“I had lunch one day in an ancient fortress on a side of a mountain. You go up there on a funicular. The chef was doing his desperate best to serve a fine lunch to the ‘nice people,’ which now meant the Americans. I doubt he cared. It was his business to cook and make sauces and find wines for faceless but appreciative stomachs. That was his mission in life, and I drank a glass of wine to him, all alone, on the terrace.”
He saw the wide green valley below the fortress, and beyond the valley the flat blue mountains against the flat blue sky. Mist flowed down between the painted peaks. He had looked at them long. Then his attention had been caught by something in the hot greenness of the valley: a tall, bleak, thatch-roofed house, stuccoed. It cast a sharp black shadow on the grass. There was nothing else there at all, but that house.
“There was only a white-walled house in the valley,” he said. “I didn’t know what it was. I only knew that there Were no gardens around it, no signs of life. I don’t know why, but it depressed me. I called a waitress, and she told me it was ‘the executioner’s house.’ What executioner, I never did find out. I didn’t want to know.”
“So, Johnny?” said Dr. Stevens, for the young man’s dark face had become lost and bitter.
“I couldn’t stop looking at that house, sir, while I was on the terrace. There was something terrible about it for me now. It had a haunted look—monstrous. Its two rows of windows seemed full of evil faces. Ghosts of damnation. In all that sunshine, in that green, lifeless valley. An accursed place. I don’t know how long I sat there, looking at it. It was almost sunset when I went away.”
He impatiently relit his pipe, which had gone out, but Dr. Stevens knew that he was not really present in this lamplit library. The children were very silent in the kitchen. Were they listening?
“I went to the cathedral,” Johnny was saying, “Dom Plaza. I didn’t know anyone, and in my present mood I didn’t want to know anyone. I walked through the streets when it was dark, with only a few lights here and there. I ate dinner at a PX which had just opened the day before. I was never so restless in my life. Something seemed to be calling me all the time, and my thoughts kept going back to the executioner’s house. A moon was coming up, and the night was warm, though it was mountainous territory.
“And then I knew I had to go to the executioner’s house, all alone in that big field, in the moonlight. It seemed a mad idea at first. Yet, there was such an urging—. I got into my jeep, and tore off, calling myself names. I was just tired; my mind was getting medieval, or something. What did I expect to find there? Ghosts?
“I parked the jeep near the old fortress, then went around it to the valley. And then I heard shouting and shrieking. A lot of men and women, looking like black specters in the moonlight, were racing across the valley, carrying clubs, toward the house. You never saw such an evil sight in your life! It was a nightmare.
“I began to run with them, wishing I was carrying a gun. I remember thinking that was a thought for a chaplain! But in some way I felt I had to get to that house with that mob, or before them. You never heard such damnable shrieking in all your life-like hell itself. I recognized the shrieking very well; I’d heard it before. It was the scream of blood lust. The mountains echoed it back; the very earth seemed to catch it up, and repeat it.
“I caught up with a man and grabbed his arm, and we almost fell down together as he tried to pull away from me. I held on to him, and demanded to know what it was all about. And he shouted at me, ‘The wolf children! The wolf children! We’re going to kill them!’ He did pull away from me then, and flew off. I caught a woman hurtling by, her dress flying. ‘What wolf children?’ I asked her. She was panting, and I could see her teeth flashing like a fiend’s in the moonlight. Then she saw my uniform, and stopped tugging away from me. She even cringed. She said, “Herr captain, the wolf children have been in Salzburg since the end of war. We don’t know who they are. They hide, and only come out at night. They’ve even killed, for food, they say. They waylay late people on the streets. They break into houses and rob. They’re not our people. And now we’ve heard they are hiding in the executioner’s house!”
“Oh, merciful God!” murmured Dr. Stevens.
Johnny nodded. “That’s what I said, sir, but I didn’t say it in that tone of voice, believe me. I just threw the woman down on the ground, and ran after the others. They were already at the house. The door must have been locked, for they were beating on it with their sticks, and howling. Howling! The windows were small and high; some of the men were trying to get in them. And I kept wishing for a gun.
