An Army of Ants (Part 5)

And while I sit here now, sealed in this study, behind a locked door, I can no longer stem these thoughts. These ideas and memories, they are caught in the erratic drifts of my mind. I write in an uncertain hand; trying to capture my impressions, hoping to make sense of nonsense. The words I compose are barely legible — they do no justice to the subject at hand. They barely crack the surface. But I stubbornly stay the course, just as I follow my life through to its conclusion. My elbows lean heavily on the desk. It is peculiar, but I don’t even seek to understand my purpose here anymore. I am simply vomiting up a sickness — hoping the nausea will finally leave me, once and for all.

But what does hope achieve?

The wrist of my writing hand is sore and cramped, the joints inflamed by my confession. And yet, the discomfort urges me on — like a whip to a draft horse. Everything about this wretched confession is uncomfortable, but it does not stop me. Nothing can stop me now that I have started. My back is stooped and hunched over this journal. Even my eyes have trouble deciphering the words through my reading glasses.

I ask myself why I bother — especially so late in the game.

Some paragraphs are wrenched painfully from within, like removing splinters of glass from my flesh. While others fall from me like dead leaves yielding to the inevitable. Finally they are released from their protective branches. I can only wonder how they will they fare out there, all alone, blowing about in the open?

I scribble page after page — a flurry of activity. These words must be removed from me. They must be expunged and released from their imprisonment. For far too long they have been confined in their self-made prison. But they are restless now. Their escape seems inevitable. I write like dragging a knife through flesh, etching this tainted confession in black ink onto the paper.

I can only obey the inner voice . . .

. . . I have only ever obeyed.

* * * * * * * *


For hours on end, as I have written, I have paused to stare at the family photos sitting before me. My parents, my wife, my son and grandson — all captured between the frames sitting on my desk. Is it to them I write? I look gradually from one to the other. Being dragged into different times and different places. Going back 20 years here, or 60 years there. Three generations of a single German family. My betrayal of their trust an immense weight on my shoulders, curving my spine like a bow. I wonder how many more families are out there like mine. How many more guilt-ridden grandfathers in this great land of war criminals and supposedly reformed National Socialists.

In one photograph, I see my father and mother in their youth, posing formally in an cheap studio. They wear morbid expressions. In grainy black and white, my father’s eyes bore into me. Sitting in a cane chair with his chest full and his chin up. His lips are pursed with his trademark solemnity. And above them droops a bushy moustache in the style of old. His cold black eyes glare at me — unflinching — as if penetrating my soul from the grave.

To think, when those eyes targeted me as a child I always looked away. My father’s overwhelming strength personified in their glint. I would sit in awe, insignificant in the presence of the great professor pondering me like a scientist. If only he knew what I had done. His closest friends at the Academy were Jewish. When they were stripped of their positions and deported I had overheard him cursing Hitler in hushed tones. But then, he was always smart enough to speak quietly indoors and stay silent outdoors. In fact, he was always smart full-stop. The more I look at him, the more it looks like he wants to leap from the chair and beat me from his house. I study the hands that occasionally slapped me as a child. They appear smaller now than I remember them, clasped in his lap, the knuckles a white blur.

Yes . . . I am certain he would beat me if he could.

And then, there is the image of my mother. She stands dutifully at my father’s side, one hand on his shoulder. She is beautiful — her blonde hair pulled back from a noble forehead. Wearing a simple black dress that hugs her youthful figure. Her slender forearms are exposed, the flesh a pure white that seems to glimmer with a faint glow. Her painted lips are pouted and she gazes at the camera firmly. She appears to be questioning me, accusing me. I want to apologise — to beg her for forgiveness. My face feels flushed by the urge to cry. But my eyes are incapable of such a response. I can only blink dryly. I cry . . . although I cry without releasing any anguish.

And what of my Anna? One of the photos shows us on our wedding day, way back in 1946. Arm-in-arm, we smile for the camera, dressed in all our finery. Another black and white print showing two lovers in their youth. A couple who have momentarily forgotten their pain.

The photograph returns a multitude of pleasant memories racing back to the forefront of my mind. But once there, they only create sadness. They are memories of moments lost forever. My mind attempts to recreate the pleasure of those days, but I cannot relive the lost time the photo portrays. A few days where the painful memories vanished and I fell greedily into Anna’s goodness.

Of course, it was inevitable . . . those days were numbered, right from the very start.

I lived alone from the moment I returned home from the war. Barely existing in my parent’s house, brooding in solitary confinement. The pair of them had fled west from the Russian advance that never arrived, and they had perished in the process. I never learnt how they met their end. They were simply two more souls added to the list of war-dead, never to be seen again. Two entries in a register — my mother’s name following my father’s — signalling that they had at least died together.

The day I returned to this very house, I was confronted with their last moments. I was a month too late. Everywhere I looked I could see their heritage and the impressions they had left. Their unmade bed, the smell of my father’s pipe, a mouldy meal half-eaten at the kitchen table. It was obvious they had left in a hurry, fearful of the approaching armies. Knowing Germany’s enemies would reap their revenge. Maybe even assuming that their son was no longer of the living.

I cried for days on end, seeing the open cupboards from which they had hurriedly packed their most important belongings. I recreated the scene in my mind. I saw images of them rushing nervously to escape the oncoming wrath — my father still looking the defiant Bavarian, brimming over with pride and common sense. While my mother’s face was shaken and grey — sweating fear from its very pores.

I knew the dread she must have felt, the unknown possibilities that awaited her. I can imagine her trying to ignore the fear that ate away at her sub-conscious. Like a grub it would have chewed through her defences, sneaking into her heart, quickening its beat. Making its way into her belly, consuming her appetite and leaving her stomach knotted. I had felt the same sensations at the front. The unknown, the smell of death heavy and sweet in the air. Not knowing if it was your turn to taste it and gratify the unseen, yet determined Reaper.

And at the time, I couldn’t cope with these thoughts. I felt responsible for my parent’s demise. My poor mother . . . the personification of innocence. She didn’t deserve to die like that . . . in that pointless war. She had never supported it . . . nor the National Socialists . . . nor the Kaiser in the war of her own generation.

But then, the war did not wait for us to choose sides or sit on the fence. The war itself chose for us. A line on a map made you an aggressor. A gene in your veins made you a victim.

The day I returned, my neighbours visited with some bread and a little butter. They told me of my parent’s deaths. And while they hadn’t seen their bodies, they were part of the same stream of refugees driving ever westwards. They told me of the planes that strafed them and chaos that ensued. They told me of both their sons, friends from my childhood, who were killed fighting in the east.

