In-Between Days

by Nicholas Desjardins

  “One summer’s day, not long before the world changed for the worse, I asked her to take a walk with me.” They strolled around the city center, walking under the trees, across the mostly empty streets, and eventually into the forest. “We decided to play a game of hide-and-go-seek. It may have been her idea; some of the memories have gotten hazy. I found her very easily, hiding in a knotted stump, the white linen of her skirt speckled brown at the hem. She told me to go hide as she stole a few stray gummies from my breast pocket.”

  Jonas did as he was told, running as quietly as he could through the woods. He found the thickest, widest tree and pressed his back to it, quieting his breath to a level not even a dog could detect. Jonas closed his eyes and prepared as her voice filtered between the trees, calling out for him.

  “She would call my name, laughing, but I would not answer. I stood rigid, like a great statue, my body pulled together in a tight ball, breathing as quietly as possible. I would not be found.”

  And then Jonas felt something delicate and warm that he had never before experienced—the soft velvet of her lips upon his, the rush of blood throughout his entire body. He opened his eyes to what Jonas described as the most beautiful creature in all of creation gifting him with an incredible honor. “I kissed her back, as best as I knew how. It could not have been awful, as she wrapped her arms around me. It was only for minutes, but they are minutes I will never forget for the rest of eternity.”

  Six months later, Jonas and Anneliese were married. Jonas said it was blissful. Like his father, Jonas worked at die Spinnerei, putting in long hours, toiling hard enough that his bride wouldn’t have to work. He promised to keep her safe and happy, to give her a home, and to provide support, no matter the cost.

  Two years later, Jonas was conscripted. At the train station, he promised Anneliese he’d return to her as soon as he could, and that he would return the same man she had married.

  “I was able to keep only one of those promises. My early hunting trips with my father and my ability with a rifle made me useful, but I was not put on the front lines. I was told by an officer that I would serve a greater purpose. That I would be a guard of utmost importance. In the fall of 1940, I was put on a train to Weimar, to serve as a tower guard for a work camp that had been opened, a place called Buchenwald. My stomach sank at those iron gates. Jadem das Seine hung like the heaviest of sentiments upon my heart.” He sighed, looking down into his glass as his past trickled from his tongue. Uriel slowly closed her eyes, clenching them hard for a moment, knowing how his story played out. Jonas placed his emptied glass under the tap and refilled as he continued. “Meine Vorgesetzen were terse and direct with their orders. I was not to interact with the prisoners in any way.”

  Jonas was told that these people were criminals or enemies of the Reich. He would sit in a guard tower for endlessly long shifts, watching like a hawk over the gates surrounding the camp and the beech trees in the distance. He was provided good meal and drink, warmth, and—most importantly—a rifle.

  “Under no circumstances could I allow any prisoner to escape. Any one of them could be dangerous: a conspirator with the Allies, a courier of political secrets, a revolutionary seeking to undermine and destroy our homeland. But as I looked out at them, that was not what I saw. I saw frail, weak men who could not have run anywhere, women and children who surely had no wishes other than to return to their own homes, to play games as I had as a child. But I had no choice.”

  Jonas heard that the last tower guard who refused to obey an order was treated as a turncoat and thrown in among the prisoners, clad in the same drab rags, eating slop and making bullets in a factory as if he were a slave. Bullets that Jonas would be expected to use if the turncoat ever tried to escape. With great reluctance and a leaden weight on his heart, Jonas agreed to be a tower guard. “I was at least able to find comfort in my Mitkämpfer, who in secret would admit their reluctance for the barbaric methods our Kommandanten insisted upon.”

  On a snowy November evening, Jonas received a letter from Anneliese. The summer would bring them a baby, and though he wouldn’t be there for the birth, Anneliese promised she would tell their child how great papa was, how he was defending the fatherland, and how he would return to them soon, strong and proud, as a hero.