“I had never run so fast in all my life. The door was shaking before I got there. It was rattling on its hinges; they made good hinges in the old days. Somehow—it was now even worse than any nightmare—I got between the men and the door. And, like the women, they recognized my American uniform, my officer’s uniform. And then a woman saw the cross on my lapel, and she must have thought I was a priest. She began to cry out, and pointed at it. The uniform—and the cross. Or, perhaps, only the cross. That stopped them.”
“It always does, always,” said Dr. Stevens.
“Well, sir, it did for a few minutes, anyway. I told them that if there were children in that house, young children, I was going after them, and I was going to protect them. I was going to take them away with me. They began to howl again, shaking their sticks in my face. They got so close to me that I could smell their sweat, and see their awful eyes, and feel their breath. If it hadn’t been for the women, the older ones, they would have killed me, in spite of the cross.
“I shouted back at them. I probably even cursed them. That sobered them a little—a pastor cursing them! I asked them if there hadn’t been enough of hatred and death. I asked them to remember their own children, safe in their beds. A man spat in my face, then spat on my uniform. I was a damned American. I had bombed their homes. I had killed them. The women muttered angrily. But still, there was that cross!”
“And?” asked Dr. Stevens, sitting on the edge of his chair. There was such a silence from the kitchen that he could feel it.
“Well, I listened to them. And then I said, ‘Forgive me.’”
He waited, but Dr. Stevens, who was now quite pale and still, said nothing.
“So,” said Johnny, “I stopped being enraged at those people, for what I said had sobered me, too. I just repeated, ‘Forgive me.’ The howling began to die down. Some of the women broke out crying. One even said, ‘Oh, the poor children!’ And I touched the cross that had saved not only the children, but these men and women.”
He put down his pipe and pressed his hands convulsively over his face. When he removed them, there were marks like the tracks of tears over his cheeks.
“And do you know what those men and women, who had seen death and war and guns and bombs, said to me at last, crowding around me? They said, ‘Forgive us, too.’”
He turned away, his back to Dr. Stevens. “We all went into the house together. It was as black as a pit in there. We told the children we wouldn’t hurt them. They were hiding somewhere, and there was only the moonlight at the windows. The women crooned, as they crooned to their own children. I began to think that perhaps these children had been freed from, or had escaped from, concentration camps after the liberation. I tried what Italian I knew, what French I knew. And though we anxiously looked around, and talked softly, there wasn’t any answer. Why should there have been? There was just silence, and that was all we deserved.”
“But you found them, Johnny.”
“Yes, in the cellar, crouched together against a wall, trying to protect each other. Baby Emilie, and Kathy, Pietro and Jean and Max. At bay, like the insane animals we had made them. In a heap, the boys trying to protect the little girls. You could hardly see them.”
He swung about, his face working. “I can’t talk much more about it, Dr. Stevens. Even now it’s too terrible. But the men and the women helped me get the kids out. They scratched and bit and tore and barked lik
e mad dogs. They were starved, almost naked, filthy. We had to carry them. They couldn’t even speak a word; they fell out of our arms, tried to scuttle away on hands and knees. Somehow we got them to an army depot, and the women rushed away to get some clothing for them, clothing they couldn’t spare. The men brought black bread and wine. I don’t want to remember the next days! We had to tie the boys down, sometimes. The girls just tried to run away. You see, they all thought we really meant to kill them.”
Johnny suddenly went out of the library, and his rapid footsteps carried him to the kitchen. Dr. Stevens sat alone, his lips moving silently. But he was saying over and over in his heart, “God have mercy upon me. Father, forgive me.”
Johnny came back, smiling. “They’re just eating their cake and drinking their milk. They are behaving themselves very well! If you think they’re pretty bad now, you should have seen them ten months ago.” He seemed to have recovered some poise. He even sat down on the edge of the table, and picked up his pipe.
There was the sound of firm and tramping feet in the corridor, and Edith and Mrs. Burnsdale marched in decidedly. “We’re leaving, Dr. Stevens,” said the older woman, ignoring Johnny. “We want our money.”
Dr. Stevens regarded them coldly—the spindling Edith, who was sniffing pathetically, and glancing with affected fear over her shoulder, and the rocky Mrs. Burnsdale. “Your week isn’t up,” he said, knowing it was hopeless. “And you’re needed here. In a few days Mr. Fletcher, and the children, will be leaving. He needs your help. Can’t you give it to him, hard as it will be?”
