Blood ran down Wilhelm’s arm and off his fingertips. His right arm trembled from the pain. He lifted his left to reclaim his helmet that had been knocked off. A second shot ripped into the concrete, creating a small puff of smoke. Bits of rock shrapnel ripped into Wilhelm’s back. He was in the scope of a sniper.
He crawled into a crevasse between the two heaps of rubble filled with concrete and corpses. Russian voices came from both sides above. Wilhelm’s rifle was out of the pit, and he only had a Luger P08 pistol he had taken from a fallen German—its eight shots not nearly enough for the number of voices. The voices grew louder. Wilhelm pulled one of the Soviet corpses onto him and sprawled his arms out and placed the Soviet face-down on the concrete rubble in an attempt to conceal himself. Men jumped into the pit, their boots grinding rock as they landed. They kicked German bodies and prodded them with the end of their rifles to check if any were still alive. A shot rang out, and a man yelled at the shooter. It was unwise to waste ammunition on the dead. The voices grew quieter as the men climbed out of the crevasse and dashed away. The immediate threat was gone. But somewhere in the upper floors of a building was a sure-handed sharpshooter.
Wilhelm’s entire hand was covered in blood, and it was easy to see why the Soviets thought he was dead. He brought his finger to the source of his pain. “Fuck,” he said, grimacing. The sun had set, but the city itself was cast in firelight and flames. He needed to get out of the street. But was he clear of the sniper’s scope?
He grabbed a helmet and a rifle from one of the dead, first checking it for ammo—empty. He placed the helmet on the end of the rifle and raised it out of the cratered pit. When no shots were fired at it, he took his chance. He crawled toward the apartment building to his right and, after he was inside, pulled himself to his feet. He used the banister as support to climb up the stairs. Climbing up one flight was hard enough, but for that reason, the upper floors were the safest. His right arm hung limp, and he used his left to aid his weakening legs. He stumbled inside a room and collapsed against the wall. The room was vacant, and anything left behind had been destroyed. Wilhelm pulled his knapsack off his back and looked for something he could use to stop the bleeding. Although the wound was far from his heart, a great thing, the threat of bleeding out was real. He found a small packet of sulfa powder. He ripped open the packet using his teeth and sprinkled the white powder onto his chest. It would aid in preventing an infection.
Wilhelm kept his hand on his pistol, but as he sat there with the pain and fatigue sweeping over him, his blinks grew further apart until his eyes could not open. Stalingrad was the last place for one to fall asleep. It seemed impossible one could. The gunshots alone should have been loud enough to prevent it and, with the artillery and mortar rounds, it was enough to wake the dead. Yet, it was a scurrying mouse that woke Wilhelm, and it only took an instant for him to realize where he was. It was frightening he had been able to sleep in such an environment. How close had he been to being discovered or killed? Yet, if he was to die during this battle or outside it, dying in his sleep was the best way to go.
The mouse stood on its hind legs, sniffing the air before it dashed away. A blast of artillery fire erupted, and the dividing wall between apartments exploded. Wilhelm coughed from the smoke and concrete dust that filled his lungs. His cough echoed. But as the smoke and dust settled, Wilhelm realized it was not an echo. It was a different cough. There was a man in the other room. Wilhelm reached for his pistol and raised it. The man’s uniform was covered in blood, white dust, and grime, but there was no mistaking the uniform of a Soviet soldier. The Soviet too raised his pistol.
They shouted at each other in German and Russian to put their gun down. They held their pistols outstretched for so long that Wilhelm felt like he was no longer holding a 1.92-pound gun but a 42-pound cannonball. He breathed heavily, knowing his life hung in the balance. Every single fiber of his being told him to fire but one—a small, faint voice that reminded Wilhelm the Soviet had yet to fire. Wilhelm’s hand trembled, and he could no longer hold the gun up. His arm fell limp to his side.
The Soviet stared at him blankly. Though he did not lower his gun, he appeared less certain now. Wilhelm closed his eyes. His body twitched, waiting for the bullet. He let Hannah’s face fill his mind. His breathing escalated while he waited and waited, but the shot did not come. He cautiously opened his eyes. The Soviet too had lowered his gun. The two sat and stared at each other through the rubble and dust. Moonlight trickled in, but it would be impossible to react quickly enough should one decide to fire. Water dripped from parts of the ceiling. The battle outside had quieted down slightly, but distant gunfire and artillery could still be heard.