And from the moment they left me to myself, my grip on sanity almost completely collapsed. I took my parent’s remaining clothes, letters and personal belongings out into the back yard and doused them in kerosene. I lit a match and burnt them all — hoping to burn them from my memory. I created a fiery tomb to honour their past, and remove their existence from my mind. But it was to no avail. It was a hollow gesture. As the flames rose, licking the lower limbs of the chestnut tree, my mind still remembered. Even now, looking from the small window above this desk I can see the same chestnut tree in the corner of the yard. It stands defiantly; a constant reminder of that day; a witness to all that has passed.

* * * * * * * *

During those first few weeks, all alone in this empty house, I could not sleep. I thought myself nearer and nearer to oblivion. I suffered through the endless revolutions of my mind. Rehashing old ideas and painful memories. Immersing myself in the depths of my regrets or the shallows of past pleasures. Thousands of thoughts tumbled down the valleys and crevices of my brain, gathering momentum and strength like an unstoppable avalanche.

They devoured me — these thoughts. They swallowed all my rational restraints. I could hear the screams of despair echoing in my ears. Coming ever closer as each day progressed and another took its place. And yet, for some strange reason, the last fragile thread of my sanity held firm, stretched to its limit, but desperately hanging on. It was a single rope that barely sustained the bridge over the abyss.

A single word repeated itself to me. Over and over it sounded itself out. Like I was voicing it to myself without parting my lips. I tried to ignore it, but as the days and weeks passed it grew louder and more urgent. Until finally I actually spoke it out aloud, without thinking. It was just a whisper but the effect was more than a scream. Even now, the words strike me cold.

"Suicide." I said to myself.

And despite my fear, this single word became a consoling thought. A possibility that brought an oddly cold comfort. A knowledge that the pain of my existence could be switched off on a whim, whenever I made up my mind. And when the whispers became shouts, I could always look to it to draw me back towards life.

A few times even, I placed the barrel of my revolver in my mouth. Cocking the hammer with trembling hands. The sharp click amplified in my ears — the loudest sound one could ever imagine. I would taste the bitter metal and feel its solidity clunk against my teeth. I would even push my tongue down inside the barrel and imagine the bullet cutting it in two.

But then, I could never bring myself to follow through. I would bite the barrel so hard I even chipped a tooth. I would scream until my lungs burnt. And always, my hands were made of stone, immovable on the trigger. It was simply an order I could not obey. So, after another struggle with death, I would finally return the gun to the desk drawer. Locking it away in the darkness where it still sleeps, even to this day, still waiting patiently for me to reach back in there and finish the job.

Yes, I could pull the trigger to kill countless others, but to fire upon myself seemed impossible. I was unable to face my demons — the fear of death was too strong to overcome. I could stand on the precipice that overlooked the unknown depths below, but could never take the final step. One small movement on a trigger that would send me plummeting down.

One small moment of decisiveness . . . one small moment of disobedience.

* * * * * * * *

An Army of Ants (Part 4)

I am no longer fooled when the memories appear to be losing their edge. While they are occasionally dulled by the grinding-stone of time, eventually something is bound to happen once more, sharpening them again. Maybe it is the smell of diesel fuel or burning timber. Maybe the taste of stale bread or the sound of Russian’s talking. Seemingly innocuous, everyday incidents, but incidents that act as hair-triggers nonetheless. Incidents accompanied by memories so vivid the war reemerges in all its terrible detail. These ordinary events are anchored defiantly to the dark thoughts that will not die. In fact, even catching sight of a single serrated birch leaf is enough to quicken my heart and impede my breathing. In the space of a millisecond, the leaf becomes a tree, the tree a forest and the forest an improvised execution ground.

* * * * * * * *

There are also more obvious reminders that occasionally make themselves felt. But unlike the vague triggers mentioned above I speak now of actual links to my past. Connections that appear just when I’m almost convinced they’ve been severed forever. Usually, they are links without subtlety. They aren’t symbols, hints or metaphors. The reminders I refer to are pieces of undeniable evidence that prosecute me in my own private courtroom.

Like the letter that arrived some years ago.

I was standing at our gate, leafing through the day’s mail, when I noticed a hand-addressed envelope among the regular bills and useless junk one receives. It was just an envelope — nondescript, plain and apparently harmless. But when I put on my reading glasses, deciphered the writing on the back and confirmed the sender’s name, this envelope became far from harmless.

In that moment, as they say, time stood still. All my senses seized and my saliva fast evaporated in my mouth. I read the name repeatedly, letting it sink into my mind like a red-hot bayonet.

Josef Becker — a name I had almost forgotten, having gone unspoken for so many years. Josef Becker — a comrade from the war. Josef Becker — another murderer, just like me.

And in that instant, a thousand thoughts rampaged between my ears. Sounds, sights, smells and ideas; all raging inside my skull like a violent stampede. For a second, I was almost overcome by the sudden reappearance of my friend. For a second, I thought I was close to death, my heart pumped so desperately.

But, eventually, I calmed myself down. I read the name again as if for a final confirmation. I may have even whispered it out loud. Joseph Becker — a budding farmer who had exchanged his pitchfork for a rifle, leaving his cows and his geese behind to become part of our group. We had been close friends during the war — inseparable in fact. We had gotten drunk together. We had swum naked in the Dnieper together. We had visited brothels together. We had been drawn to each other like two magnets sinking in a sea of blood. But by war’s end, the magnets that had once attracted us, repelled us like polar opposites.

To my mind, our friendship was forever interwoven with the war and could not readjust itself to peacetime. Immediately after the surrender, the fine thread of our relationship succumbed to the stronger fibres of our crimes. The few good memories were strangled by the bad. And while I know we laughed once, my mind cannot embrace the warm emotions we once felt for each other.

At that moment, looking at his neat writing on the back of that envelope, I recalled fragments of our past together. And no matter how I looked at it, I no longer saw ourselves as friends, but only as accomplices.

Later, when I had withdrawn to my study and locked the door behind me, I opened the envelope and finally discovered its contents. What I found can only be called absurd. It was an invitation. A folded card, decorated in gold leaf with my name printed in gothic script across the front. I opened it sheepishly and stared in shock at my unit’s insignia. The more I read, the more my heart trembled. I couldn’t quite believe it, even though the facts were reflected in my eyes. It was an invitation to a get-together in the capital — a reunion of the survivors from our unit.

To be blunt, it was an invitation to a meeting of murderers, their spouses and their children if they so chose to bring them. One last hurrah before we were all shipped off to the Devil himself. And all I could do was destroy it. I burnt it in the bin beneath my desk. Watching the flames consume the evidence — curling the paper and blackening it into a fragile skeleton. And as I prodded the remains with my cane until it crumbled into a fine dust, I knew that wouldn’t be the end of it. My experience in such matters had taught me much more than that.

