Chris Bohjalian - Skeletons at the Feast

Callum appeared beside her now and dropped at his feet the trunk he was carrying. She recognized it as Theo's, though she knew that most of what had been wedged into it was either provisions for the trek or valuables that her parents thought they might barter as they made their way west. She and her mother had sewn small, secret pockets into some of their dresses and skirts in which they would hide jewelry, since it was possible that diamonds and gold might be the only currency with any value someday soon. Like her, Theo was taking a single suitcase.

“I'm sorry,” Callum said to her simply. “The people who did that to your family… well, they weren't soldiers, you know. They were just criminals.”

She thought about this, but the idea offered little comfort. What difference did it make? “I'm scared,” she said simply. She realized that she really hadn't been before. She had been agitated and apprehensive, she had felt a deep and nagging unease. But until now she hadn't been frightened.

“I can't say I blame you.”

“I tell myself it was all my uncle's fault. You know, he did this to himself. To his family. Because he wouldn't listen, he wouldn't leave. If he had, they'd all be alive today. All of them. You realize that, don't you?”

“I do, yes.”

“Still: I'm scared.”

“Because of the Russians…”

“And because it's all over! Everything!” she said, raising her voice more than she'd meant to. “I've never lived anyplace but Kaminheim. Now I don't even know where I'll be sleeping tonight!”

Though her father or mother or Helmut might appear at any moment, he put his arms around her and pulled her against him. She was wearing only a sweater and so she was shivering. He stroked her hair, careful not to disturb the long braid that ran down her back. She murmured something into his chest, but he couldn't make it out and so he gently lifted her chin with his thumb.

“They…” she began again. Her eyes were moist, but she wasn't crying and it might have been the cold alone that was causing them to water.

“Your uncle's family?” he asked.

“The Russians,” she said, her voice almost bewildered. “They must have been very mad.”

A gust of wind whipped the snow on the walkway into a series of small, tornado-like swirls, and the noise momentarily drowned out the cannonade.

“Apparently. But that sort of behavior is always inexcusable,” he said, wishing he had found a word that suggested the gravity of the Russians' atrocities. He was parroting, he suspected, something his own priggish uncle once must have said. “Even in the worst moments of a war, it's intolerable. No British soldier would have done such a thing. You know that, don't you?”

“I know you believe that.”

“It's a fact,” he said, instantly regretting how curt he had sounded.

“I wouldn't have thought German soldiers would, either. But from what you've told me-from what your radio people claim-they did, and that's probably why the Bolsheviks are so barbaric now.”

He considered this and wondered, as he did often, what sort of soldier he would have been if he hadn't fallen from the sky into a bog and been taken prisoner so quickly. He didn't fear he would ever have done anything cowardly: He was twenty and still had the remorseless confidence of late adolescence. And he knew that he had handled himself well enough when he was helping his fellow paratroopers survive their first moments in the marsh after that disastrous drop. Rather, what made him curious was how capricious his captors had been before he was sent here to Kaminheim to help with the harvest. The guards, he had observed, might dispense a completely unwarranted kindness upon one POW because there was something they liked about the particular Brit's or American's attitude. He was quiet, perhaps. Or he would smile once in a while. Meanwhile, they would beat another prisoner senseless with their rifle butts because they were annoyed with the fellow's sluggishness or the way he wore his overcoat, or they simply didn't like the shape of his jaw or the color of his eyes.

And, Callum presumed, it was a thousand times worse on the battlefield. Those Germans who captured him: Sure, they wanted prisoners they could interrogate. But had they had a less seasoned commander, they probably would have just opened fire and machine-gunned the paratroopers as they struggled from the swamp. And that would have been absolutely fair and reasonable. Hell, if he'd seen a group of German paratroopers in some bog near Elgin in the midst of an invasion, he wouldn't have asked a whole lot of questions before opening fire.

Still, he would never have killed a civilian. Never. Nor would he have raped some poor girl because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was certain that none of his mates would have, either.

Likewise, he couldn't see Helmut doing such things.

Yet Helmut's peers very well might. And Werner's probably had. For all he knew, they had done far worse, if that was possible. And if they hadn't actually raped the girls they had come across in Russia, it was only because they didn't rape dogs and pigs, either. It was beneath them.

What the Russians were doing wasn't forgivable. But it was, he feared, understandable. In their minds, they were just taking an eye for an eye.

And so he had to admit that he was a little relieved, too, that he was going west with the Emmerichs and not staying behind to greet the Russian army. It wasn't just that he wanted to protect Anna. It wasn't just that he wanted to be with her. It was, he thought, his best shot at surviving this nightmare.

THEY LEFT WELL before lunchtime, just as Father had insisted. They left on foot, six more people and four more horses, joining the river of refugees planning, if necessary, to walk the width of Germany in the winter. They left as the snow flurries once more began to coat the road and the roof of the manor house, as behind them the chimneys grew cold. They were a solemn, largely silent procession, their thoughts punctuated always by the sound of the cannons, because by this point there was nothing to say. Anna glanced once at Theo and saw the poor boy had a face that was resolute: He was striving to be as grown-up as his older brothers, soldiers both, as sure and as steadfast as Callum. He was also, she imagined, simply too scared to cry now. Didn't dare. She guessed they all felt that way on some level.

As they passed between the imposing stone columns that marked the entrance to Kaminheim, she noticed that neither of her parents ever looked back.

THE REFUGEES IN THE COLUMNS MOVED AT DIFFERENT speeds once they were west of the Vistula, not unlike the runners in the middle stages of a marathon. The Emmerichs on occasion were passed and on occasion passed others. During their first afternoon without Helmut or Rolf, they spoke to almost no one, and when they bedded down for the night at the estate of a family they knew in Klinger-abandoned, too, they found when they arrived, and already occupied by a half-dozen other families trekking west-they were so exhausted that they barely opened their mouths. Even Callum was largely silent as he and Anna fed the horses and watched the animals sniff at the strange stalls. Mutti opened some of the canned meats they had brought, and selflessly shared the food-as well as some apples and beets-with the families there, since all of them were traveling on foot and hadn't been able to bring anywhere near the provisions that the Emmerichs had. She had, by her own rough calculations, given away about a day and a half's worth of their food. But it would have been indecent not to share what they had.