The Fires of Lilliput

by Michael Martin

  “Should be lunch time soon.” Jerczek said.

  “You’re hungry?” Jakub said.

  “You’re not?”

  The marchers saw civilians coming from the other direction, pushing carts and wheelbarrows and leading horses that pulled wagons piled with furniture, clothes, books, pots, pans, and food. The civilians passed the marchers. They were women, men, children, and wounded. Their eyes were tired and they moved without life. They looked forward or down or away.

  “Could they be more miserable than we are?” asked the man behind Jakub.

  Two miles up, they entered a village.

  “Herr Leutnant—where is the supply truck?” Schmidt asked.

  “You think I know?”

  “They should have been here with food an hour ago.”

  “Stop complaining.”

  Von Kempt looked around the village. All the shops were closed but the buildings looked intact. “You want food?” von Kempt said to Schmidt. He pointed to a bakery. “Go get it.”

  “Break in?”

  “Or wait for the truck.”

  Schmidt whistled at a few guards. They walked to the bakery and kicked in the door. Villagers—a few remained—watched. Children came into the street and threw stones, but adults ran after them and pulled them back. Von Kempt’s men brought out bread and pastries and liquor for drinking and baking.

  “Set it down,” von Kempt said. “Here in the street.”

  They hauled out bags of flour and seeds and metal canisters filled with milk and clean water. Some prisoners moved toward the food. The guards saw them and shoved them back.

  “Let them eat,” von Kempt said. He looked at his men. He looked at their eyes. These were young men, younger than he was, but they looked worn. “Everyone eats,” von Kempt said.

  Jakub took two small loaves and hid them in his shirt. The other marchers broke the bread and passed it around. The guards sat in the street and ate. They talked.

  “Ask him,” said one of the guards.

  “He had a surgery.”

  “When? He’s been in camp the whole time.”

  “Ask him.”

  “I won’t. You do it.”

  “I’ll do it,” said a corporal. “Herr Leutnant.”

  Von Kempt and Schmidt ate together, away from the others.

  “Herr Leutnant.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some of us were wondering.”

  “Ja—what?”

  “Well, we were wondering, Herr Leutnant, what happened to your gimp?”

  Von Kempt looked at them. “What?” he said. He stood up and walked to them.

  “We were wondering—you used to limp.”

  “Why ask such a thing?”

  “It’s only—”

  Von Kempt pulled back his leg and kicked the corporal. “Time to go,” he said.

  “But Herr Leutnant!”

  “Time to go,” he repeated. “Time to go, all of you!” He kicked over a milk canister. He kicked over a water canister. The milk and the water ran into the street. Marchers fell to their knees and lapped the running streams. One by one, Von Kempt kicked over every other canister. “Now,” he yelled. “Are we ready to go?”

  THE MARCHERS SLEPT IN THE OPEN ALONG A ROAD and when they woke, they had frost in their hair and on their beards. The new routine had everyone walk out of the field and line up on the road. Schmidt counted those left lying in the field and marked them as dead and the rest marched away. To pass the time one afternoon, Schmidt drew a graph that plotted number of days on the march versus number of men left for dead in the fields. The line sloped upward without end. This morning they marched for three miles and one of the soldiers fell.

  “Get up.” His compatriots tried to rouse him. “We have to stay on our feet.”

  But he didn’t move.

  “Herr Unterfeldwebel—we have a man down here.”

  Schmidt walked back to them. When he saw the soldier, he whistled at the car carrying von Kempt. Schmidt bent down and examined the man, eighteen-year-old Schütze (Private) Heerensburg from a farming community outside Munich. He placed his fingers on the man’s neck. Von Kempt appeared at his side.

  “What’s wrong with him?” von Kempt said.

  “He’s dead, Herr Leutnant.”

  “Pull him aside. We have to keep moving.”

  Schmidt looked at his men. He saw how their uniforms sagged. He saw the darkness around their eyes. He saw the hollow spots in their unshaven cheeks.

  “Herr Leutnant—I don’t think we should go any farther today.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “We have to bury him.”