For days afterward, thoughts of Josef and the war plagued my mind. They crept stealthily into my conscious unwilled, before they suddenly leapt at me from all sides. Repressed memories sneaking to the forefront of my thoughts as I pottered about the house or sat down to dinner with Anna. While I washed the dishes, one particular image of Josef came into focus that I hadn’t thought of since it actually happened. His pale face smiling at me over his shoulder as our artillery pounded Warsaw. Cheering ecstatically as a large apartment block collapsed in a crooked heap of bricks and twisted metal. I remember I was extremely frightened in that early stage of the war. And yet, Josef’s good-natured exuberance gave me a strange courage. Even though a dead Polish soldier was propped up against the low wall beside him. Still holding a rifle in his hands as if he were only sleeping. His guts forming a neat pink pile between his legs, the only sign things were otherwise.

But as I looked at this memory with hindsight, Josef no longer looked like a friend. He was simply a beast baring his fangs. Eager to cross the bridge and sink his bayonet into more innocent flesh. Thirsty for blood and adventure, just as I learnt to become in the weeks following the short-lived Polish campaign.

I stood in my study for almost an hour after I received Josef’s letter. And as I stared at the black dust in the bottom of the bin I imagined the reunion and shook my head in disbelief. What were we to say to each other? Were we supposed to sing those old songs in between gulps of wine and mouthfuls of mutton? Were we to reminisce on what we had done? It didn’t make any sense. Was I expected to speak freely on the war, accompanied by laughter and back-slapping? Maybe Becker would remind us of the Russian he shot unawares while he took a shit. Or maybe he would remind us of the peasant girl we raped in the cellar of a house in Belarus.

It was complete madness. I couldn’t understand what they wanted to find in the bombed-out villages, the lines of refugees, the flayed corpses and the endless suffering. Were we supposed to turn organised murder into tales of heroism so our children could one day repeat the same mistakes?

Couldn’t they just let me forget?

* * * * * * * *

And so it continues. The world moves relentlessly forward into the black void, leaving time further behind. Each second, taking us further along a mysterious line we cannot understand. A hiccup in the past that leaves a bitter echo, that will nonetheless eventually fade.

But then, for now, the minds that were there still remember. People still look inward and see a period lost, an impression left behind. Like a footprint stamped in their story that the seasons are gradually blowing away. And we hang on to the past even if it tortures us. We keep it alive as long as we can. Unforgotten and unforgiven. And some, those who experienced it are willing to speak. Their stories beg to be told. Their books and their interviews bear witness. The secret archives open up like rotting corpses, revealing the pestilent records inside and incriminating another person who had once seemed so squeaky clean. Rolls of film are replayed on our television screens. Blurred images of our victims crumpling into the pits. Skeletal men running naked to their death. Images with intervals of colourful ad-breaks pushing fancy cars and tasteless lingerie.

And my only solace is the knowledge that I at least will soon pass on. A constant reminder that my suffering will eventually end, if in fact Hell doesn’t exist. My shaky hands are covered with burst blood vessels and loose skin. The flesh already losing its life, in the process of decay. My demise in unstoppable presence that has trailed me since day one. I feel her fingertips massaging me, preparing me for her sweet darkness. The final path toward the end has been found, the journey already begun. My lungs are filled with fluid and my vision is long gone. My remaining hair no longer shows life. Its thin white strands dead a skeleton of the youthful brown it once was.

Yes, soon I will be put to ground — my family crying over my passing. Their tears will fall, just like the tears of my victims’ families. But I shall be gone and their sobs unable to penetrate my coffin. My ears will not hear and my eyes will no longer see. They will view me as I lay in wake, but I will no longer exist. Soon all who experienced that war will pass on. Criminals and victims alike, returning to the earth they once travelled upon. Their memories will be buried with them as they leave this world. Then, and only then will it be history. All that will remain are words on paper and images on film, just like these words I now write. Mere words — unable to recreate the truth clearly enough to stop other fools from thinking it a noble undertaking.

Unfortunately, to them it will seem just a simple story or an exciting action film. To the future it will be just a dream.

* * * * * * * *

If only you could experience my dreams. Nightmares that wake me with the sound of my own screams. Not knowing where I am for a moment, fearing I am still at the front.

Maybe if you could experience my nightmares, you could really understand the suffering I have endured for over 60 years. Even if it is a suffering deserved.

I often dream it is my son in the line of fire. Jürgen standing there exposed, in front of the pit. Some nights he is still a child and on others he is the man he has grown to be. But always, his face is pained and confused — accusing me. His trousers stained with urine, his cheeks tear-streaked. But still, I raise my rifle on order from the officer beside me. In my mind I am screaming, fighting, crying. My mind wills my body to disobey the order, but I have no control. I cannot stop my arms from bringing the rifle to my shoulder. I am helpless. The muscles are cramped. I battle painfully the process they are determined to complete. But to no avail. The young Infantryman goes through the motions, ignoring my pleas. Over and over, the same forest projects itself on the back of my mind. A constant replaying of my son’s final moments.

If Jürgen isn’t begging for mercy, he is scowling at my betrayal. Staring at me with an intense hatred. His lips quiver uncontrollably, the same as when he cried as a child. This is what I see as I look at him down the sites. Easing the barrel in line with his heart. My chest twisting and constricting painfully, my lungs burning. I hear the sounds of the forest. The trees creaking against each other, twigs snapping and leaves falling to the forest floor. With my rifle on target, I close my eyes, and grit my teeth. And in this forced darkness I wait for the order.

And of course, it eventually comes. FIRE. The words loud and clear, followed by the rifle fire which signals Jurgen’s death.

It is then that I always wake. Torn from an imaginary forest and returned to my bed. For a moment I lie caught between my past and my reality. Not yet fully woken — a few seconds of death pulsing through me. It is this moment when I am most afraid, when I am misplaced between worlds. Have I found hell? Am I a beast? In this state of momentary psychosis, removed from sleep or truth, I have killed my own son. I truly feel the dread of having killed my own flesh and blood.

And then slowly it fades and my pulse slows. Tears blur my sight, rolling off my eyelids and onto the pillow, one by one. The rifle report echoes in my ears. Yet, it is no longer real. The smell of gunpowder and fear is but an invention of my mind. My vision comes into focus and I find my bearings. I see Anna beside me. An undeserved love. Her eyes watching me without words. Can she see my tears? As I lie there, awash in the light of the moon, her arm moves to hold me. She edges in closer, her goodness soaking in. Resting her head against my shoulder, I feel unworthy of her concern. I flinch a little at her touch — unable to cope with what she offers. She comforts me without question, unaware that I have killed our son.

But like a child, I gradually succumb to the need for love. Lowering my fortifications and allowing Anna behind my walls. I sigh a deep breath, relieved that it was only a dream. With her arm lying loosely over me, I stare at the ceiling. Thankfully I am not on the Russian steppe — I am home. I inhale the various smells of our bedroom — calm and reassuring. The scent of my life, the womanly fragrance of Anna, the smells of my living and breathing flesh.

