Sergei and Hans

Chapter 1

So there was the prison. It was small and cruel and all too German. And beyond it was the world every man thought he lost. If the war was hell, the prison wasn't very far from it, probably a floor or two. It was Christmas Eve, 1914, and the war wasn't over. It wouldn't be for a long time.

So there was Sergei, the Russian prisoner. The one leaning by the side of the cabin, staring off into the distance with sad apple eyes. Not too long ago he was a musician–a damn good one–who could play anything and would perform for anybody, and even before that he was a boy who ran through orchards and ate peaches on a fine summer day.

Then there was Hans. The German guard in the rear tower. The one with the pointed rifle and scarred lip. He too was a boy at one time, but he ran through fields of squash and potatoes. Eight months ago in the seminary, it was hard to imagine he'd end up here, but it happened. It was a new sense of confusion that came with new rules, new regulations and duties, but it happened, and Hans accepted it.

And then of course there was the fence. It was barbed with wire and fully realized, and it just so happened to be the same fence Hans guarded all day and Sergei would climb over the next morning. It stood there for reason and division, and it wrapped around the entire camp like an adder, slowly choking everything inside it. Its intentions were straightforward and it did its job quite well, for those who tried to climb it died before they reached the top. They were swift deaths, remembered but not recorded, and all too common. Hans and the other guard in the adjacent tower made sure of it. Each kill was different, but the sounds were the same. The screams and thuds were always in accord. The other guard lost count of the exact number of men he killed while stationed in the tower, but Hans knew the exact number. Twelve.

Then there was the notebook–that gray, cryptic little thing Sergei started in August then abandoned to a fire–which just so happened to be the same notebook Hans discovered after a night of heavy rain, and although it was badly smeared, Hans had been able to read every word, and he had done so for three straight days.

And maybe it didn't make all too much sense, for it came in too fast and raw–so much so they didn't know what to do with it. Maybe they were both out of their minds. They had their reasons, and maybe the reason they felt so empty was because they were. Perhaps that's it, and if so, it's quite a simple story.

Or perhaps, the others were right. Perhaps it was merely coincidental, an aberration spawned only by circumstance, and the war would go on with or without them. For in Germany and France, and in Russia down to Turkey, the guns still fired. These giant, heinous, faceless, time-honored things called countries. They had their reasons too.

But until morning, it remained unadorned. Because until morning, Sergei was still a prisoner and Hans still a guard. Sergei a Russian, and Hans a German. Sergei twenty years old. And Hans twenty-four. Both had been told they would become men after the war was over. That was in the summer.

II

The morning arrived and the sun faded through thick clouds. It was another cold, gray day and the ground was covered with snow. The whistle blew and the prisoners were escorted out of the camp. The German guards then chaperoned the Russians into the woods where they continued their daily session of chopping tall and heavy pines.

The Germans seemed to be in a festive mood. It was Christmas after all, and their usual staunch spirit was replaced with a certain ease, which could be seen in their clean-shaven faces. The Russians, on the other hand, and not surprisingly, showed no expression at all. Much was hidden in their heavy beards. They took to the trees and proceeded to hack and dig and lift and thrust with dull axes and saws. Each blast was good and godly, and they repeated this over and over again as sweat dripped down from their foreheads. The Germans could only smile back through grimaces as they marveled at the Russians’ strength, and the Russians acknowledged their patronizing captors with a silent contempt of their own.

For Sergei, time in the forest meant a great deal. It numbed out the pain and made him stop thinking, at least for a while. It was a task, simple and pointless; but it was beginning to lose its charm. He carried his axe on his shoulder and looked for the right tree. He took his time and searched all around. The pines were old and thick. He went further along as the guard followed him, and for whatever reason the axe felt heavier. He smelled his clothes and the unforgivable stank of sweat and smoke and rotted cabbage. He sifted through, found the right pine, and gave it a good stare. Then he struck a first blow and dug out his axe. He landed another one and fell into the rhythm.

Bit by bit, it got easier, but then the thoughts came back, and when they did they took over and swirled like the snow. He remembered everything. The words and faces. Anya. The mountain. The Old Man. The German. The cave and the wolves, and the promise he made to Nikolai.

Nikolai. How could he have forgotten? It was only two days ago when Nikolai had done the most righteous thing Sergei had ever seen, when he’d taken out his axe and sliced open the guard's chest. He could still see the guts fall out of the German and steam to the ground, and he could still see Nikolai's grin when it happened. It was a childish joy, simple and pure. There wasn't any fear. And when Nikolai had been shot through the head and landed on the snow, it still hadn’t seemed real. In his mind he heard that crescendo over and over again, but it was Nikolai's crescendo. Not his own.

The wood split and the shards flew. Then halfway in, Sergei lost his breath, bent his legs, panted, and then fell to the snow. He hung his head and the sweat on his face started to freeze. Then he heard footsteps, and a minute later another prisoner made his way up and shook his hand. The prisoner took to the tree and charged and chopped away. The man was bigger than Sergei. His cuts were clean and balanced, and when he grunted he made damn sure he was heard by everyone. Sergei was glad, but only momentarily.