Johnny slid from the table. He approached the angry Mrs. Burnsdale and looked down at her. “You know,” he said, “I once thought people like you were kinder than—others. Kinder because you’ve had to work hard all your life. Kinder because you’ve suffered. But that’s just one of the many lies I’ve been telling myself ever since I can remember.”
His expression was severe, and he stared the woman down. She shifted her bag on her arm, threw up her head defiantly. “What!” she exclaimed. “Stay here and be murdered in our beds? Besides, what do you know about my kind of people anyway, Mr. Fletcher?”
He tried to smile. “Because I’m one of you. I was brought up in a small coal-mining town. I’ve had to earn my own living since I was thirteen years old. I suppose I should have had more sense. You’re no better or worse than the ladies here this afternoon. Why should you be? You’re only human.”
Her eyes shifted a little. She tried to maintain her air of indignation.
“We’ll be murdered in our beds!” wailed the witless Edith. “Come on, Auntie.”
“Are you a coward, afraid of children, Mrs. Burnsdale?” asked Dr. Stevens, seeing a faint hope now.
But Johnny was speaking quietly. “You’ve heard of concentration camps, Mrs. Burnsdale? Well, those children came from there. They’re orphans. Their parents have been killed. I taught them a little English, over ten months. They don’t remember where they were born, or to whom. Why, the hungriest, dirtiest kid in Harlem, living in the worst tenement, has had a happy life compared with them! Are you a Christian, Mrs. Burnsdale?”
Shaken, she blinked her eyes. “I think I am, sir.”
Edith was wailing. Her aunt turned on her abruptly. “Stop that, you idiot.” She turned back to Johnny. He reached out and put his hand on her sturdy shoulder. She made as if to step back, then did not.
“We need you, Auntie,” he said, and his face was all strong sweetness again. “Just for a few days. I can’t manage to feed these kids by myself. Just cook for them. Keep knives away from them—”
“Knives!” whimpered Edith.
“I’ll be around, all the time,” said Johnny, after Mrs. Burnsdale had thrown a devastating glance at her niece. “They won’t bother you.”
“I’m going home,” said Edith. Everyone ignored her. Even when she shifted timorously toward the door, no one noticed.
“Let me tell you about Max, the second boy,” said Johnny. “He speaks only English. He doesn’t remember that at one time he spoke German. Only in nightmares. He doesn’t remember anything, except in nightmares. Do you know what happened to Max, when he was probably about six years old? I heard the story, when he was asleep. The Nazis, who had him and his father in a concentration camp together, came to them one night and told them that tomorrow one of them would be hanged, and one of them would be forced to hang the other.”
Mrs. Burnsdale put her gloved hand to her lips, and over it her eyes were aghast. “Yes,” said Johnny, nodding. “And the father persuaded the little boy that he must be the one to have a chance of living. And so, the next day, with the help of a storm trooper, that little boy, young enough to be your grandson, was made to hang his father. That is why Max is dumb. That’s why he washes his hands all the time—he’s trying to wash them clean of killing his father. He doesn’t remember the hanging; he only remembers he did something terrible, poor baby.”
He half turned from the appalled woman. “So sometimes he asks me, ‘Papa, is that you?’ And I always say, ‘Yes, my son.’ And that helps. You see, Max is quite often on the point of losing what mind he has left, after the nightmares.”
Mrs. Burnsdale began to cry. It was a curious sight; her big face worked, and then there were the tears, and she was fishing in her bag. “I—I can’t believe—such things,” she stammered.
“They’re quite true,” said Johnny. “Jean remembers the concentration camp quite well, in his own nightmares. He is probably a French boy, and in his dreams he speaks French. You ought to hear him some night! His parents were killed slowly before him. He tried to help his mother; a storm trooper attempted to kick him to death too. That’s why he’s crippled. That’s why he is so wild, and hates people. That’s why Jean killed, too, when he had a chance. But that was for food, and the man he killed was a lone Austrian soldier, standing on guard, after we Americans got in there. You see, the man had his lunch with him. Jean doesn’t remember killing the soldier. All he remembers is that there was a time when he had to revenge his mother, and get food, with a knife. And he still has the idea, far back in his mind, that he must kill or be killed. Not now, not all the time, especially when he is awake. Just when he is off guard, and when he dreams.”
