Page 82 of Hell to Pay
This is a very stop-and-start letter. Getting shot didn’t feel like I’d expected. It felt like somebody’d punched me in the shoulder, that was all. I didn’t even know what had happened at first. I was against a wall and sort of sliding down it, knowing I was about to be hit again. I can’t say I had any more elevated thoughts than, “Well, I guess this is it.” Seems I do dying all wrong.
That was when the crazy thing happened. A door opened, and somebody dragged me inside. I could hear the bullets hitting the door as the person slammed it shut, but fortunately, it was one of those stout wood things—the whole place looked like they’d built it about eight hundred years ago—and the bullets didn’t make it through. (Got to have been a pistol. I told you, I’m lucky.) Then I was lying on the floor of some kind of shop, staring up at a girl.
Dad, she sure looked like an angel to me, the kind on top of a Christmas tree. Blonde hair and blue eyes like a classic Nazi, but she didn’t look like any Nazi I’ve seen, and she didn’t act like it, either. She had freckles on her nose, and—well, I know I haven’t seen too many girls lately, but all I can say is—wow. Of course, at the moment I was hurting too bad to think too much about it—seems the bullet broke my collarbone and took a chunk out of my shoulder, too. But, see? I didn’t get it in the neck! Not quite. She got some dishtowels and pressed them against my shoulder and back, and that was when I realized I’d been hit there. Somebody else came then, a man who said he was a doctor and could patch me up, but nothing was making much sense at that point.
The next hours were pretty gruesome, and I don’t remember much about them, or I don’t want to. I could hear the fighting going on, but I spent the night on a bed—whose bed, I don’t know—with the girl putting cold cloths on my head and feeding me soup and so forth and the doctor checking in, telling me that the bullet had gonethrough, and that was good. Didn’t feel all that good, but I decided to take his word for it.
The next afternoon, we could hear that the fighting had stopped. You don’t realize what quiet is until a battle ends. I’d say you could hear the birds again, but the birds are smart enough to stay away.
We won, but you know that. From what I heard later, the angel-girl went out into the town with a white flag and found some of our guys to come get me, since I was in pretty rough shape. What kind of guts did that take? She spoke English, too, which was another lucky break. I didn’t let on that I spoke German, just in case, but turns out there was nothing to worry about. The woman who owned the place was Swiss, and that girl was no Nazi. No idea why some Fräulein in a German bakery—that’s what it was, a bakery, and the main thing I do remember, besides the girl, is the smell of bread—speaks such good English. Or why she opened that door and saved my life. It’s like I told you—I was born under a lucky star.
The wound’s not bad, so don’t worry. The docs and nurses here are mighty good, and they say I’m well on my way. They said that doctor may have saved my life, too, stitching me up and stopping the bleeding, so there’s another person I have to thank! I’m not feeling too bad now, just a little weak. Some guys will do anything for a rest! I’m just glad they say I didn’t wreck my arm. As long as I can still carry a rifle and play a cello, I’ll be OK. The arm will be in a sling until the collarbone mends, but I expect to be back with my unit in a few days, and focusing on the interpreting for awhile. Glad I can still be useful.
I sure wish I’d asked that girl her last name, though. All I know is that her name was Daisy. That’s an English name, not a German one, and I’m more confused than ever now.
Oh, and the doctor was a Jew. First Jew I’ve met over here. What are the odds?
Larry says he’s had enough, and I need to shut up. Love to you and Mom, and don’t worry. I may not actually be bulletproof, but I’m definitely bullet-resistant!
Joe
P.S. I had to promise Larry my dessert tonight to get him to add on to this letter. But did you notice that secret weapon never turned up? Hope Hitler had a lousy birthday.
OK, Dad, I need to say this, too, even if it’s in front of Larry. My biggest worry, on the way over here, was that I’d lose my nerve and wouldn’t have the guts to do my part. Once they’re shooting at you, though, you find your guts mighty quick. And being here myself, seeing what I’ve seen, hearing the stories about what the Russians have uncovered on their way west—well, that gives you some guts, too. Some of the stories are hard to believe, like no war I’ve ever read about. The truth will come out in the end, I guess. But even lying here like I am, I know I’m in the right place, and as soon as I can rejoin my unit, I’ll be doing it. It’s not a choice anymore. We took this on, and now we’ve got to finish it.
“Go, Oma!” Alix said. “An angel at the top of a Christmas tree?”
“You must have been kind of a babe,” Ben said in a wondering sort of tone that wasn’t very flattering.
“Well, yes,” I said, “I suppose I was. Or so I was told.”
“That’s a brave man,” Sebastian said. “It’s a funny thing—when you’re a professional athlete, people are always tellingyou you’re brave, but it’s just a game. Your life’s sure not on the line. So you make a tackle. That’s nothing like what he did. Nothing remotely close.”
“Yes,” I said. “I believe hewasbrave. Hearing that letter—oh, yes, he was brave.” I’d teared up—the tears come more easily, I find, as I age—and I dabbed at my eyes with a handkerchief before saying, trying to laugh, “Of course, if I’d known about all that killing he’d just done, I may not have pulled him into the house.”
“But he was one of the good guys,” Ben said. “I mean, obviously.”
“Ah,” Matti said. “But things are not always as clear as all that. You see, the Germans thoughttheywere the good guys.”
“Except they weren’t,” Ben said.
“No, probably not,” Matti conceded. “They were the— What is the word I want?Aggressoren?”
“Nearly the same,” I said. “The aggressors.”
“The people, though,” Matti said, “do not always make the choice to go to war, or to continue the war.”
“No,” I said. “They don’t. But I’m still glad I pulled Joe in.”
Alix hadn’t been listening. She said, looking up from the page, “This next letter’s good, too.”
“Read it,” I said, and she did.
April 28, 1945
Dear Dad,
Back with the unit again. I can even write, as long as I don’t get the arm too involved.
