Catherine Burgess began her undergraduate studies in the humanities, hoping to be a creative writer, but switched my major and got a degree in the plant sciences. I worked in horticulture and agriculture for several years and have only recently turned back to the writing world I had let go of years ago. I currently live in Maryland with my husband, Daniel. Catherine grew up in the shadow of Washington D.C., and graduated with a degree in the plant sciences from the University of Maryland. She worked for the US Department of Agriculture doing microbiology and horticulture, and on a local farm as a manager. Only recently she has returned to her old first love of storytelling.
Cat.A.Burgess@gmail.comAm I only eighteen? I’ve filled out my uniform at last, and on the outside I must look like a young soldier, but I feel like I’m a century old. The things I’ve done and seen in the years of the Great War have alienated me from my generation.
We march past towns where I see young boys working away at famine-dry fields. I feel a pang of envy knowing they’ll sleep soundly tonight. They won’t dream of gas attacks, or rats, or mud, or the terrible chaos that was the front. They’ll never hear the cannon roar in quiet moments, or flinch when someone whistles nearby.
I can only be with these men here. With Heiko and Heinrich. They know I’ve proved my worth like them; we’ve slept, starved, killed together – we lived in Hell and now return to Germany, to home. We were pieces in the machinery of the Fatherland’s war, and it’ll be strange to be our own men again.
We sit around a smoky fire in the evening and discuss our plans. Emil and Gunter aren’t with us anymore: Gunter died at Verdun and Emil at the Somme. There are only three of us now, and the emptiness of their absence pulses between us. It’s night, and we sit numbly, passing around a tin of untouched beans, too tired to talk much.
Through the guttering smoke I look at them and wonder at how we got here. Heinrich used to live in England. He had a job, flawless English, a good living arrangement, and a clever, beautiful woman. When the Fatherland called him home his friends dropped him. She left him too, and he signed up for the glorious war. Heinrich’s a good man, but he’s more intimidating. He’s got ten more years, a quicker tongue, a better education, and a hunger for news.
Heiko and I have more in common. He’s only a couple years older than me, and he used to be a farmer too. His father sent him away for a university degree but he never got to finish. He’s sharp though, sharp as Heinrich. But he has a way of keeping his personal feelings out of sight. You can only tell how the war affects him when he sings. He’s been singing a lot more now that we’re marching homeward, but I don’t think it’s because he’s happy. How could a couple farmers and a cab driver transform into three hollow men? Our eyes sit vacant, our shoulders sag, our steps don’t tread with determination anymore. We’re dulled blades from our time at the front. I thought I’d be happier to be going home, but the only thing I feel is some grim, empty triumph that I held on to make it out. “We’re all a little spread out,” Heinrich’s rough voice finally breaks the silence and my thoughts. We had been talking about where to live. “We should find some jobs when we get back to the capital.” He wants us all to move to Berlin. There would be more jobs for a driver like him. The Armistice is signed, and Germany’s been blamed for causing the war. The capital isn’t exactly where I want to be. Newspapers Heinrich scrounges blare of revolution in bold letters, hinting at civil war. I don’t know why he figures that’s the best place to live, but I don’t think I could bear to part from these men. They’re closer to me than my own brothers. “Moving won’t be that hard,” I finally say. “I only have Else.” My family has faded into acquaintances since the war. The times I’ve gone back on leave, I couldn’t stand being treated like the hometown hero or an object of pity. The way people looked at me was enough to convince me to never go back to Darmstadt.
Else is my fiancé now. She doesn’t try to understand or pity me. She’s steady, warm and strong, not a frail, fluttering girl. Her coffee dark eyes sketch into my mind, and her waving hair drifts over them a moment later. Her family would want a proper Jewish wedding ceremony first. Then we’ll be off.
“You marry that girl, son,” Heinrich says, “and then we’ll move to Berlin.”
#
“Alberich?”
My eyes refocus and I look up to see Else watching me.
“You haven’t touched your food,” she says.
I look back down and see the lentil soup again. I stir it and take a mouthful. It’s stone cold and I spit it back into the bowl reflexively. “Sorry,” I say. For forgetting the food, and then for spitting it out.
She sighs and takes my bowl away. I want to ask her to let me finish it but instead I gaze mutely at her as she empties it back into the pot. I hope she doesn’t think I didn’t like it.
We’ve been married a month now and she’s self-conscious about her cooking because I never eat it at one go. And probably because I don’t seem to really be here at all.
I barely even notice I’m married.
I can’t keep my mind on anything these days, all I do now is remember.
