbs him constantly.
He won't deny it, if pressed, but he refuses to be pitied as a cripple.
By the time he reaches his apartment, the upper palm of his right hand is bruised and rubbed raw from the rough makeshift cane. But not bleeding, at least. Once he closes the door behind him, he sinks to the floor, hugs his knees to his chest, and takes a long, shuddering breath.
Joseph lives in this one bedroom apartment with three other men his age. Even so, it's quiet and empty now, a relief for us both. Two of the men are American citizens of recent Finnish origin, Markku and Antti, both returned to fight in the Winter War. They're in the army. The third is a regular Finn, a distant cousin of theirs who actually owns the apartment, also gone to the army. A few months ago, a fourth had slept in the kitchen—a British journalist who stained the cupboard doors dark yellow with endless smoke from his pipe—but he left on the same day the Continuation War commenced.
I watched in the kitchen that day as Joseph poured the man a parting cup of kossu, the Finns' fearsome grain alcohol, and spoke of his misgivings. "I'm thinking of splitting too, Harry. I see Nazis every day at the Parliament House. Makes my skin crawl."
Harry downed it, shivered, grunted, and returned to packing. "When I get back to Blighty, maybe the Army'll have me. Turned me down for flat feet, they did, but I expect they've lowered their standards since then. Good luck, Joseph. You're in a damned hard place. They won't hand over the Jews here, though—their Church won't stand for it."
Joseph silently poured himself a cup, and drank. I remember that his hands shook a little. I think he was angry that the man thought he was afraid.
Now that Joseph's back in the empty kitchen with its stained cupboard doors and dusty sink, he finds the bottle, pours himself a finger of kossu—and sets it aside. "The hell am I thinking?" he asks himself, shaking his head. Perhaps he's considering the effects of the stuff on an empty stomach.
Yes. Take care of yourself.
He starts at the sound of the door opening.
"I'll take that," says Markku, in his perfect, unaccented English. He paces to the kitchen table and slams down the kossu. Still standing, he pours another finger and offers it to Joseph.
Markku is a tall, impatient man with blond-white eyebrows and much darker hair—almost brown, in fact. It's a combination that renders his appearance subtly unsettling, although in all other respects he presents much the same as any other soldier of Finland.
"Gotta eat first," says Joseph. "Did you come from the front? You're a mess. Like me." He gestures at their mud stains on both their clothes. They're more apparent against the light grey of Markku's uniform tunic.
"Yes. And I'll be returning tomorrow. Let's go hunt up some food. Have you sent your dispatch yet?"
"God, no. I'll work on it while we're eating."
Joseph wraps a handkerchief around the end of his makeshift cane as they leave for the restaurant.
Once there, they trade stories of the last few days over thick slices of rye bread loaded with salmon. Joseph's account of the accident is curiously truncated. "When they hit the convoy, I thought I was a goner. A soldier in a motorcycle picked me up. He's dead now. They shot a driver and a nurse, too. Something happened to me, but I'm all right." The story has none of the hallmarks of his journalistic style,
which is professionally spare but salted with vivid detail. He's usually better with words, both written and spoken.
Markku doesn't seem to notice or care. He's in a bad mood. "Fucking savages," he says. "Savages, animals, I want them out. Surely you see now."
Joseph's eyelids lower by just a fraction. A sleepy, guarded look. It's odd: Joseph, being in the business that he is, is no stranger to heated political conversation. Something inside me curdles, watching him shy back from it now. "Mm," he says, not agreeing or disagreeing, and picks at his food.
When Joseph turns away from him, Markku's expression changes somehow. His jaw sets as though he has a toothache, and one of the tendons in his neck pops with the strain. Like he's doing his best not to lunge over the table. All that tension is released by a reflexive clenching of his hands, over and over again. Silent, but telling.
If only Joseph would look up and could see it for himself.