  “You have the energy to bury him? What will you be left to walk with?”

  “We shouldn’t leave until the food truck comes,” Schmidt said. “Then we’ll have the energy.”

  “The food truck hasn’t come for three days,” von Kempt said. “It’s not coming.”

  Schmidt looked at his men and the prisoners.

  “We need food, Herr Leutnant.”

  Von Kempt looked at the men. He spit and rubbed his dirty face. “Goddamn it!” He walked away and looked up the road. “God fucking damn it!” Then he walked back. “You need food?”

  “Yes,” Schmidt said.

  “How hungry are you?”

  “We’ll die out here without food.”

  One of the marchers wavered. The men around him propped him up. Von Kempt looked in their direction, but they closed in and he saw only men standing.

  JAKUB PULLED AN APPLE FROM HIS POCKET. Keeping it down, he handed it to Jerczek. “Split it,” he said. “Tell everyone to split it. A little piece for each.” Jakub pulled another apple from his pocket, and a piece of cheese.

  “Where did you get all that?” Jerczek asked.

  “From the village. A woman slipped them in my pockets.”

  Jerczek looked at Jakub’s pockets. “Where have you been keeping it? I haven’t seen anything.” Jerczek split the apple with his fingers four ways. He took one piece and handed three others around. He looked at the soldiers up the road. “They’re arguing about food,” Jerczek said to Jakub. “Their food. Doesn’t that take it!”

  VON KEMPT STARED AT THE PRIVATE, lying in the road. He stared and he thought. He lifted his knife out of its sheath and bent down toward the dead man.

  “Herr Leutnant?”

  Von Kempt cut the buttons along the man’s coat. He pulled the dog tags from the man’s neck and put them in his pocket. His men watched. Von Kempt moved the knife down to the private’s boots and cut through the laces.

  “Herr Leutnant—what are you doing?”

  Von Kempt looked at Schmidt and the other men.

  “You eat what you have, Schmidt.”

  A pang shot through Schmidt’s stomach. He tried to open his mouth.

  “Build a fire,” von Kempt said. “You men—get some wood. Start a fire. Raus!”

  “I—” Schmidt grabbed the lieutenant’s arm. “What are you doing?”

  “Start a fire.” Von Kempt looked at his men. “Build a fucking fire.”

  Schmidt pulled the lieutenant back. “Why not one of them?” The sergeant looked at the marchers. “One of the dead ones.”

  “Eat that filth? Who knows what diseases they have.”

  Schmidt looked at Private Heerensburg. Von Kempt stood and lifted the young man and dragged him off the road. Schmidt rushed forward and grabbed the body around the legs.

  “You can’t,” the sergeant said. “We can’t do this.”

  Von Kempt dropped the corpse and drew his Luger.

  “Let go.”

  Schmidt was whimpering.

  “Let go now!” Von Kempt said.

  “I can’t, Herr Leutnant. I can’t. I can’t.” Schmidt weakened and relaxed his grip. Finally, he slumped.

  “The wood’s wet,” a soldier yelled back.

  “There’s petrol in the sidecar trunk,” von Kempt said. “Only use a little.”

&nb
sp; The soldier brought a gas can from the trunk. In a moment, von Kempt heard fire crackling and felt heat on his back. He heard Schmidt whimpering. He saw the marchers a little ways off, grabbing their sides and lifting their feet in the cold. Von Kempt stripped Private Heerensburg naked and lifted his body under the shoulders. He didn’t ask for help and he dragged it toward the flames.

  Fifty Three

  A boy inside a boxcar at Camp Melinka saw soldiers splashing yellow liquid from large cans. He saw people grabbing their eyes and crying. The liquid splashed next to the boy. He looked at his father. “What are they doing?” the boy asked.

  His father swabbed the liquid with his fingers and held it to his nose.

  “They’re going to burn us,” a woman screamed.

  The father moved his son away and covered the boy with his body.

  The guards threw matches into the cars but the prisoners stomped them or kicked them back out. “We need rags,” one of the guards yelled. “Someone get rags.”

  “Go to Hehl,” another guard screamed. “He has all that.”