“Oh, God be merciful to us!” said Mrs. Burnsdale in a muffled voice.
“I hope He will be,” said Johnny with simplicity. “We need His mercy.”
“I just can’t stand listening to this!” shrilled Edith.
“And there is Pietro. I think he is an Italian boy. His parents were killed in a bombing raid on his little home in Italy. American bombers. He had an older brother. He told me about it, one night when he was more than half asleep. The Nazis, when they retreated from Italy, took the brother as a slave worker, and somehow he smuggled Pietro with him. Perhaps, in order to save the child from starvation, he offered to be a spy. I don’t know; we’ll never know. Anyway, they ended up in a concentration camp. Pietro’s brother, Vittorio, evidently was too good an Italian to betray his country. The storm troopers had great fun with Vittorio one night. They killed him carefully, and without any hurry at all, with their knives, and Pietro saw it. So a knife means vendetta to Pietro; he wants knives so he can stab the men who murdered his brother. And to poor little Pietro, everyone who wears a uniform, including me, is somehow tied up with storm troopers in his child’s mind, and a killer of his brother Vittorio.”
Johnny paused. His voice had been very quiet, and its very quietness and lack of emotion had a fearful impact. Mrs. Burnsdale made no comment; her eyes were closed tightly and beneath her eyelids the tears streamed down.
Johnny went on, “Pietro’s a very, very bright boy. He loves colors and music. He thinks. I expect he’ll be a great artist someday. He’s more dangerous than Jean, though he’s younger. Jean hates openly; Pietro smiles, and hates in his heart. I have to watch Pietro all the time; he thinks every adult, especially any man, is his enemy, and had a part in killing his brother.” John
ny rubbed his hands over his face again. “Sometimes I wonder if Pietro isn’t right.”
Edith had gained more courage. “If you don’t come right away, Auntie, I’m going alone. You’ve heard what Mr. Fletcher says himself. Dangerous. Knives! There’s the cab waiting.”
Mrs. Burnsdale turned slowly to her niece and impaled her with her light-gray eyes. “If you dare leave this house,” she began. Johnny and Dr. Stevens exchanged a quick smile. Johnny said, “Let Edith go, Mrs. Burnsdale. We don’t want anyone around the children who doesn’t understand and pity them. And Edith’s right: if she shows the children she’s afraid of them, why, like all wild things, they’ll give her cause to be afraid!”
Edith fled, snatching up her suitcase. They heard the banging of the door outside. The children were making strange noises in the kitchen—unrelated words, slurred phrases, grunts, little squeals, then silence.
Johnny took Mrs. Burnsdale’s short thick arm and gently seated her. She sat like a boulder, still weeping, but still indomitable. There was an air of resolution about her as she waited for Johnny to speak again. He said, “It sounds like a zoo, doesn’t it? Well, the children have learned English from me, and so, just as very young children try to communicate with each other with a limited vocabulary, these five try to communicate. But it’s a funny thing. I can talk quickly in English to them, and I often think they understand more than seems possible.”
He wiped Mrs. Burnsdale’s wet cheeks with his own handkerchief. She did not move, and only waited.
“There’s Kathy,” he said. “She thinks she’s ugly; she was told that. She thinks she’ll have to die, because she’s ugly. She steals mirrors. Who knows what Kathy thinks, besides that? I don’t. She must have come from a competent family, either German or Dutch or Danish. From the way she acts sometimes, I don’t think she spent too long a time in a concentration camp. She’s too neat and efficient, and likes to domineer and take care of the younger children. So it’s my opinion she was the oldest daughter of a young family, and her mother’s helper. Middle-class people. Kathy doesn’t talk in her sleep, except about her ‘ugliness’ and mirrors. She never mentions her parents, or anyone else. But all her family must have died. Incidentally, Kathy has a long burn scar on her lower back, eight inches wide. Sometimes I wonder whether Kathy escaped, in some way, from a crematorium. You see, she’s very much afraid of fire. The only time I’ve seen her hysterical is when she sees a flame, and there are times when I strike a match and she goes to pieces.”
A Tender Victory Page 5