* * * * * * * *

An Army of Ants (Part 3)

At times, I remember so much from the war — too much even — and yet I can barely remember the faces of those I murdered. I do not understand it and so I no longer look for reasons. Maybe there were too many victims. Or else, maybe I just never really looked at their faces.

While I killed hundreds, myself alone, their faces and their identities are still a mystery. They merge into one another like grains of sand. Trying to recall them is like scanning the faces in a crowd. Only types and their associated incidents remain. Now, so long after the fact, I see old men with leathery skin and a stoic acceptance of what was coming. Some with white beards, others clean-shaven. I see the mothers, often hysterical and occasionally clutching babies. And then, I see the youngsters. Toddlers and teenagers. Their eyes bulging and their malnourished bodies shaking with fear. But they are only symbols. I can’t really remember them. I don’t see them. There were too many.

To me, they were simply men, women and children. No names. No stories. No identities. Just figures standing before me, waiting. Waiting like myself to hear the order to fire. The officers yelled words meaning completely different things to the executioners than to the condemned.

But I digress. None of this stops me remembering that they existed before I wiped them out.

Even now, as I write, I recall one man I shot who took several seconds to fall. It only happened one time. I fired and when my eyes opened, he was still there. His body rocking a little, stubbornly holding onto the life that seeped from the small hole in his chest. I also remember another, a Russian partisan who spoke fluent German. He cursed me right up until the final moment. His words still echo in my ears. "You will die too." he said, "Filthy murderer. You will die too."

He continued like that until I fired. Immediately, his voice evaporated. When my eyes opened, I could only see the cracked soles of his boots.

* * * * * * * *

Writing this pains me. If I could cry, I would. At times I even try to cry, but my eyes always stay dry.

But then, I am used to the memories now. I am used to the dull ache they cause me.

My mind wanders to and fro, from one memory to the other, unable to rest. I have lived an entire life since that cursed war, but my thoughts have never moved on. These recollections and more pile on top of each other like corpses, leaving me dizzy and nauseous. Sounds are replayed, like that of the bodies falling — their clothes scraping and the dull thuds. I hear the crackle of rifle fire or the sound of the children’s sobs. One youngster crying, setting off a chain reaction as the others join in. A gradual increase in volume, reaching a hellish crescendo until the shots fired once again.

Then all would be silent — or at least for a few moments.

Furthermore, if it isn’t those twisted sounds I hear, it is the visions of war I cannot help but see — the piles of dead, the armoured columns and the killing fields themselves. My memory is a photo album of epic proportions. I close my eyes and see a crooked barn, at the edge of a farm, that we converted into a tomb. We machine-gunned the occupants and tossed in a few grenades before burning it to the ground. I even see the icy field where we despatched a group of suspected Communists. The ground so frozen our victim’s struggled unsuccessfully to dig their own communal grave. Their shovels bounced off the surface, and skidded on the ice. We had laughed, my comrades and I, ordering them to try harder. But our amusement eventually subsided and we shot them helter-skelter, with pistols, rifles and machine guns. The small-arms fire popping like fire crackers and the Russians’ bodies spinning, crumpling and shuddering in clouds of exploding ice and snow.

There was a sick enjoyment involved in such acts. The laughter of the insane — I guess. But now, there is no pleasure in reliving my shame. I don’t even know why I write about it . . .

. . . to punish myself?

* * * * * * * *

It is strange, but while the thought of my death caused me no fear, I had an immense fear of seeing into the eyes of my victims. I never thought about it, I just didn’t do it. I avoided them like the limbs of lepers. It was as if their pupils were camera lenses capturing my crimes for eternity. I soon learned to keep my eyes averted from their accusatory stares. I looked at their chests, their bellies, their foreheads, but never their eyes. Their steely gazes were like the judgement of God bearing down upon me. I’m sure their eyes would have reflected the insanity of their deaths like shards of a shattered mirror.

Even now, I have brought this wartime habit into its peaceful aftermath. I rarely look at anyone directly, even my family. I avoid their eyes for all it’s worth. I wonder, am I afraid that they will see what lurks within me? Am I afraid that all the cliches about our eyes being windows to the soul are true?

Sometimes, I study my eyes in the mirror. I try to see inside them. But it doesn’t matter how long I stare — I can only see nothing.

* * * * * * * *

If you asked how many people I killed, I honestly couldn’t tell you. I imagine that once you lose count of such things, you are lost for good.

Every stooped figure I was ordered to shoot was eventually replaced by another. And I knew there would always be another one close behind. In between adrenalin-fuelled battles our superiors always found another rag-tag bunch of supposed criminals. And on occasion, when they weren’t offered to us, we would be ordered to find them ourselves. Partisans they called them — when in reality they were usually just peasants who were either being starved, worked or shot out of existence. Their hollow cheeks and bulbous joints revealed the rickety skeletons beneath malnourished flesh. And yet, we still obeyed our superiors, even though we could see they were often too weak to even hold rifles.

In the end, they were all under suspicion and so they were all guilty.

Such is the logic of war.

* * * * * * * *

At least they hated me. I took a sliver of comfort from the fact. I absorbed their hatred. I marinated in it, knowing they would kill me without hesitation. I soaked up their hatred until I hated them in reply. I listened to the devout Nazis amongst us. I nodded my head in agreement, letting their ignorance wash over me. It became much easier as my hatred grew. It wasn’t long before I too saw the enemy as inferior peoples — a subhuman disease that was infecting Europe. Deep down I knew I was fooling myself, but at least it made my task much easier to stomach.

They hated me — I hated them. They wanted me dead and I wanted them dead. I guess you could call it the primitive psychology of war. War — such a ridiculous concept. Turning everyone into patriotic robots devoid of everything we like to call human.

It’s strange, but one man in our group said we were shooting the civilians because we had no food for them. While others said it had simply become our policy — enslavement or execution being the only option for the vanquished. Some excuses were even wrapped in proverbs of old. I remember Hoftaller saying with a laugh, "When you cut down a forest, wood-chips must fly."

I guess most had some kind of lame excuse.

But for myself, to be honest, I didn’t know what to believe. I had ceased needing explanations, or wanting them for that matter. I just accepted whatever confronted me. If we had started shooting our colleagues, I would have done that as well. I was absolutely resigned to my fate, in whatever shape it revealed itself. The only certainty I held dear was a conviction in my own demise. I didn’t even question the idea that I would be dead before war’s end. And in a way, I guess I could say I did die more or less.

Day in, day out, I felt death’s existence in the marrow of my bones, from where it slowly expanded its circle of influence. It pulsated outward, inflicting me gradually with its cold tendrils. It wrapped its way around my joints which ached painfully. From there it crept into my haunted mind. Death’s presence bringing about dizzy spells, headaches and blurred vision. For days on end I couldn’t even stomach a mouthful of food. I would chew and chew, but my throat could not swallow. My belly was full — overflowing with death.