#
I’ve been declared unfit for work. I have a debilitation. The mere idea disgusts me, and yet I feel it, and it itches at me. Else tells me to find a job, but I don’t know if I can work until these wounds heal. The physicians call it hysteria, but really, it’s memories of the war.
They follow me everywhere. There are times I have respite, when I can concentrate on a task. Other times I can at least ignore them, but I hear them almost all the time. I try to shake them off, but the sounds root me when I am alone, and I’m paralyzed. Sweat breaks out all over me and I shiver uncontrollably.
“Alberich? Are you all right?”
Else’s voice banishes the sounds and my eyes open. I am curled up on the bed, holding my knees to my chest. She gently massages my hands out of their white knuckled grip.
“It’s all right,” she says. “You’re not going back. No one will make you go back. You’re staying here with me.”
Tears burn and drip down my face. My lip trembles and I breathe heavily, choking on a sob. I reach for her like a child and she comes onto the bed and cradles me. Her hands comb through my hair and she makes shushing noises, but I’m babbling now.
“I can’t go back. I can’t do it again,” I repeat over and over, and the sobs come harder.
Eventually I settle down and fall asleep, but nightmares jolt me awake, sweating. I feel Else nearby and realize she’s sleeping. Locks of wet hair lie against her cheek, plastered by tears.
This must be terrible for her. With my hysteria we had to move out of Berlin, and now she acts as nurse and breadwinner to a helpless man ludicrously called her husband.
I know a real man must never be afraid, must always be strong, always be in control, be his own master. And without fail work to bring home food. Shame burns through me.
“Their men have either not returned or have gone back to work,” Else’s voice from a few weeks ago drifts into my mind.
“I can’t just do that,” I remember saying.
“It’ll take your mind off things.”
The last shards of evening light filter through the window and I watch shadows crawl across the wall. Not all men can pick back up after the war, I think. I wasn’t in my forties with a full life to return to. The war shaped me into a mess that I can’t understand or cope with.
She opens her eyes. Red and watery. When they fix on me my bitterness subsides and I wrap an arm around her, drawing her into me as I watch the sun set.
#
I don’t feel better the next day, but I make an effort. Else has wanted to arrange our furniture so I suggest doing it. She lights up in a smile. It’s good to see her smile again. How long has it been? We’ve lived here almost three months, but the strain of living with a disabled husband threatens to smother her.
Today I resolve to go without memories. I plan where the side table and rug will go. I sweep out the cottage and she dusts the furniture while we talk about different arrangements. She laughs when I sneeze six times in a beam of sunlit dust.
I move to take one end of the sofa and she picks up the other end. She’s telling me the gossip from the dairy farm she works at when my fingers slip and I drop my end. The crack on the wood floor jerks forward the memory of machine gun spit. Then it multiplies a hundred times. The terrible noise shakes my nerves and other sounds come. Pain erupts in my head at each boom and scream of shells, and I smell the acrid smoke of cannons. Adrenaline pulses through me. Smoke clouds my eyes and I can’t see. Instead of feeling alive with energy, my insides cramp together as though they would stop a bullet. Oh god, it could be any second now. That’s the worst sensation: a consuming fear that at any moment I could be shot, feel hot shrapnel pierce my flesh, that my life would be snuffed out.
“DOWN!” the familiar command echoes in my skull.
I drop to my hands and knees. When did they get here? How long will they pound us? I crouch for a moment but I can’t take any more. Get out of the open and away from it. I hear someone calling but I can’t stop now. I bat away a comrade’s grip and keep moving, crawling away through the smoke. Let them shoot me, I have to get away. I reach a doorway, go through and find a corner, block it with something bulky, and cover my ears with my hands, my head pressed against my knees. But I see it inside my eyelids. Smoke follows me from the gun I fired and my ears ring with the cracks of comrades’ rounds outside my hideaway. I start gagging on smoke when I realize the only sound in my ears is the hazy throb of silence. The smoke disappears. Hesitantly, I open my eyes a crack. The wood floor of my house. My house.
Not the front.
All the adrenaline drains out of me; I’m deflated and exhausted. I relax my muscles and lean against the wall, pushing the rocking chair I barricaded myself with away with my feet. I stare at the ceiling a minute, waiting for my breathing to slow down before saying, “How long this time?”
Else’s voice comes a couple meters away. “Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”
“Did I hurt you?”
No answer. I feel so fragile, afraid that any moment our happiness may be shattered by my memories.
“Else?” I get to my feet and come out from behind the chair. Else is standing in the middle of the room, rigid, her arms crossed as though she’s bracing herself up.
She looks at me with a pained expression. “Please see a doctor, Alberich.”