  “At the time, I truly believed that winter would be the hardest for me. Away from my pregnant wife, stationed in a little outpost, the rifle became an extension of my hands.” He found no joy in shoot an escaping prisoner, no satisfaction in having done his duty. It was an order followed only so that he could return to his family, to see his wonderful wife and the new life they would welcome with open arms. Every pull of the trigger became a colossal endeavor, as if the weight of the entire world acted as the resistance. Every bullet was accompanied by a silent prayer. He never found the courage to watch the white snow turn deep red as the explosion echoed through the forest.

  “It happened too many times that first winter.” His breathing grew heavier as his story continued, fogging his spectacles with a small layer of moisture. He gently tugged them off to clean them, revealing the growing redness in his eyes, tear ducts ready to burst at any moment. The Depot was quiet, every heart sinking as all ears tuned into the old man’s tale.

  The spring brought him little in the way of respite. From his guard tower, Jonas saw brutality that deeply saddened him, acts he believed he himself would never be capable of. Men who had confessed to him the inherent evil of the camp seemed to eagerly participate in the kind of savagery Jonas had long thought impossible in civilized men. Children were brutally beaten, prisoners raped, mothers starved. Jonas saw the men’s shimmering, gleeful eyes as they tightened the nooses, their sickening smiles as they placed the tips of their guns against frail young heads.

  “I believed I could no longer bear it. Surely if there was a God, he would not condone such atrocities.”

  Then summer came, and with it a new letter from Anneliese. Their daughter had been born on the sixteenth of June, 1941. Monika Ehrlichmann was a healthy, beautiful baby girl, with small wisps of blonde hair. Anneliese said that she had Jonas’s smile, and her eyes.

  “I was so overcome with joy at my little Mäuschen that for a time I became numb to the things I was tasked to do. It never truly became easier.”

  As summer faded into autumn, Jonas focused only on the prisoners trying to escape, and desperately hoped for word from his family. Every new letter gave him renewed purpose. Anneliese longed for him and promised a hero’s welcome when he returned. She said their daughter would be proud of his service.

  “I did not have the heart to tell her that even I was not proud of what I had done. I would not be deserving of even a criminal’s welcome. Every season, I would receive a new letter, sometimes two. Monika had been given a beautiful dress from my parents. And though she was much too young for serious lessons, Anneliese wrote that our little Mäuschen would tap on the piano keys and sing along in her own little way.”

  Those little things kept Jonas grounded. He was more than a soldier, more than a watchtower guard and reluctant executioner. He was a beaming father, graced with a daughter already interested in the arts, in giving something back to the world despite its cruelty.

  The letter that came in the winter of 1942 was perhaps the most difficult one Anneliese ever wrote––it was certainly the hardest thing Jonas would ever read. Her mother had been taken by the SS. She was half-Romani, nothing more than a “gypsy whore,” who was poison to the Reich. Anneliese was heartbroken. Even worse, it happened in front of Monika, who was far too young to understand why these men were forcefully taking her grandmother away.

  “I did not have the heart to write back and tell her that I already knew. She had been put on a train, and that train dropped her in front of those awful, iron letters.”

  Jadem das Seine.

  Anneliese’s mother had always been a fighter, supporting her family when her husband came back maimed. She was a strong woman, and Jonas had seen t
hat same spirit manifest in Anneliese. But Buchenwald was practically a death sentence. Jonas saw his mother-in-law routinely beaten by his fellow Wachen, men whom he had considered friends. She had been denied meals and forced to work harder hours than others, leaving her hands crippled by the factory work—and she was taken to officers’ quarters to be passed around like a child’s toy. Jonas could do nothing to save her.

  “I had let down my wife and daughter. My heart was torn asunder. That pain was truly der Weltschmerz, the ultimate betrayal to my family.”

  In the early winter of 1943, der Kommandant stood guard with Jonas. Jonas was commended on his excellent work, his perfect marksmanship, and the great service done for the Reich. No matter what anyone had to say to the contrary, they were winning the war and doing the right things in the process.