The thought of surviving the war no longer existed. I never thought I would make it home and I stopped entertaining such childish hopes. In the beginning I’d been frightened of fighting, but eventually I fought with suicidal zeal. When in battle I no longer ducked or hesitated. I fought rashly and eagerly, hoping to speed up my demise.

But the moment never came. Death touched all those around me but left without touching me. She left the room without my knowledge. One day followed the next, and still I breathed air into my lungs. One day died while another was born — on and on it went — until the war plummeted toward its end and my heart still drummed weakly in my chest.

Just as we had moved into Russia shrouded in fire, we left it the same way. A fighting retreat, prolonging our inevitable defeat and killing millions more in the process.

We burned and murdered as we fell back, vengefully repaying the civilians for our embarrassing loss. I lost many friends in the whirling tempest that threatened to envelope us. But me — as you all well know — I damn well survived.

* * * * * * * *

It is with these memories, that I now enter our church. The same church I entered with my mother, many years ago, while still a boy. And now, over 60 years later, I enter the same church, with tonnes of additional sin added to the original sin I was blessed with at birth. Walking up the stairs I always remember the war. For 60 years I’ve never stopped marching through that forest with my comrades, trying to ignore the prisoners we escort. As I mount the stairs, I still go through that horrifying routine — forming the line, racking the bolt on my rifle, aiming and firing.

I remember every time I walk through the arched entrance, deep into the house of God. My eyes stare at the rows of burning candles running down one side of the dark sanctum and congregating around the different saints and their alters. The flaming yellow tongues flicker with life. Jumping and dancing to their own tune. I see each candle like one of the nameless silhouettes I so cowardly slew. I sometimes light a few and think of the nameless ghosts who haunt my dreams. To think I have snuffed out life, as easy as blowing out their flames.

A breath of air or the twitch of a finger — such seemingly insignificant gestures.

Whenever I am there, I feel the cool gaze of Jesus upon me. There is an old carving of his execution. His hollow eyes looking down from above. It is a sombre recreation of his final earthly moments, erected high up for all to see. His large form attached to the wall, always reminding us of his sacrifice. The crown of thorns cut into his skull like the memories that cut into mine. The nails that pierce his hands and ankles are like the arthritis that now inflame my joints. His sad expression mirrors my own. Eyes downcast and face slack, crying out at our sins, but of course, either unable or indifferent to stop them.

To most people the church is a sanctuary. But to me it is like being stretched on the rack. It is a torture I am led to every week. A need for the pain and suffering I feel is deserved. It is a constant reminder of my destiny. An eternity in the inferno that awaits below.

Behind the thick stone walls it is always quiet — a deathly silence that caresses my neck like death. A silence that reminds me of my coming demise. With each footstep a sharp echo bounces off the walls — like gunshots amplified. I do not feel courage there, only fear. A fear that seeps through my skin and into my flesh. A heavy moisture that weighs me down, sucking the energy from me. Hell drains me of my strength as I swim against the tide, slowly sinking into its dark waters.

How can I forget? I sit in the house of God, living and breathing. A criminal under the judgement of the most high. An old man with excruciating arthritis. An old man with a cane and a limp leftover from that rotten war.

That is what you see — just an old man. But this old man is a murderer. The shaking, weary hands that clasp the pew in front, are hands of a killer. I wore a helmet and boots. I slung a rifle over my shoulder and marched with war songs on my lips.

Forgiveness. Redemption. They are like words out of a fairy tale, they are pure fantasy.

God will not forgive me. I do not ask for His mercy. I don’t ask for anything — except that the memories fade. I once hoped they would sneak into a mythical corner of my mind. A make-believe shredder or an open fire that would destroy the evidence. Somewhere, anywhere, just a nice place where my conscience would not feel their weight. But criminals don’t have it that easy. We are made to remember.

* * * * * * * *

An Army of Ants (Part 2)

There is no logic to what I recall. Entire months are obliterated by black holes, while seemingly inane incidents are relived with frightening clarity.

Even now I remember sitting by a dirt road that cut through the heart of the Ukraine. A deep, dusty groove in the infinite wheat fields that stretched as far as the eye could see. The men of my unit were spread out on either side of the road. We had been ordered to stop our advance and that was all. Without further orders we were like children left unsupervised. We were caught in a moment where time slept, leaving one with nothing to do. These were dangerous times. Seconds where memories ate into the mind’s defences and threatened never to leave. All we could do was divert our attention away from ourselves, by any means available.

There were men all around me. Some wandered here and there, kicking up dust with their boots. While others laughed and played cards on the tanks and armoured cars. Each of us passed the time in his own special way. We allowed the seconds to move inevitably forward to our unforseen ends. All us German boys, once farmers or tradesman, students or artists — now all soldiers — sitting there uselessly in the dust. We were waiting . . . waiting to kill or be killed. We were nothing but figures in an army ledger — a number of heads, rifles, grenades and machine guns. We were numbers stripped of our identities.

I remember it all so well.

I was brooding alone, consumed by my own existence. Waiting for the order to move so I could be relieved of myself. I feared madness. I fought the urge to pull a pin from a grenade. A comrade, Lieutenant Hoftaller, was sprawled out beside me asleep. His beastly snores accompanying my thoughts like the sound of death itself. I cleaned the dust from my rifle. A yellow powder that was occasionally whipped into dark waves by powerful gales. Tiny grains of sand stinging my exposed face. And it was through these dusty clouds that I stared in fascination at a column of ants at my feet.

Who would have thought these ants would stay with me for so long? They marched in a disciplined line past my scratched boots, toward their nest at the edge of the field. I studied them, my stomach knotting at the strange thoughts they inspired. I looked from the ants to my comrades and then returned to the ants — back and forth.

Before long, I could see no difference between the two.
I saw myself akin to each and every ant I watched. Like myself, they too marched with their comrades in rigid formation, unable to stray from the group. And just like the men around me, their individual names held no relevance. The group was what mattered. The leader was what mattered. They expanded and defended the nest as we expanded and defended the Fatherland. There was no difference that I could see.

Sitting there, in that filthy muck, I realised we were just insects. And this feeling has never left me to this day. In that moment, I realised I no longer existed for myself — an ignorant boy from Bavaria. My feelings of guilt, my fear and my shame, they were all selfish. My feelings did nothing for our leader. They were feelings that menaced the group like a cancer threatening from within. Just as my guilt threatens my family today.