I shake my head and drop into the chair. “And tell him what, Else?” I say wearily. “That I’m afraid of something only I can hear?”
“They’ll know how to help you. They’re trained, and,” her fingers flex out before she drops her arms to her sides. I see she’s fighting down frustration. “And I don’t know how long I can keep up with this. You have to get help.”
“They’ll think I’m insane.”
“Maybe—” she stops short, but she wants to finish it. Maybe I am.
Am I insane? A twinge of panic flits through me. Have I really lost control of everything? I shouldn’t think about that. I heave out a short breath. “I just need more time to adjust, that’s all. Besides, we don’t make enough money to afford a doctor.”
She goes rigid. She knows that that “we” really means “you.” I’m satisfied my remark has jarred something in her. Finally, “All right,” is all she says before leaving. A few seconds later I hear the couch scraping against the floor.
I don’t want to go in to help anymore. I don’t trust myself, so I try to read the newspaper. I put it down before I’ve read more than the headline. Else is still moving furniture, the heavy table angrily scratches the floor in the other room. The house feels small. I have to get out. I crumple the paper and leave it on the floor, moving to the window. It’s a little stuck, but I pry it 7open and worm my way out. Under the cold March sky, I strike out for Heiko’s farm.
“You shouldn’t be sitting around waiting for it to go away,” Heiko says once I’ve told him everything, “because it won’t. Find something to distract yourself with then do that a lot.”
“Is that why you sing?”
He nods. “But not ‘Stille Nacht’ anymore. That night ruined it for me.”
I know what he means. Christmas Eve out in the trenches that first year, we had a singing contest with the English on the other side of No Man’s Land, and we had eventually made a truce to share Christmas gifts, play football, and be friends for a night. Our little group had been some of the first to meet the people we always called the Tommies. We became friends with them. The politicians and generals had told us they were pagan monsters, but we saw how wrong they were. When morning came, we had to go back to our lines and were told to shoot at them again. Only I couldn’t. None of us could. We had sung “Stille Nacht” in our two languages; we had become comrades that silent, holy night: how could I have shot at them? Our battalion had been moved before the battle began, but the ideas from that night stayed with us.
When I return home, Else has finished dinner and a bowl is waiting for me. It takes a minute to realize the furniture’s different. I mumble a compliment and an apology that I couldn’t help, but she doesn’t seem to hear.
We go to bed not having spoken since the afternoon.
I’m afraid to fall asleep, afraid of the sounds. I stare at the ceiling and try to distract myself. What can Else expect a doctor will solve? My symptoms can’t be as bad as what the newspapers say of other ex-soldiers. Part of me feels bad that Else has to live with me when I’m so tense, but part of me itches with irritation. It’s me who has to hear it all, who feels all the old terror. She sympathizes, but she’ll never really know what it’s like. It’s annoying that she pesters me to see a doctor when I know it won’t help. My eyes grow heavy and I drop off.
The trenches are far behind us. I’m crawling through wet grass, hoping the fog will hide my movements. Heinrich, Heiko, and Gunter are hovering just under the lip of a crater, waiting for me and Emil to give the all clear.
Everything looks all right, but I can only see ten meters ahead in this fog. We look around, prod a little further around some fox holes, and declare it safe with a low whistle. Once they reach us, we move on as a unit. I peer over the edge of my new hiding place and catch sight of a smoking canister thrown our way. They know we’re here. How? That doesn’t matter; if I don’t tell them they’re going to smoke us out, we’re not getting out of here.
“Gas!” I shout as loud as I can, my hands fumbling for my mask. Everyone springs to their knees and reaches for their own masks just as the canister explodes, sending up yellow smoke. It makes a ghastly contrast with the fog. Emil hasn’t gotten his on. I reach for him to help but a shot makes me launch back into my shelter. More shots are fired and everyone drops to the ground, touching their masks to keep them on.
But Emil is coughing hard now. He drops his mask as he stands, clutching at his eyes and screaming for someone to help him. Heinrich has an arm around me and I can’t go to him. I scream at Heinrich, I yell for him to let me go as Emil vomits, falling to his hands and knees, back arching like a cat. Through the tinted windows of my mask, I see him gag and claw at his throat. He can hardly say anything; a raw gargled scream replaces his voice. I struggle against Heinrich’s grip as he vomits again and stumbles about. His face turns purple, now blue, and he falls down like a boneless fish.
I’m still screaming for him to put his mask on and crying for him when I feel myself shaken. An explosion. I bolt upright and find myself in bed.
Someone near my face is crying, pleading.