  Hehl refused to open the stores. He told the soldiers if they needed rags, they could strip. He said he would shoot the first man who tried to open any storehouse doors.

  “Herr Stürmbannführer,” Corporal Walkenburg complained to Petersdorf in his office. “We can’t simply stand outside the cars holding matches until the wood takes.”

  “Use a flamethrower,” Petersdorf said.

  “They’re dead—none of them work.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Rusted.”

  “They were never kept clean,” another guard said. “Some were left out.”

  Petersdorf looked out the window at a pit full of naked bodies. “Forget it,” he said.

  “Herr Stürmbannführer?”

  “Forget it. Just forget it.”

  The day passed. The fuel on the boxcars evaporated. The soldiers could try again, but petrol was running short and the whole issue seemed to lose momentum.

  MAJOR PETERSDORF WALKED ACROSS THE CAMP toward Strauss’ office. He heard something smash in the greenhouse. He went around to that entrance and went inside. He saw Strauss on his hands and knees, sweeping up a broken flowerpot and puffing a pipe.

  “Franz?”

  “Did you shut the door?”

  Petersdorf approached.

  “I hope you shut the door, Heinrich.” Strauss stood and walked to the major. The Commandant took his pipe out of his mouth and whispered. “That goddamned stench out there—I can’t even go out in my own yard anymore.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Petersdorf said. “It’s time.”

  “Time for what?” Strauss cut roses. Petersdorf saw his hands shaking.

  “We have to evacuate.”

  “Evacuate? Where?”

  “Across the border. Germany.”

  “Do you realize it’s been over four months since anyone from the camp directorate has inspected us?”

  “We have to evacuate.”

  “Why in hell should we? What will we be going to?”

  “Any place is better than here.”

  “What about Gretty? What do I do with her?”

  “We can move her.”

  Strauss waved off the suggestion. “I’m seeing her later,” he said. “I’ll ask her.”

  Fifty Four

  Snow fell on the morning of the tenth day of the march and Jakub awoke to bleeding hands and feet. He was not in pain lying still, but when he tried to roll over and press his hand on the ground, pain shot through his arm. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t march. A fearful pang made him feel sick. He felt sicker than he had in the ghetto or in the camp. He knew they would shoot him.

  “Raus! Raus!”

  The soldiers started morning wake up and they walked along the bodies lying in the open field. “Get up. Get the fuck up. Time to go. Time to go!”

  Jerczek saw Jakub lying still. He watched the soldiers and waited for them to turn away. Then he crawled to Jakub and lay still beside him. “Jakub,” he whispered. “What’s going on?”

  Jakub turned his red eyes to Jerczek.

  “You’re always the first up.”

  Jakub held up his hand.

  “Shit,” Jerczek said. “How did that happen?”

  Jakub pulled up his pant leg. He slipped off a clog.

  “Foot too?”

  “Feet,” Jakub said. “I can’t walk.”

  “You look like you’ve been shot.”

  “No,” Jakub said. “It’s a condition.”

  “What can I do?” Jerczek asked.

  “I’m thirsty,” Jakub said.

  Jerczek looked up at the snow. “Catch the flakes on your tongue.” Jerczek opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. He looked at Jakub. He looked at the soldiers. He looked at the gray sky and the snow. Jakub moved his arm.

  “Be still,” Jerczek said. “Don’t move and don’t talk.”

  The soldiers were getting closer.

  “Right before they get here, open your eyes and don’t blink,” Jerczek said. He put his arm over Jakub and pressed his face into Jakub’s shoulder. “Remember,” Jerczek said. “Don’t blink.”

  Jakub felt the hard kick first on his left leg.

  “Up. Stupid fuck. Stand up.”

  He felt the second kick in his groin. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to jump up and grab the soldier by the neck and strangle him until he was dead. But he lay still with his eyes open. He saw the soldier standing over him. The soldier spit in his face and used his foot to roll Jerczek away from Jakub. Jerczek flopped back. He was still. The soldier stepped on his stomach. He pressed. The soldier took his foot off and walked to the next line of bodies.