But he doesn't. He doesn't notice any of it, damn him. "I have to maintain objectivity," he says, quite diplomatically, all of the handsome dramatic passion drained out of his voice. "I'll report on things as I saw them. The editor doesn't want a political statement." Now some emotion, some conviction, returns. It's a bitter, thwarted thing. "Not from me, anyway."
Markku's eyes narrow in visceral disgust, as one might look at a mangy dog. Well, as someone other than Joseph might, anyway, since Joseph seems to overflow with compassion at random, unnecessary moments.
Rather like me.
"Roosevelt wants to get into the war. He's looking for any excuse," says Markku. "He doesn't understand the Soviet danger."
"I don't think you understand the Nazi one. They'll help you beat off the Soviets, sure, and then they'll turn on Finland. They've already stuck a fork in Norway." Joseph looks up from his plate; Markku has already recomposed his face into a mask of polite frustration. Neither man seems willing to let his true passions show. Not fully.
Our stolen time ticks by. Maybe there will be a bombing. Maybe the roof will come down on our heads. We can't hide forever. Not from each other, not from ourselves, not from this war, and especially not from death. Joseph doesn't have a hope or a clue. Which makes it all the stranger that—judging by his expression in those unguarded moments, at least—Markku does. Markku knows something is going to happen, although I don't know what, and I don't know if Markku does, either. I'm not sure I even want to.
Antti, the other, more genial Finnish American, usually provides balance. Without him, the dynamic between Markku and Joseph is hard to call "friendship." Sometimes I think of them as nations: Markku eyeing the border lines with hungry intent as Joseph trusts overly in neutrality. It's happening even now.
Markku is always watching Joseph when he isn't paying attention. Studying him. Making some calculation over and over, but the answer to the sum is never the one he desires, no matter how he approaches the equation.
When Joseph finishes his meal and leaves the restaurant, Markku's burning gaze follows, and I know his body wants to follow, too.
Joseph doesn't notice. But Joseph never notices, not even on those times when Markku stands close enough to brush sleeves or subtly uses the largeness of his body to herd Joseph against walls or furniture. When they're alone in the kitchen. When they're alone in the sauna.
Joseph is immune. Was it the same with the nurse, the one Joseph lent his handkerchief to? I can't be sure. For Joseph, desire must be an alien, unrecognizable thing, perhaps because he can never entirely escape the mechanical isolation of the iron lung or the boy he was inside it. The protectiveness I get from that knowledge is a warm feeling, usually, but with Markku it runs hot enough to scald.
I don't think I'm supposed to feel emotions with such chaotic intensity, not if I'm ever to serve my purpose.
And I will serve my purpose. It's just a question of when.
December 1941
The sun sets shortly after lunchtime. A killing cold descends with the darkness.
The old wooden farmhouse has a gaping, splintered hole in the west wall, and offers little protection. Lieutenant Järvilehto stands in the kitchen still swathed in his parka. "I can confirm what the press officer said. Every detail. You can even interview my men. We haven't passed over the old border."
Joseph nods politely. The lieutenant watches with poorly guarded anxiety as he jots down a note or two in his little leather notebook. No matter who they are or what they speak of, the sight of the notebook puts men ill at ease, so his reaction is no clue as to whether he's lying or not.
An SS officer stands behind Lieutenant Järvilehto. The only visible marks of his rank are twin lightning bolts on a dark collar almost submerged by his bulky, paler overcoat. Joseph just tries not to look at him. I mark the subtle aversion of Joseph's gaze. The way he studies his notes, looks too intensely at the Finnish Lieutenant as they speak with one another. All tactics to make him appear focused on his task versus... whatever he's feeling. I wonder what storm of emotions roils through him now. Not fear, surely.
"Is the German presence here in response to Finnish requests?" asks Joseph, gesturing in the direction of the officer, still not looking at him.
"SS-Hauptsturmführer Lange is... observing. That is all. The Soviets determine our actions with their mindless aggression. Unlike them, we respect international boundaries. We hold Karelia safe and take no part in further German advances."
Lange's eyes are barely visible under his low cap, but his lips tighten at those words. His partnership with Järvilehto is obviously not an easy one.