“Your mask!” I shout at the girl, throwing her off me and diving under my bed. I dig frantically till I find my old mask and resurface. “Put it on,” I yell, thrusting the elastic band over her head.
Else?
“Please wake up,” she’s sobbing now, clutching my sleeves.
Another dream. I freeze, still breathing hard, then slowly take the mask off her. “I’m sorry,” I pull her in to me and hold her weeping frame. It was another dream. Energy shoots out of me and we fall back onto the pillows, Else still in my arms. “I’m sorry.”
She’s shaking, crying for a long time, then quiets. She takes deep breaths, breaks away and sits up.
“I can’t do this, Alberich,” she says quietly.
I look up at her, her hair is mussed around her pale face and falling over girlish shoulders. “We’ll find a way,” I let a sigh. “It’s just going to take some time.”
“Then I need some time.”
I get up on my elbows. “What do you mean?” She wraps her arms around herself. “It’s too hard for me. I don’t know how to help, and you won’t get any. I don’t know what to do anymore. I just need a break.” She gets out of bed and I see she means to leave. “Wait,” I reach for her but she’s already at the dresser. “Wait, Else.” I get to my feet and go to her. I try to take her in my arms, but she pulls away. “You’re leaving me?” I can hardly believe I’m asking this. She shrugs, packing. “I’m exhausted trying to understand. It’s like you’re not even here, you’re always on the front. You’re never with me. The other women at the dairy, they ...” she hesitates, then, “they talk about you. I’m lonely and I just need to be home with my parents for a while.” She stuffs a few belongings in a bag and pulls a dress over her nightgown. I can’t move. I stand frozen as she hastily packs a few more things. Finally, she stands in front of me, a carpetbag between us. The lights are off in our little room, but I can trace where the tears are dripping from her eyes.
“Write to me, and let me know how you’re doing.”
“Tell me when you get there,” I say, numbed.
She reaches up, kisses me, and then she’s gone.
#
It’s been almost three months since Else left me. I finally gave in last month and visited a doctor. The office I’m in now is the second one I’ve been to. I hesitantly take a seat in a small waiting room. Hopefully this doctor will be better. The first one I visited wasn’t understanding of my hysteria and told me to get a job where I could be useful to the economy.
I had tried following Heiko’s advice and joined him in farming. He had found solace in working the land and growing crops, but it reminded me too much of trench digging and I couldn’t ignore the memories.
I spend most of my days at Heiko’s farm though. I can’t stand the loneliness, the vacancy she left, but I can’t even be angry with her for leaving. I’m too ashamed to be angry. I never admit to Heiko how much I miss her. So I’m here in another office, waiting to talk to a doctor. The newspapers say he’s well known in hypnotic psychiatry for war veterans, but I’m here for Else more than myself. She arrived back home in Darmstadt weeks ago, but she doesn’t write much.
“Alberich Bauer.” A starched nurse calls and I follow her. The examination room is empty except for a table and a chair. I take the chair and wait. I had heard of this doctor from Heinrich. My condition has become so common that universities are doing research on it. They call it shell shock now. It sounds more respectable, although I don’t feel better for having a politer name for it. “Herr Bauer,” a middle-aged man enters the room. My attention snaps to him, this stranger who may heal me. “Before we begin, understand you may not remember what happens here. I have had a high percentage of patients who have been cured of shell shock after only their first visit.”
I edge up on my seat. “So you can cure me?”
“I hope so.” He has me lay on the table and pulls the chair close. “Now Herr Bauer, I want you to close your eyes, and try to make your mind a blank.”
#
Heiko is standing outside the office when I come out blinking in the sunlight and asks how it went.
“I don’t really remember,” I say.
“You’ll be all right. Come on, Heinrich has the cab waiting.”
Our drive is peaceful, and I feel strangely empty. I look out the window and notice the great buildings for the first time. I stare at the brilliant blue sky of early summer and watch young leaves waving from the trees. A feeling, soft and fresh as the breeze coming through the open window wafts over me and I realize for the first time my mind is not busy with fear.
“What do you make of it?” Heiko asks.
“Too many damn parties trying to take control,” Heinrich’s growl overrides me.
“Not you. Alberich.”
“So ignore me then,” Heinrich continues. “All I’ll say is the Jews around here should get ready for trouble. Some people don’t like them like they used to.”
I lean forward, interested. “What have you heard?”
“Nothing,” Heiko interjects, shooting Heinrich a warning look.
