Short Story "Consume Me"
Consume Me
Mentally preparing myself for the ordeal ahead, I face Saelec and Dieter, two of the many innocent men who were dragged into the war and lost their minds. For weeks my memories have been laboriously dragging their way out of the deep recesses of my mind, and I am finally prepared to tell my story.
This story is the reason why my hands shake as I operate on civilians in need. This story is why I cannot bear to read the newspaper. For when I read the newspaper I learn of the Europeans and the Russians and the new treaties and deals. This news of the outside world brings up regrets and weakness; I sign away my life every time I bring myself to learn about the world.
Steeling myself, I smooth my well-worn uniform with a wrinkled hand. My old, war hardened joints creak when I walk through the door of a silent hospital room, and I am met by smiles and support. This is the first time my uniform has crawled its way out of the cupboard at home and made its way to its original position; draping its way over my body like a tattered, foreign layer of ill-fitting skin.
I fidget with nervousness, like a child on the first day of school, looking for their desk in a large school with unfamiliar classrooms.
“It started the day I requested to transfer to Russia.” I begin. As I slowly retell my unique experience, I close my eyes and descend into the abyss of my previously buried treasure trove of memories.
---I work through the shots and screams, through the wounds, the sickness, and death. Nothing can reach me as I work in my crystalized shell; pain and suffering bounce off a cold wall of ice constructed around me.
The courage of my current patient shows through as he writhes in pain, his cry barely concealed in the soft prison of his mouth. Finally, as I grab hold of the shrapnel in this man’s leg, he slips out from under our nurse’s hold and lashes out, nearly knocking my spectacles with one wild fist.
“Chloroform the scoundrel!” I call out to one of the assistants. Immediately he becomes limp under our silver instruments and becomes instantly meek. “Pardon me, Herr Doctor, I will keep still but do not chloroform me” My steady hand slips and I glance over to his sweat stained face. He speaks to me in complete seriousness and I start to chuckle, amazed by the will of this man. “Well now,” I say back. This man has some spark in him. Lets see how much he can handle. Gazing at him over my golden spectacles, I insert my tools into the man’s wound. He is flinching, gripping the handles tightly, but not a sound escapes from him.
Sweat beads on his forehead and his muscles bulge against the handles. Only a strong mind could handle this surgery without chloroform, and the urge to test him further consumes me. I will test him, but not to the point of exhaustion. After all, there is no point in purposely injuring your own soldiers. Finally I grab hold of the piece of shrapnel in this mans leg and extract it. As he lies before me I admire his endurance and am surprised when a man bursts into the room with a sense of urgency. I am not to be interrupted during surgery; all in the hospital knows that. Working on the front there is no time for an important surgeon like me to waste.
Panting, the man delivers his message. “Herr, the city, your mother, all gone. The Russians raided. There is nothing left.” I understand immediately what he is saying to me. I am alone. Leaving my patient to collect himself on the table, I nod to the messenger, keeping my emotions in check. With the nurse’s cries fading behind me in the passages, I purposely stride to the Generals office.
Once inside, I wait at the door and respectively salute. “Herr General.”
“Sven.” He replies, not looking up from his work. “I am busy. Whatever you are requesting can wait.”
I salute again and turn towards the door. Hesitating, I decide that this matter cannot wait. I fill my lungs with air and I seem to fill the small space with my large and bulky body. Spinning around I blurt out, “Sir I request to be transferred to the Russian army.” His hand stops scrawling across the paper. All of my six feet three inches towers over him. My vibrant eyes drill into his hunched-over neck, piercing him until he finally responds.
His eyes raise slowly up to meet mine, unfazed by my height and bulky body. “You do know we fight against them.” He says slowly, as if I have lost my mind, which I very well may have.
“Yes sir.” I reply. “I am a skilled surgeon who is half Russian, and I am requesting this transfer to take part in destroying the Russian army from the inside.” The General slowly and purposefully folds his paper; I could practically see the wheels turning in his head.
“I think, Sven, that I shall need some time. I will examine reports and your papers, and perhaps it will turn out. I will need to consider your skill, for you are a great asset to us here. It would be difficult for us to give you up.” Saluting, I turn towards the door and walk through without a sound, my anticipation brewing over, nearly breaking me at the seams.
I am so consumed in bloodlust and my wish for revenge that thoughts of discovery, danger, and the pure insanity of this idea do not affect me.