"I've heard that there were partisan attacks in this area," says Joseph. "That there were successful defenses, and prisoners taken."
"They set fire to a mill, and killed the old man that ran it. Another in the long list of atrocities against our civilians. I can have you taken to the site tomorrow. But no, no prisoners—the partisans resisted capture and were all shot by our forces."
He's lying.
The pencil slips from Joseph's cold-numbed fingers. He curses, but not in English. It's a Yiddish phrase learned from his grandfather; he must have chosen it quite purposefully.
Will Lange notice? Surely, this is a gesture meant to highlight his impotence. A killer of Jews muzzled by the exigencies of the Finnish alliance.
Järvilehto quickly stoops and picks up the pencil for Joseph. "The rooms in the back are heated. Would you like to continue your writing there, with the men?"
"Yes, thank you."
Lange shifts his weight restlessly, but makes no other motion, no sign of recognition.
The room Joseph is led to is packed with Finnish soldiers, all listening intently to the radio. A folk song plays. A chorus of women chant mournfully over an eerie melodic drone. The men are enraptured, faces slightly lifted, angling themselves, like antennas, to better absorb the waves of sound.
Joseph greets the men quietly, finds a spot, sits down against the wall. His new cane is made of strong, smooth ash with a handle of reindeer horn; he rests it across his lap and begins to read over his notes.
I'm restless and torn. With every sawing string note, the air vibrates and slithers against my phantom skin. None of the humans are so affected. They're all in separate worlds: the Finns wrapped up in the song of their people, Joseph wrestling with the words he desires to use as weapons, Järvilehto outside balancing on the tightrope of the borderline, Lange... Lange...
I don't like to stray too far from Joseph. When I do, I lose my form and my sense of myself, becoming little more than a tenuous cloud of perception. Still, something calls me out into the night, and fearing the approach of Death, I answer.
I drift through the stone wall.
By the light of the moon and the stars, Lange trudges his way towards the barn. There's a pistol in his black-gloved hand and a ring of keys in the other.
I skim over the snow crust and slip under the eaves of the barn. There are no animals inside, only five Soviet prisoners handcuffed to a beam. Their faces are all stamped with torp
id agony—the uniquely stricken expression of humans who are half-dead from cold, and know it.
Lange is coming to put an end to their misery.
The thought that in this way he is like me fills me with greasy revulsion, as if my intangible body—which has never so much as touched the soil of this world—now overflows with corruption.
One of the prisoners hears Lange's footstep. He cranes his head toward the barn door, eyelids shivering with hope. It has to be hope.
I rush away, in a panic, back to Joseph. My passage through the night air scours me, but doesn't clean. When I arrive back at Joseph's side I'm still in a profoundly disordered state.
Partisan attacks continue behind the Finnish line, but frequent captures and failures indicate suggest that their efforts lack widespread support among the populace of Karelia.
I can see it in the tilt of his eyebrows, the way his pencil rises up to the corner of his mouth. He senses something is wrong. Like an itch between his shoulder blades he cannot scratch. Is it his own distrust of Lange that nags at him, or is it something to do with me? The result is the same, but I still wish it was me. I need to know he hears me. If he could only acknowledge my existence one more time, I imagine that my happiness would overflow ten thousand lifespans.
He draws twin lightning bolts below the last sentence, then crosses them out with such a savage stroke that the paper creases, almost tearing. He grabs his cane, rises swiftly to his feet, puts the notebook in his pocket and asks the soldier by his side for directions to the latrine.
"None, yet. Piss out the back door, I suggest." The soldier returns to his contemplation of the sweet drone.
Joseph leaves.
Lange, I whisper to him in my way. Lange. Lange. Lange. Some part of me realizes I could be sending him to his death, but he'll kill himself if he goes on living this way. Death has been watching and waiting for so long now and won't be denied much longer, and if it's going to happen, I would prefer him die a hero, or if not a hero, at least satisfied by his death. Yes, that.
The War at the End of the World Page 2