The Soviet had not moved in minutes but raised his hand. Wilhelm reached for his pistol, but the Soviet pointed to the ceiling and spoke in his native Russian. Wilhelm tipped over his hands to show he did not understand a single word of it. The Soviet nodded and put the tips of his fingers together horizontally and brought them down. Wilhelm looked up at the ceiling. With the faint light, the cracks in the ceiling were visible, which combined with the water dripping from it, he was able to gather what the Soviet was trying to tell him.
“Can I come over there?” Wilhelm asked, pointing to himself and then to the other room.
He discretely holstered the pistol and rose to his feet with his hands clearly visible. The Soviet looked uneasy as Wilhelm approached. He had his hand on his gun but did not raise it. Wilhelm crawled over the destroyed wall and slid down the rubble. The movement had increased his pain, and he collapsed against the wall. The Soviet had a tall frame and sported a week-old beard, and even amongst all the dirt and dried blood, he was still handsome. The Soviet’s black eyes went to his hands clutching his stomach.
“Are you hurt?” Wilhelm asked, pointing to the Soviet’s stomach.
The Soviet removed his hand. A shard of glass, three-inches long, stuck out of his stomach. He nodded to Wilhelm. Wilhelm pulled the neck of his shirt down to show his own wound. It was clear to Wilhelm why the Soviet had not shot. He was in the same pain and predicament as Wilhelm. The Soviet reached into his knapsack. Wilhelm shot his hand toward his pistol. But the reaction was unneeded. The Soviet removed two small disposable syrettes. He poked one of the needles into his stomach and tossed the second one to Wilhelm. It was morphine to help numb the pain.
Wilhelm shook from the excruciating pain, and the area around the wound throbbed. He took the syrette and stabbed the needle into his skin, close to the wound. His chest had been chewed on by Cerebos, the hellhound of the underworld. But the beast fell to an unexpected slumber from the strum of a harp or, in this case, a needle. A feeling of relaxation spread over Wilhelm.
“What is your name? I am Wilhelm Schreiber,” Wilhelm said.
“Alexander Kozlovsky,” the Soviet said.
“Thank you for the morphine,” Wilhelm said, holding up the syrette, hoping it would help translate.
Alexander nodded before his eyes fell to the shard of glass protruding from his stomach. Wilhelm used his arms to crawl toward Alexander to examine the wound.
“We have to pull it out,” Wilhelm said. His motioning hands were impossible to lose in translation.
Alexander nodded and dug into his knapsack and removed a pack of gauze and put the strap of the knapsack in his mouth and bit down. Wilhelm grabbed the edge of the glass and carefully pulled it out. If he went too fast, he could cause further damage if the shard was caught on any tissue or muscle or, worse, slice a vein or artery. The further the glass was removed, the more blood spilled from Alexander. Wilhelm tossed the glass aside and pressed the gauze against the wound. The shard was roughly an inch wide, and nearly half of it was covered in blood. Wilhelm reached into his own knapsack and removed another packet of sulfa powder and ripped it open. He waited for Alexander to nod his approval. The Soviet did so with a deep breath. Wilhelm lifted the gauze, and the blood wasted no time in embracing the opportunity to drain out of his body. Wilhelm poured the powder
onto the wound and pressed the gauze back onto it. Alexander nodded at Wilhelm’s chest. He kept his left hand on his own wound and used his right hand to examine Wilhelm’s. He searched for an exit wound but found none. Alexander used the last of the gauze and pressed it against Wilhelm’s wound. The morphine had made Wilhelm more relaxed than he was before being drafted. It disconnected him from his body and the pain it felt.
Was Alexander in the same situation as Wilhelm—forced to fight a war he did not want? Yet, Alexander fought to defend his family and his home. Wilhelm knew he and the German army were the evil force in this battle.
The deep relaxation Wilhelm had fallen into increased exponentially until it was impossible for him to keep his eyes open. But the moment the harp of morphine stopped playing, the three-headed beast awoke and tore at his chest.