And as I sat there, on the side of the road, I quickly realised I hated the ants as much as my comrades; as much as myself. Their endless marching sickened me. Their obedience and their interchangeability. They served a Queen as we served our Fuhrer. And it was to overpower these thoughts that I suddenly pushed my boot straight through their parade. I stomped on the ants, again and again. I ground them under my heel and destroyed their plodding march. Oh, if only I could have found their Queen — I would have crushed her too. I stood up and followed the line of scurrying insects like a bomber targeting an enemy convoy. I stomped harder and harder as I went. Sweat was dripping from my forehead and my boots thudded loudly against the dry soil. I was going to destroy their whole army. I was going to wipe an entire division off the map.

I hated those ants because they were just like me. I hated their army as I hated my own.

Even now, I remember the madness that was burning in my veins as I killed several soldiers with each thud of my boot. By killing those ants, I was killing myself. The ants mirrored myself and I hated the despicable truth their very existence seemed to prove. Exactly like those mindless insects in the ditch, I too marched on. Instead of feeling the emotions that once flourished in the fertile soil of my mind, I stamped them out. In the end, even the unopened seeds were obliterated and the ground left dry and useless. That is how I forgot myself and ignored the screams that haunted my sleep. All I thought of was the column of ants I belonged to. Looking to the men who fought beside me. The men who formed the firing squad with me.

At that moment, I ceased caring. I hated my comrades, my Fatherland, my Fuhrer, even myself. The fact is; I hated. I stomped on them all, cursing loudly. I stomped over and over again. I killed hundreds, until the sweat was pouring off me. I was yelling by now — who knows what I was saying? I was leaping in a cloud of yellow dust until Hoftaller grabbed me. He threw me onto my back into the wheat by the side of the road, landing on top of me and pinning my shoulders.

Even now, I remember his words.

"What is the matter with you?" he yelled. "Have you gone mad?"

I did not answer. I just looked at him through dust-filled tear-streaked eyes. My comrades were crowding around by now — smirking, frowning and chattering like old women. And I stared at them with utter disgust.

How could they understand? They were all sick — every last one of them. Madness wasn’t my problem. Madness was the solution. My sanity was the curse I could not shake.

* * * * * * * *

Right from the start, I often imagined what my mother would have said if ever she knew the truth. I wondered what effect my actions would cause in such a virtuous soul.

Details aside, there is no doubt the truth would have crushed her.

I knew it all along. So after the first few months of the war, my lies had already begun. There was no avoiding it. I wrote her marvellous letters full of bullshit. I extolled the beauty of the countryside. Telling her of the strange customs the conquered peoples practised, relating stories of salted bread and vodka; infinite fields and thatched huts. Yes, I told her stupid little stories just as I told my son and my grandson. I suppose I believed she could be protected from the horror of war.

In the end though, I couldn’t stop the war from finding her of its own accord. Nobody could have. It was the war that killed both her and my father, side by side. The very war she had cried over when its outbreak was announced over the radio. In fact, she had cried when Hitler became Chancellor and even when I signed up for duty. But all this doesn’t stop me wondering . . . wondering if she would have stopped crying if she had seen what I had done.

Oh, mother. At the thought of her I cannot help but cry myself. She has been dead so long, but I still imagine her looking down on me from above. I imagine her watching me as I lie to the grandson she never had a chance to meet.

I wonder, will she ever forgive me?

My mother was a wonderful woman. She exuded so much love it was like God had given her a double-dose at birth. She overflowed with goodness. She was always speaking kind words, smiling and helping others. In raising me, she had made the greatest efforts to produce a son worthy of her reputation. God — if I ever reach heaven, how will I face her?

I’ll never forgive myself. Every crime I committed was a slap in her face. Every shot I fired, a betrayal.

* * * * * * * *

My mother did her best with me as a child. She taught me what every child should learn, if not more. She had dreams of one day seeing me wear the cassock, just as her father had done before me. She was my ally . . . the only person I could ever truly call my comrade. She always came to my defence whenever my father scolded me. And she never let anybody speak ill of me in her presence.

I loved my mother more than myself. I hung on every word she said to me as a boy. I believed, I respected and I obeyed. She raised me as a Catholic, with her heart and soul behind it. And every Sunday, like clockwork, we made our way to the local church. My father, an atheist and professor, staying behind. I still see him in the window of his study, watching us go with a contemptuous, yet loving smirk beneath his bushy moustache. I still remember my mother saying with a cheeking grin that we should both pray for his non-believing soul. It used to make me laugh.

You cannot imagine how much I looked forward to these Sunday outings. We’d walk slowly toward the local church — a grand structure, that was the centrepiece of our town. Its twin Gothic spires rising into the sky like it was reaching toward God himself. I imagine my mother believed I enjoyed the sermons. When in fact, all I enjoyed was her company. But I was not one to disappoint her with the truth, even then.

I would sneak glances at her as she nodded her head in agreement with the Pastor. Glad that she was happy. Glad that I was loved by a woman so kind.

I always marvelled at her solemn expression as we walked to or from the church. Her small blue eyes, shining with inexplicable wisdom, looking out for memories of her youth. She would speak in soft, measured words that soothed my ears. And her slender, tiny hand would hold my own. Even as a young man I still walked holding that caring hand. Listening to the stories of her childhood, which she had spent in the same town. I would let her repeat the same tales, over and over again, as if she had never spoken of them before. Just to make her happy. I asked her questions to show my interest. And I would hear her tell of meeting my father at school, or how she had played as a child on the very street we were walking on.

Yes, they were pleasant days — days of innocence. We would walk in no rush, content to take our time. My mother wrapped in her flower dress and thick woolen stockings. Me in my crisp new uniform, about to be shipped off to Poland where unbeknownst to me, my innocence would be shattered forever.

If only I could have followed her dream and joined the seminary instead of the army. At least then I would have made her proud. Maybe father and her would never have fled and gotten themselves killed. Maybe one day, my mother would have smiled up at me from the front pew as I gave my first sermon. Instead of scowling at me from above, as she must surely be doing now.

* * * * * * * *

Decades later, I still return every Sunday to our church — in memory of my mother. I hobble there on my cane, with my wife’s hand in mine. It is a family tradition on its last legs. Our son Jürgen once joined us, but unlike myself as a child, he always ran ahead, eager to be done with it. So now, it is just Anna and I, hand-in-hand. Two determined relics of a past age, ambling toward the house of God.

I watch my Anna just as I watched my mother. Her grey hair dances in the breeze. Her cloudy eyes occasionally looking up at me, accompanied by a smile. I wonder, would she still smile if she knew?

No matter. My endless wondering sickens me. I am too afraid to find out the answer. So, I continue to keep it to myself. I swallow the shame that rises painfully like bile. My heart weighs heavy with guilt while I wear an expressionless mask. Even with my wife I am unable to come clean and bare my secrets. I am a husband and a father, and once a son. Yet I still hold my secrets from them all, hidden away in my rotten core.