  “Stay still.” Jerczek gasped between words. “Wait till they leave.”

  “You’re staying?” Jakub said.

  “Escaping,” Jerczek said. “You and me.”

  The marchers and the soldiers moved toward the road. Jerczek raised his head a little and saw von Kempt walking toward his men. The ground was muddy dark and mottled with snow. Jerczek watched them move away.

  “How long before your condition clears up?” Jerczek asked.

  “Usually a few hours.”

  “Then you can walk?”

  “Yes. But it depends. Sometimes it can take a day.”

  Jerczek looked at the other bodies. “We need to stay warm,” he said. When he no longer saw any soldiers or marchers, he stood.

  “Where are you going?” Jakub said.

  “Not far.”

  Jerczek went from body to body. He undressed them. Some clothes came off easily. Others he left because the cloth was frozen to the flesh or the ground. He rolled a few bodies off blankets. He found stale biscuits and hard candy in pockets. He gathered these things and brought them back to Jakub. They lay under a pile of filthy blankets beneath a cloudy sky sucking lemon drops speckled with lint and saving the bread.

  JAKUB RAISED HIS ARMS. HE WATCHED the snowflakes land, one by one on his woolen shirt. He sucked the moisture on his sleeve. He looked at the sky and opened his mouth and felt the cold clean sensation of the fall. He saw Jerczek coming out from the trees with an armful of sticks.

  “You won’t believe what I found,” Jerczek said. He dropped the sticks. He took a military issue flint from his pocket and showed Jakub. “That Kraut they ate—they left his clothes. It was in his pants.”

  “Leftovers,” Jakub said.

  Jerczek looked at him. Then he laughed. He stopped and laughed. “That’s very funny,” Jerczek said. “It’s good to have humor in times like these.” He arranged the sticks for the fire. “So where do you think they went?” he said.

  “They were lost,” Jakub said.

  Jerczek pealed thin scraps of bark into a pile. “Laughing at such tragedy,” he said. “I should be ashamed. But I don’t feel a bit sorry.” He looked around at the bodies in the field. “I used to laugh so often,” he said. “I used to joke and laugh.” He loo
ked at his hands. He scraped the flint against the bark scraps. “How you feeling?”

  “Better,” Jakub said. “I should walk by tonight.”

  “We won’t be walking at night,” Jerczek said. “We’ll start in the morning.” He kept scraping the flint but he couldn’t rouse a spark.

  “Let me,” Jakub said.

  “With those hands?”

  Jakub motioned for the flint and Jerczek handed it to him. In a few minutes, Jakub had sparks and smoke and he finessed the embers into flames.

  “Bravo!” Jerczek said. “Where did you learn that?”

  “My father,” Jakub said.

  “He must have been an outdoorsman.”

  “He spent a lot of time outside.”

  “Yes?”

  “He was in the Resistance.”

  “Ahh. Where is he now?”

  “Dead.”

  Jerczek hesitated. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “You have other family?”

  “Mother and brother.”

  “Are they in the Resistance?”

  “In ways.”

  “Where from?”

  “Marienburg.”

  “Marienburg? Ahh. Near the castle?”

  “A few kilometers from it.”

  “I visited there once,” Jerczek said. “Amazing place. I love the history of it. It makes me think about all the pretenders around us.” Jerczek added some dry twigs to the fire.

  “What about your family?” Jakub asked.

  “Scattered,” Jerczek said. “My father’s side went to America. My mother stayed in Warsaw.”

  “Did she get out?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Jerczek said. “She died.” Jerczek paused. He sighed. “They say a long life is a good thing, but death can be a good thing too. Think of all the bad things you miss when you die.”

  “You could have gone to America,” Jakub said.

  “They argued about it,” Jerczek said. “My father wanted us all to go. My mother thought it was treasonous, like desertion or something. It broke them.” He took a breath.

  “You lived in Warsaw?” Jakub asked.

  “I ran an orphanage,” Jerczek said. He hesitated and looked around. He didn’t speak for a while. “Until I had to close it.” He looked down.