  “I looked at the wooden butt of my gun—so many scratch marks, each to memorialize a life I had taken, a life I had prayed for as I did my duty. I never had to shoot more than once, but I made that one shot more times than I could count. Many more times than I will ever forget. As we stood by lantern light, staring out into the falling snow, we both caught sight of something creeping past the gates. The brown rags were unmistakable. Numb, I lifted my rifle, ready to show my superior that his faith in me had not been misplaced. And then she looked up. Even without the light of the lantern, I would have recognized that face. It was Anneliese’s mother.”

  Tired of the beatings, the labor, the rape, she had decided to brave an escape through the forest in the dead of winter rather than suffer one more day of torment. Jonas could not blame her. In truth, he wanted to be with her, to guide her past the large rocks and broken branches, to provide his coat for her warmth. He was certain he could guide her all the way back to Leipzig, 100 kilometers northeast through the winter snow, emboldened by the desire to see his family.

  “If we could have marched through the night, we would have been home the very next day. But it was something I could not do.”

  He raised his rifle, jamming the scarred butt hard into his shoulder. His eyes welled with tears as his finger moved slowly toward the trigger. The burning stare of his commanding officer darted between Jonas and the escapee.

  “I knew that if I did not shoot, my rifle and coat would be taken. I would be thrown down among the rest of those that we held for being different. I would become der fiend. And that would be if I was lucky. More likely, I would be marched to the gallows, or immediately executed with the Mauser pistol tucked underneath the officer’s woolen overcoat. In this moment I knew there was no salvation, and yet I silently prayed for hers.”

  Jonas paused his tale and inhaled deeply, holding his breath before slowly allowing it to vibrate from his lungs. I kept my eyes to the ground, unable to bear the heartache on his face.

  The sound of the gun ricocheted through the cold winter wind, echoing between the branches of the beech trees he had watched over for years. A brand new swath of red stained the freshly fallen snow.

  “I asked meinen Hauptmann if I could be removed from my post for the night.” Jonas convinced the commanding officer he was coming down with some sort of illness and spent the rest of the night slumped over in the latrine, emptying his stomach and his guilt. “I was admitted to our hospital ward with fever and kept for nearly a week. All I had wanted was pen and paper to write to my wife. To apologize for what I had done. But even if they had obliged, I had no idea what to tell her. I could not bring myself to write it out. Even in the simplest of terms. I am sorry, Anneliese. Your mother was placed here in Buchenwald, and I had no choice but to take her life.”

  He struggled with it for two full seasons, still stuck high upon the wall in his guard post, still saying a prayer for every unfortunate life he had to take. It had almost gotten easier for him. He knew that no matter what, he could do no more damage to his family; only he would have to shoulder this burden.

  He was not prepared for the letter that came the next autumn.

  The Allies had bombed Germany. Leipzig wasn’t entirely destroyed, but the city center was forever changed. The church where Jonas and Anneliese had married was reduced to rubble, and the gardens they walked through as sweethearts had been scorched. The great fire that fell from the sky had been difficult to contain, and there were far too many unnecessary deaths. The letter did not come from Anneliese, his parents, or even her father. It had been issued by the Reich.

  “I would never get the chance to explain myself. To apologize. To see my beautiful daughter.”

  Jadem das Seine.

  14

  Jonas finished his story and, in the resulting silence, another pint. Looking past his audience, he wiped his sleeve against his mouth. A long, deep inhale accompanied the removal of his spectacles. He wiped at them fiercely with the bottom hem of his shirt, erasing away the smudges and tear stains before shuffling into the backroom.

  I leaned back against the wall, crossing my arms as Uriel looked down somberly at her empty plate. Mia’s eyes radiated heartbreak, and her mouth hung slightly agape.

  “He’s been absolved since long before Owen got here,” Uriel muttered, not yet looking up from the emptied dish. “At least as far as we’re concerned. He won’t let go, though. He’s stubborn, holding onto those past sins. It frustrates Gabriel to no end.”