Alexander’s head rested on his own shoulder, but he awoke when Wilhelm’s foot scraped against the concrete pebbles. Alexander reached into his knapsack and removed a silver flask. He gave an innocent smile before taking a swig. His grimace told Wilhelm it was not water. Alexander spoke again, and he held the flask out for Wilhelm to take. Wilhelm took it and repeated Alexander’s words in Russian. He had an idea of what was in the flask, but after taking a swig, he was absolutely sure. The liquid fire burned on its way down his throat, and his chest exploded with napalm. It was Russian vodka. How stereotypical the Russian would have vodka. Wilhelm was unable to break stereotype. He reached into his bag and removed a bar of German chocolate. He had been saving the bar for months. He wanted to wait until the day he found out he was going home. But there had been so many instances where he truly thought the war could be coming to a stand-still only to have it escalate elsewhere, and dying with an uneaten chocolate bar was sinful. So, Wilhelm opened the chocolate bar, broke it in half, and gave one half to Alexander.
“German chocolate,” Wilhelm said.
“German chocolate,” Alexander repeated.
He toasted his half to Wilhelm before taking a bite. It was the best bit of food either of them had had in months. The chocolate was creamy, rich, and smooth. It must have been the first time Alexander had had German chocolate, and it appeared to be a borderline sexual experience.
Wilhelm searched his knapsack for more food. He liked to save rations, as he never knew when they would come in handy, and now was that time. But it was his only chocolate bar. The rest was army rations of rye bread and legumes.
A slow, drawn-out creek filled the room and, less than a second later, the ceiling in the other room, the one Wilhelm had taken refuge in originally, collapsed. Alexander held an imaginary nail and hammer in his hand and struck the two together. Wilhelm took it to mean Alexander had built similar buildings before becoming a soldier. Wilhelm too tried charading his career by putting his hands on an invisible wheel and mimicking using a shifter. He removed four five-by-seven photographs and flipped through them and showed Alexander a picture of him and Hannah in front of the 1935 Mercedes-Benz 500K convertible. Alexander spoke, and Wilhelm could only assume he was asking who the woman was. Even if he had asked a car question, Wilhelm would rather talk about Hannah. It rejuvenated his motivation to get home.
“My wife, Hannah,” Wilhelm said.
Alexander said only one word after he dug free a photo from his pocket. It was faded, torn, and dirty. The photo showed Alexander next to a woman with black hair and a baby in her arms. He spoke as he pointed to the people in the picture. Wilhelm could pick out the words Helen and Victor and was able to figure out the rest. He nodded with a smile to show he understood. From the same pocket, Alexander removed a small rectangular card. Though it looked different and was in a different language, Wilhelm knew what the card was. Wilhelm removed his own conscription card. Alexander nodded. Perhaps, it was another reason he had shown Wilhelm compassion and mercy.
Though Alexander hated to waste his vodka, he made sure to pour some over his wound in an attempt to help stop the infection from spreading. He grimaced before offering the flask. Wilhelm grabbed it, poured some over his bullet wound, and took a small sip. There was not much left, and he thought it would be rude if he finished it.
Both were far away from the blasted-apart opening, but it did not drown out the sound of relentless firing. Alexander spoke. Though Wilhelm could only guess what he had said, Alexander had said it with a poignant somberness. Wilhelm could only think of one sentence—hell has risen. It was no longer below him. It was not a punishment for the unrighteous. Somewhere atop one of the few still-standing buildings in Stalingrad, the devil was laughing at the carnage and chaos of the battle below. Alexander had not asked for the war. He had not deserved it—nor had Wilhelm, nor had the millions of men who had been put into the inferno. The painter Dante and his painting Inferno came to his mind. Dante spoke of hell being divided into levels—nine of them. But the Battle of Stalingrad had descended past what Dante imagined hell to be. It was all that and more. The ground was littered with the dead and dying. Soldiers covered with black dirt and white concrete dust crawled and limped, looking for help, leaving a trail of crimson blood in their wake.
Alexander turned to look at Wilhelm. The horrors of what he had seen reflected off his black eyes. But there was pleading in them as well. Alexander pointed to the picture as a whole and spoke one poignant word. Wilhelm understood. Alexander wanted to return to his wife and son. He wanted to leave the war behind. He simply wanted to go home.
“Home,” Wilhelm said, pointing to the photo of Hannah.