He got up and looked at the tree again. There was more work to be done, but it was manageable now. The prisoner smiled. They took turns. The limbs shook and after five minutes they heard a crack, and after a few more blows the pine fell to the snow.

Then the prisoner shook Sergei's hand and disappeared. Sergei glared at the wood and looked for the sun, but it was not to be found. The whistle blew and four carriages arrived. The prisoners then carried the wood and loaded the carriages in lines of ten. It was an impressive day's work, much more wood than the Germans anticipated, and when they finished loading they made their way back to the camp.

In the tower, Hans stood and overlooked it all. The tower was twenty feet high with a wooden ladder which led up to it. The shots came more slowly from up there. It was easier to pull, easier to react and re-fire, but each day the tower felt colder. It was a fearful cold filled with pain, and it was made worse by the wind. Hans kept his rifle poised and centered. The adjacent guard two hundred feet away did the same. Hans never talked to him.

An hour passed. Hans grew tired and pale as he stared into the forest. He'd only been in the prison for two weeks, but it felt like two lifetimes already, and it didn't feel like Christmas at all.

Resting on the ledge lay the notebook. He finished reading it in the morning. He’d been unable to resist rereading the last page. It really was too much, and he smiled each time. But he had to know for sure. He remembered the face and that day in the cave. If the author shared the same face, he'd surely know. It just had to match.

As the prisoners marched back to the camp, the gate opened and Hans honed his gaze. When Sergei’s face came into view, it all came back to Hans like a flash of a freight train. He lost sight of Sergei and watched the prisoners return to their cabins, and afterwards Hans tried to keep his heart from falling out. It matched.

Then a thought came to him. A thought whole and right. It came with fervor and crawled and stayed in his mind. He thought again and tried to dismiss it, but he failed. It was too right. It had to be applied. He looked at his watch. He had time, but it had to be now. He had to hurry. Then a voice broke his trance.

Hans? Hans?

Hans looked down the tower but saw no one. Then he looked behind and saw a smiling face climb up the ladder. It was Gerhardt, his fellow guard. He got up to the top and shook Hans' hand.

Merry Christmas, Hans. I'll take over for you. Go and see the others. They're waiting for you.

Hans limped down the ladder, staggered towards the mess hall, and examined the dying light. There was enough time. When he opened the door of the mess hall, the other guards greeted Hans with smiles and pats on the back. He marveled at the Christmas feast on the table. Red ears and red faces were all around and the room was filled with smoke–smoke from pipes and cigarettes, smoke from cigars, and the smoke from the fire, which hovered and lingered among the lewd jokes and laughter.

Then Hans noticed another table with the trays of appetizers of deviled eggs and stuffed mushrooms, sauerkraut and potato latkes, and pickled beets and cucumbers floating in their brines. Then the main course: smoked goose with all the trimmings.

Hans addressed each man and shook all of their hands. He saw a familiar face glare back at him. It was the adjacent tower guard who was drinking schnapps and warming his hands near the fire. Hans approached him and extended his hand.

Pleased to meet you, finally.

He shook the guard's hand then let go. It felt too soft.

Pleasure's mine said the guard. What is your name?

Hans. And yours?

Dietrich.

They looked at each other long and hard. There wasn't anything left. They were too tired. Dietrich raised his glass. Hans did as well.

Pleased to meet you, Dietrich. Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Hans.

Hans shook his hand again then left. He avoided the other eyes, but since everyone was drunk, it wasn't hard to do. He made his way to the table, took some bread from the basket, placed them in his coat pocket, then made his way down the bar and took two bottles of schnapps and wine. Then he spotted his bunkmate, Kurt.

Hans! exclaimed Kurt. I'm glad you came. You are staying, aren't you?

No. I'm afraid not.

For heaven’s sakes, why?

I'm sorry, but I have work to do.

Work? My boy, it's Christmas.

It's important.

It must be.

I have a favor to ask you, Kurt.

What is it?

Hans leaned into Kurt's ear and whispered.

Now? Why?

It's important said Hans.

Which one was it again? said Kurt.

Hans whispered once more. Kurt took another sip from his glass and finished.

Consider it done, Hans.

Hans headed for the door. He navigated through and found his way back outside. He was glad it was over.

He moved towards the middle of the camp and headed towards his cabin. He got to his bunk, searched around, and placed various items in his bag, including matches, wine glasses, and forks and knives. But then he saw something he couldn't take his eyes off of. It was Kurt's violin. It made sense to borrow, just for the night. So he took the violin case and the bag, and headed for the door.

He made it down and spotted the storage cabin about fifty feet away. He looked again to the fence, then back to the towers. The distance was what he thought it was.

He went into the cabin and locked the door. It was damp and dirty with holes in its roof, and the only view of the outside came from a tiny cracked window. He found candles and lit the area as best he could. Then he found a table in front of a fireplace and two chairs filled with dust and cobwebs. He swept off the dust with a broom and started a fire with some paper and leftover wood.

He placed the bread and the bottles on the table. Then he reached into his pocket, grabbed