As the pair of us walk silently through the church’s massive doorway, it is the same. Every Sunday I enter with the memories rising, like determined ghosts from the burial pits I helped filled. I walk between the pews with my shoulders shrinking under an invisible weight. But I do not confess, even to the lord. I hold it all inside like a poison eating at my soul. I don’t need a Priest to let God know what I did. God doesn’t miss things like organised murder. I felt His judgement as sure as I felt the rifle slam against my shoulder. I felt His pain as we waited for the next line of terrified victims to step into position.

Yes, He was there alright. It even said so on our belt buckles. GOTT MIT UNS it said — God Is With Us. I would look often at the phrase, stamped crudely in the metal as a weak justification for our crimes. The German eagle and the Swastika set boldly beneath the religious words, like some black joke.

Were we to find a sliver of comfort in the fact that God held up our pants?

It made no sense. Wherever I looked, I saw similar absurdity and contradiction. And I am sure God saw all of it as well.

I remember the group of us men, lying in a field of sunflowers after we had slaughtered the population of another village whose name I never bothered to note. Some of us had our shirts off, roasting in the hot rays of the Russian sun. We were like a bunch of school friends relaxing on a weekend trip to the countryside. But there was no picnic blanket, wine or bread. Beside us instead lay our rifles and our machine guns. And our jokes weren’t about girls we were courting, but about the atrocities we had only just committed.

I remember that moment clearly. I was mentally exhausted, trying to rest but unable to fall into the comfort of sleep. We did not talk of our pain. We all wanted to speak of our anguish. But we could not. We would laugh it off as only youngsters can do. Still fooled by a naive hope that everything would resolve itself in the end. We smiled, patting each other on the back. We laughed at how one man had tried to escape but was mowed down before he covered a few metres.

We tried to find humour in a subject without humour. Using our despicable laughter to somehow prove we were brave young men. We were in this war together, we told ourselves. When one of us was crumbling beneath its weight, the others would run to support them, to tell them it would be alright.

It’s strange, but lying in that field with my comrades I felt alone. My eyes were closed as I listened to the small insects flying past my ears. I breathed in the country air and thought of home — my mother, my father, the church or the chestnut tree in our yard. Anything to keep my mind off where I was. To my right, on a gradual rise, a forest of birch trees began. Hundreds of them swaying in the wind, their blood-red autumn leaves meeting a clear blue sky at the horizon. It was a beautiful forest that children would have played in before the war. A scene worthy of an artist’s brush. But now, the forest was empty of laughter, empty of childlike games.

At that moment, in the shade of a small clearing in the trees, lay piles of spent cartridges and a few cigarette butts. The shrubs there trampled by our hobnailed boots and the birds nowhere to be seen. Yes, while the local women shovelled dirt over their dead our group lay sunning themselves. Laughing at what we had done, trying to ease the guilt that lay heavy on our shoulders.

And as I lay there thinking about this cold hard truth — I imagined God standing in that clearing. I imagined him crying alongside the grieving widows, while I listened to the cold laughter of my comrades like the laughter of the Devil himself.

It was then that I finally accepted that I was doomed forever.

* * * * * * * *

A Different Kind Of Scribbling

For better or worse; this weekend past, the Flea participated in a different kind of scribbling to his usual routine. Let's just say he exchanged his books and ideas for a pencil and an eraser. Or better yet, he exchanged his words for images.

That's right dear readers, after a twelve year hiatus from the visual art world, I have stumbled, somewhat awkwardly, back into drawing. In fact, recently I started focusing on visual artists full-stop. I've been reading various biographies and visiting local galleries. And ultimately, this has led me back to the darwing board -- literally. (Whether or not this has been a positive move, I'll let you decide).

I used to love drawing, but the last time I even tried, I was 15 years old, or there abouts. So I hope you'll bear with me and keep that front of mind when you check the below examples out.

Oh well, Part 2 of "An Army of Ants" shall be posted in another day or two. I just hope the naked sweethearts included here will make your latest visit worth the effort.

Note: these images were photographed with a shitty digital camera in poor lighting. Apologies in advance.

An Army Of Ants (Part One)

When my son asked what I did during the war, I lied. I have lied ever since.

In fact, whenever anyone asked me about that rotten war I have lied. But in my son’s case, I knew in advance the day would arrive. It approached like an inevitable death in the family. I knew from the moment Anna announced the pregnancy. I knew the instant they snipped his umbilical cord and I held him up for Anna to see. And from then on, I waited patiently for the fateful day to come — the day I would outdo my prior wretchedness in one giant leap.

I prepared myself for this day like a dying man making peace with god; maybe even the devil. I put my thoughts in order. I calmed myself with tepid justifications. And all the while, I waited for the explosion to ring out long after the war’s end.

This pathetic event was pre-ordained. It was written in the stars. I practised my lies as I changed Jürgen’s diapers. I rounded them out in my mind as I lay awake in bed each night.

These lies; they could not be avoided.

* * * * * *

When the time came, Jürgen looked at me with innocent expectation. He bounced up and down with nervous excitement. I can still see him, with his awe-struck expression, mouth agape. Just ten years old with an angelic purity still present in his demeanour. I suppose he was dying to hear of his father’s adventures. Let’s face it; he wanted tales of heroism. He wanted to hear something to share in the schoolyard; something to be proud of. But, in my case, there was never an incident in which to take pride.

No, there has only ever been shame. A sickening, stifling, acidic shame. And although I was lying, had always known I would, at least I didn’t speak of heroism. No . . . I can say this much; those sorts of self-serving lies would have dragged me under completely.

Yes, I admit; it’s all so ignominious, so disgraceful. It is also the truth. I threw myself into my ridiculous falsehoods without hesitation. I threw myself into them like the mud of the mass graves and the rhetoric of the National Socialists.

But then, could I have done different?

Was I supposed to hold my head up high and say I shot and hanged civilians, burned their houses and corralled them like cattle? Should I have proudly recounted my part in Hitler’s great war? Hitler’s noble venture of living space and annihilation for the greater Reich?

Yes Jürgen, one boy was about your age. He shit his pants before I shot him . . . his name? No, I never asked his name . . . their names didn’t matter.

How could I tell him the truth?

* * * * * *

Luckily, I had ample time to fine-tune my stories. Time was granted where mercy was refused. I spent a whole decade making mental notes; constantly aware the curtain would eventually be raised. I knew I would be required on stage soon enough, it was simply a matter of patience and endurance. So — when the hour finally struck, I had the appropriate tale at the ready. Like the worm I am, I played my part. I brushed aside all detail with as few words as possible. Telling a humble tale of serving in a rear-guard that saw little action. Recounting the exploits of an incompetent but innocent soldier. The main point being the intention to disappoint.