  I nodded, looking at their sullen faces. As many times I’d heard the story, especially on long nights when he’d had too much to drink in a failed attempt at inebriation, and played the saddest songs on the jukebox, it split me in two as easily as the first time.

  “After the war, he worked in a bicycle factory,” I added, trying to cheer them up. “He made children’s bicycles after he was discharged, right up until the day he died. I think he saw it as a small atonement.”

  My words didn’t help much. I collected their plates and scuttled off to the kitchen. Jonas was huddled over the sink, vigorously scrubbing what may have been the cleanest plate in the whole place, as though if he could return it to an impossibly pristine white, it would take away his frustration and guilt. I set the plates on the countertop and squeezed his shoulders, the same way my father did when I was young.

  “Please, Owen,” he said. “Not right now. Go and attend to the customers.”

  I wished I could do something that would get him back to his usual jovial, hoppy self. I grabbed a cleaning rag and headed to the jukebox. I hoped “Escape” would do the trick, but even as the song drifted through the nearly empty alleys and lanes, I didn’t hear a single loafer-toe tap. I left him to his dishes and returned to the lunch counter as he had asked. Uriel had already disappeared, leaving payment for their meals and a generous tip.

  Mia looked up, her head in her hands. I transferred the money into the beat-up old cash register, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “You’re leaving soon?” She had a knack for asking a question that pierced straight to the heart of the matter, as if she’d learned linguistics from an archer.

  “I was supposed to be, yes,” I said, avoiding her eyes for what must have been the first time. “But Michael said that I wasn’t quite ready yet. Remember?”

  “Right, but that was before,” she said. “We’re talking about now. You could be gone by the end of the week?”

  “I. Look. I don’t know. I don’t know what Michael’s going to say. You met him; he’s more mob boss than Archangel. I can’t predict him. But what about this. What if I can get both of us out at the same time?”

  She looked at me warily, puzzled. “But we’ve been spending all this time together.” The words came out in a huff, and I wondered if the blue in her eyes would start to boil. “How could you just not tell me that you could be leaving at any fucking minute?” Her hands clenched around her empty pint glass, one pointer finger picking at the chipped red nail polish on the opposite hand.

  “Look, I can’t explain just yet, but I’ve been thinking about something. A plan. Okay?” I sounded more exasperated than I was. “Meet me here tomorrow nig
ht around closing time?”

  She looked away, and my stomach sank so far I figured I’d find it in the boiler room. “Please, just give me a chance here. I haven’t let you down yet,” I begged, hoping against hope she would look at me again.

  She nodded and slipped off her stool. “I should get back to the office anyway,” she said. I couldn’t tell for sure how much I’d upset her, but she started building a wall, bricks forming around her with each step. At the door, she turned. “Tomorrow night, closing time.” With those four words, the door closed behind her. I’d fucked up in some way I couldn’t comprehend. I returned to the kitchen to check on Jonas.

  He had pulled up a stool to his little kitchen counter and was making best friends with a chipped tumbler glass and a bottle of scotch. It would have sold for hundreds in the living world, but here it couldn’t do anything but rot your gut. I intrinsically understood that kind of misery, so I focused on closing out business for the day.

  I swept at debris that had probably been super glued to the ground, and wiped at sticky-spots on tables that had no intention of dissipating.

  I returned shoes to their properly numbered slots, and placed bowling balls on racks according to weight. I dusted the lanes with a giant, unwieldy dust mop, and squeegeed in lane conditioner, so that even if the balls wouldn’t knock every pin down, they’d at least make it to the end of the line. I switched the neon signs off, closed out the till in both registers, and went back to Jonas.

  He’d passed out against the counter, one hand clasped around the rotgut scotch. I wrapped my arm around him and heaved him over my shoulder, nearly toppling the both of us in the process. Up the back stairs in the kitchen and a sharp turn to the right. I prodded the door to his apartment open with my foot. It was tiny, even smaller than mine.