“He should know, shouldn’t he,” Heinrich counters, “having a Jewish wife and all.” Ignoring Heiko, he continues. “Some people put Germany’s disgrace in the Armistice on the Jews. Said they were part of a conspiracy to overthrow us from the beginning. Not many believe it of course, but lots of people are angry about the war reparations and the inflation. They want someone to blame.”
“Are they … doing anything to Jews?” I ask nervously.
Heinrich shrugs his shoulders. “Eh, nothing serious yet.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Heiko adds.
When they drop me off at my cottage, I decide to write to Else. I get down a few lines about my appointment and about what Heinrich said. I end saying I hope she comes back soon. I think about asking her, but I can’t bring myself to.
#
It’s been over a week since I sent the letter, and I haven’t had a reply from her. I sleep each night without nightmares or memories for the first time in months. The relief has motivated me to look for a job in the city, and I find a position in the back room of a music shop. I don’t do much there, sweeping, straightening up, organizing, but it’s better than nothing.
I’m slicing bread for dinner one evening when I hear a tapping at the door. I look up and Else’s brown hat and summer dress step inside. My knife clatters to the table and I stare at her for a moment. She looks back at me with those great brown eyes, and her sheepish smile makes her face glow.
I approach her without a word. She watches me, and as my hands find their way around her waist, her body yields to my touch. She leans in, and when I kiss her, she returns it. We kiss until we’re both crying, both apologizing, then leave the bread to go stale as we stumble to our room.
#
I think this is a relapse. The memories are creeping in again and I can’t push them away. It’s terrifying thinking about it when Else and I are finally enjoying living normally. I can’t have a full relapse. Not after a whole month.
I try to push my fears out by gingerly brushing another stripe of varnish on a piano. I’ve moved up to polishing the factory-made pianos now. The modern ones are more interesting to work on but they don’t sell like street organs.
What would I do if my shell shock came back? The thought of living in all that old fear makes my chest heave like I’ve received a blow. I must focus on other things if I want to really be rid of them. Not just for my wife now. The manager is closing shop, but I ask to stay behind and finish. I just need to add a few more touches on the lid. When I clean up my materials I notice how quiet the shop is. I turn off a few lights in the work room and admire their dim reflection in the piano lid. Soon I find myself standing before it, fingers resting on its keys.
Three notes shock the stillness and I jump. They’re harsh, but I try a few more until I hear some pleasant notes. I like that they need a gentle touch to be made beautiful. It’s so different from fighting or farming. I sit down and touch all the keys, becoming acquainted with their sounds. Then I start making up tunes. They don’t belong to any piece, but they soothe my anxiety about the shell shock. Soon I can remember which keys make which sounds and play tunes I know. The great clock strikes nine. I look up, I hadn’t thought it was so late. I should go home, Else is probably wondering where I am. But I want to play one more. There’s a song I’d heard someone whistle a lot. As I play it, I try to remember who the whistler was. Then Ernst’s face flashes in front of me in one horrible moment of memory. I gasp and slam my fingers on the keys to stop the melody and a grating noise pounds from the piano. He would whistle that when we worked in each other’s fields. My heart beats painfully. The memories flood in, and I remember screaming for him to come back while the bullet hole in his head glared at me.
I hunch over the keys, hands gripping them as I try to push the thoughts away. But I see him, tall and lanky, dark hair, ruddy face, my best friend, and I start to sob. It’s not manly to cry, but I hide my face in my hands and keep weeping. I had never mourned for him, always found a way to keep it out, but I make it up with my tears now. They rattle out of my body and I grow weak. My head falls to the music rack and I stay there crying. I can’t go home like this. I don’t want Else to see me this way, and I can’t go knowing the memories won again. That really would be a relapse. I make myself sit up and drag my sleeve across my face. Gently touch a few notes from a different song. I let my mind go back to a few times there, skimming the shells and horror, and lingering on happier moments with comrades. Eventually I go back to one particular night. I hum a verse, then sound out “Stille Nacht,” remembering that Christmas of 1914. These memories aren’t exactly happy, but they give me an unfamiliar sense of strength that the doctors couldn’t do. At half past eleven I go home. The house has lights in its windows – Else must have stayed up. When I open the door she springs up from a chair by the fire. Her face is flushed, whether from the heat of the flames, tears, or anger, I can’t tell.
“Where have you been? I thought you were coming home hours ago and I didn’t know where to find you, and it got dark, and I didn’t know if you had another episode and ...” but I can’t make out any more words because she’s pressing her face into my shoulder, talking and crying at the same time. I draw back and look at her. She’s just as beautiful when she cries as when she smiles.
“Listen, I’ve got something to tell you,” I say, and before her expression droops any more I add, “it’ll take a little while, but things are going to get better.”