I spoke of endless marching and tasteless rations. I spoke of army drill and other assorted nonsense. Explaining my wound, my terrible limp, as a freak accident. And telling him all about the polish we used on out boots. Yes, I coated all my stories with the grey hue of boredom. All in the hope he would eventually lose interest.

Who knows, maybe he would sigh with the idea his father really had no part in the war after all.

But, if I thought that would be the end of it, I was sadly mistaken.

Years later, Jürgen’s son Friedrich posed the same questions. And as before, the lies were immediately resurrected. My grandson, as is understandable, was as eager as his father to hear of my battlefield experiences. He too smiled his cheerful smile, imagining all the possibilities of greatness I was about to reveal. He asked endless questions before I had even begun. But naturally, the floodgates of shit opened up and the same lies flowed once again. I covered him in it. His smile faded and his body sunk in on itself. He started fidgeting and his face turned the colour of ash. His beaming face slowly giving way to an expression of disappointment. All this, to the accompaniment of my monotone, inexpressive voice.

One could say, I was so tiresome, that I succeeded in my lies beyond all my intentions. But by then, my lies were second nature; impregnated in my very being. I vomited them from my mouth without shame. I was like an actor who has performed a scene over and over again. I had ironed out the flaws, perfected the key moments and not once did I forget my lines. I am convinced; no-one could tell a more boring tale. So tedious it could only be true. My voice droned on until Friedrich made his excuses to go to the bathroom. And when he leapt up and ran away before I could protest, I was overcome by a wretched relief.

The relief of all frauds when their myths have withheld for one more day.

* * * * * *

It is strange, but these lies have long since become a part of me. These drab, arduous tales; they are nearly real I have said them so often. I could almost convince myself of their authenticity, I picture it all so clearly. A multitude of non-existent incidents seen vividly in the mind’s eye. Fantastic propaganda. Like Goebbels, I have created a history from nothing.

And while I try to take comfort in these lies being convenient omissions, in the end, they are one and the same. Lies, lies, lies . . . that is all. Like omitting the fact I was awarded the Iron Cross for bravery. Never telling my son, my grandson, or even my wife for that matter. As if by not speaking of this truth I could somehow justify, or counterbalance the other omissions. I even withhold the fact I single-handedly knocked out two Soviet tanks that threatened my group’s position. In truth, I try to forget this incident and the medal that came with it. The same medal that now lies hidden beneath the river at Regensburg, along with all the other shitty pieces of tin we were supposed to grovel for.

But even I know there is no difference between lying about my bravery and lying about my obvious crimes. They are lies nonetheless.

* * * * * *

I can lie all I want. I can enlarge the region in my brain that contains all these falsehoods. But I cannot remove the tumour of truth that haunts my memory, even to this day. I remember my father telling me everything we have ever seen or heard is contained somewhere deep in the mind.

My father was always right.

Yes, no matter how hard I try, the truth is always there, buried in my pathetic little brain, contradicting the words I speak. This pathetic brain that once idolised Hitler and believed in the threat of International Jewry. It is a truth standing in stark contrast to all my bullshit. In fact, there isn’t enough bullshit in the world to completely cover the truth — not a lie large enough to swallow it.

I can lie to all and sundry, but for some reason I cannot lie to myself. There is a knowledge inside me, deep down, chained to reality and impossible to unlock. The real memories can’t even be repressed they are so extreme. The details so vivid they forever overcome the paper-thin foundations of my fanciful stories. The truth is all-knowing, all-powerful. The truth is indefatigable; unspeakable. And the truth has stayed unspoken for over 50 years.

But this doesn’t stop the endless dialogue in the depths of my being. An endless conversation between myself and the looming presence of my memory. Like all inner thoughts, it is a monologue of sorts; a monologue that pauses now and then, but never pauses long enough. It can be counted on to return no matter how long it has lain dormant. My memory will always awake. Eventually replaying all those images and sounds I only wish to forget.

For example; one truth, is my cowardice. The war highlighted it like a spotlight. I have lived with it my whole life. And to think I was awarded a medal for bravery. Bravery? I was never brave. It did not take courage to forget myself and fight without thought. Only fear could motivate such madness. Only the raging cowardice of a cornered rat could urge me to expose myself and fire on the hulking machines bearing down upon us. Surely, it wasn’t bravery that convinced me to aim my rifle at unarmed men? There is no courage in executing children, some mere toddlers, without the slightest concept of political ideals or religion? Nor is their courage in shooting a grown man.

Each time I saw a condemned man down the sites of my rifle, I did not feel brave. I did not look inward to discover an invisible virtue they like to call courage. Rather, I swallowed my protests and followed orders. I did not stray once from the path that led me to damnation. I aimed as best I could on account of my quivering arms. Aiming for the general region of their fast-beating hearts, hoping I would not miss. And I forever chose to close my eyes at the final moment; the moment I pulled the trigger. So cowardly I couldn’t even view the crimes I was committing.

In the darkness of my own skull I would hear the command and jerk the trigger, always on cue. The deafening salvo of rifle fire always shaking me to the core. The men standing on either side of me firing with me. The sharp discharge of the firing squad’s weapons echoing off the nearby mountains. Then, I would hear the muffled thuds and the scraping of the condemned, now falling lifelessly into the pit. A few seconds would pass, rifle breeches snapping open, smoky cartridges tumbling to the forest floor. My eyes would finally open to see the empty space before me. A void where a line of frightened men had just stood. Their crumpled bodies quite often still twitching in the bottom of the pits.

Bravery? No—I did not feel brave. Strangely, I didn’t feel much at all. Just a numbness cushioning my senses, resigning me to the belief that I shared the fate of the men I was then shooting. I did not feel the emotions that in peace-time move us to aid our fellow man. In fact, I did not feel human at all. I was like a stuffed animal — visually human, but entirely hollow beneath the preserved shell. Feelings were to be repressed, swallowed and digested in the acid of one’s belly. Refined emotions drove men to madness — pushing them back to a humanity where life was respected. I had seen it happen. And I knew if I returned there, I would be like a lost species. A forgotten animal of yesteryear, appearing from an unchartered wilderness.

I couldn’t exist in a world of culture and feeling. In my mind Germany no longer existed. To me, my village, my father, my mother — they were had been consumed by the inferno in which I was a part.

So instead of seeing my victims as human, I saw them exactly as Hitler had taught. They were all sub-human. They were slaughtered cattle we unfortunately couldn’t eat. I alternated between hatred of my victims and hatred of myself. Two opposites buried in my being. There was constant conflict in the air — on the battlefield and in my heart.

But I had already lost the battle against myself. That battle was lost the very instant I killed a man. A young Pollack with a pack and rifle, just as I wore. I still see him, through the sites of my rifle. Popping his head from around the wall to be shot in the throat. I can still see him lying there as we ran past, his eyes glazed over and the blood seeping in between the cracks of the cobblestones.

* * * * * *