Wilhelm had always considered Erich his best friend. But the two were different people. Erich had eagerly signed up and become a member of the SS. Heinrich had not been eager for war, just like Wilhelm, but he was a soul who could not remain complacent. He had a permanent feeling of being unsatisfied. It was not only in respect to the number of women he had dated. It was much more complex than that. He struggled to find where he belonged. Aaron had been much more sophisticated than any of Wilhelm’s other friends. But he had even more grand plans than Heinrich. He really wanted to change the world. Höring and Jonas were polar opposites of each other, and it was Wilhelm who had brought the two together. He identified with them in certain things, Höring more so, and even though they were the same age, Höring was much “younger” than Wilhelm. But with Alexander, Wilhelm had found his exact match—a carbon copy of his very essence. Alexander did not want to change the world. He did not have ideas of glory, and he knew where he belonged. He belonged with his wife, Helen, and their son, Viktor. It was all he wanted. It was for that reason Wilhelm bonded with Alexander on a level he had never done with anyone apart from Hannah. It did not need conversation. They were two men, amongst millions, who had been tricked into entering Hades’ underworld. They had dived into the pool of souls, and after entering Hades’ domain, he never let you leave.
Wilhelm was jealous Alexander had been able to have a child with the love of his life. Helen had a son to love and raise. He had left Hannah alone.
Wilhelm’s shoulder and chest throbbed, and his hand trembled. With Alexander’s help, they had been able to reduce the amount of blood loss. But he still bled, and the wound needed to be cleaned and sealed. The same was true for Alexander. He bit his lip and groaned whenever he moved. Both were now unable to stand to piss in the corner. Instead, they simply rolled over to urinate. Both knew if they did not get medical aid, they would die. But the stairwell was covered with debris, and the other end of the building had received a bombardment of artillery. They were too far up to even consider jumping from the gaping hole in the wall. Even if the fall did not kill them, there was a likelihood their legs would break and an almost guarantee of an onslaught of gunfire.
A thought came or, rather, more of a story than a thought—stories of legendary warriors who cauterized their wounds. It was extremely painful and could lead to infection. But it would buy him and Alexander days, if not a week. But how could he communicate it to Alexander? He pulled out his knife and pressed the blade against his stom
ach and groaned and tapped the steel with his finger and acted like it was hot. Alexander nodded. Both looked through their packs for something to burn. Alexander removed his lighter, and together they were able to put enough paper in Alexander’s tin cup to cover the entire blade of the knife in flame.
Wilhelm removed his last two syrettes of morphine. He poked one into Alexander’s skin, allowing time for it to travel over his body and a feeling of euphoria to take over. Alexander took off his belt and folded it over. He would bite down on it to prevent himself from biting his tongue. Wilhelm used his canteen to collect the water dripping from the ceiling above them and doused the wound with water in a last attempt to clean it before he counted down with his fingers. Alexander took deep breaths and put the belt in his mouth and bit down, his fingers squeezing it. Wilhelm grabbed the knife. The silver steel had transformed into a fluorescent orange. Alexander took a final deep breath and closed his eyes. Wilhelm pressed the blade against Alexander’s wound. The skin hissed like a snake as the skin seared together. Wilhelm pulled the knife away. Alexander spat the belt out and let out a word that Wilhelm could only guess was “fuck.” Wilhelm allowed Alexander to steady his breathing and the initial trauma to fade and used the last syrette of morphine on himself.
The knife was back inside the tin cup. The flames danced up and reflected glimmers of silver off it. Alexander handed the belt to Wilhelm, and he wrapped it around his knuckles. Alexander nodded. The knife was now a glowing orange again. He poured the water down Wilhelm’s chest to remove both the dried and fresh blood, and then he grabbed the knife from the tin cup.
Wilhelm brought the belt to his mouth and bit down. He had set the photo of Hannah against his knapsack, and he concentrated his gaze upon it. The excruciating pain the knife would bring was to buy more time—more time to return to Hannah.
The knife glowed as Alexander brought it toward him. The pain felt like the devil himself had placed a finger upon his flesh. It sizzled and seared. He bit through the leather and squeezed the belt with trembling hands. Even with the dose of morphine, it had been almost worse than being shot. At least the bullet had come by surprise. But to see the glow of the fiery blade slowly approach his flesh had made it worse. Wilhelm raised his canteen to his mouth, his hands shaking so greatly that the water inside splashed out.
Forever Fleeting Page 28