Two days later I return to his office, overwhelmed, I protect my hopes against harm, and push my way through the opening.
“Sven,” he says my name without looking up. “This may be the one thing the Germans need over on the Eastern front. Permission granted.”
Barely containing my excitement, I snap into the respectful salute once again. “Thank you, Herr General. I will chart my passage presently.”
Slightly dazed from my success, I resume my daily routine, impatiently waiting for my opportunity to travel to Russia and avenge my mother’s death.
August 23, 1917
Barely awake, I shake the long night from my mind and stumble into routine. The day is barely breaking as I move to relieve the on-duty surgeon from his night shift. The sun here in Riga blazes through day and night in the summer and as I walk outside in the early morning hours, I am momentarily blinded. Ducking into the makeshift hospital, the smell of enemy blood once again does not fail to wake me from my morning stupor.
A cacophony of noise and cries and general bustle meets my ears with a defiant ferocity. There was a bombardment along the front today and there are many injured men begging for reassurances and assistance. I make my way to the cell where I have been jailed in during my shift for the past year or so and accept that there will be no peace today.
The operation table is covered in blood and man is strewn all over; his intestines commandeering any spare room they can find outside of his body. Out of the many purposefully botched surgeries, this will be one of the easiest. All I shall need to do is sew a piece of his intestines together, patch him back up, and all is good as new! No one will even get the chance to wonder if it is me who is sending all of those soldiers home, exhausting their resources, and overall, doing all I can to make life difficult for the barbaric Russian army. This surgery shall be quick, for since he is already unconscious, I need not prod around and cause more pain to scar him mentally as well.
Any regrets I have ever felt have faded to the back of my mind, forced down by the hard cold façade I have to uphold for the Russians. I have successfully convinced everyone so far, and am becoming the man I pretend to be. The fake surgeries no longer tarry in my mind, tugging at my subconscious and whispering this is wrong Sven, stop. I have been using my skill at surgery for many months to (putting it nicely) relieve the Russian soldiers from their duties. I give them pain and suffering, sew together pieces that should not be connected, and overall, try as hard as I can to scar them mentally as well as physically.
I put my doubts aside many months ago as I gave into the revenge. I am now consumed with thoughts of evil and corruption, the Devil having easily consumed me the day I was most vulnerable. I shall die satisfied and fulfilled, now that my mother’s death has been avenged.
Doing my sadistic, twisted, duty, I slog through the heavy air from one bed to the next. Choking on the thick smell of blood and sweat, I dig myself further into routine. It has become an alternate reality for me. I am now Afanasy, the Russian medic on the front.
October 23, 1917
The second Russian Revolution is happening. Lenin is making his final ascent to power. Chaos will reign and I will make an unnoticed escape
I am in the process of sewing up yet another botched surgery when someone rushes in the room, smashing the door open wide. I jump from fright and my arm swings wide, slashing yet another hole in this injured soldier. A man approaches me with a hostile glare in his eyes.
“Sir, you will need to come with me.” His body is angled towards me threateningly; ready to confront me physically if I do not conform to his orders. His rough gravely voice demands obedience.
“I do not understand. What is wrong? Has something happened?” I feign innocence on a whim and hope for the best.
He began delicately and finished harsh. “Words have been passed that many of the permanently injured soldiers have been traced back to you. Is it you sending them home?”
“B-But sir,” I stammer, “why should I be sending them home? Are you questioning my skill?” I splutter, weakly pretending to be affronted.
“Sir, we question your loyalty. I am here to escort you to the transport.” And with this he turns towards the door. In a wild hopeless dash I throw myself out of the opposite patchwork doorway, landing awkwardly in a ditch on my right leg hard and I feel something tear. Excruciating pain follows, but I limp south anyway, I have to get away…I have to get away.
I hitch a ride on the next truck out and make up a quick story about how I was urgently called to the next encampment over.
This plan was dangerous and stupid, and would possibly result in death.
Hours later, after being bumped and jostled roughly in the back of a truck, we arrived at our destination. This part of the front was eerily quiet, a perfect setting in which to execute my plan. I leap out of the back of the truck, still nursing my sore leg. Avoiding questions and introductions was key, as I already drew suspicion with my odd appearance. My mind frantically goes over my appearance, assessing my demonic apparel. I am covered in blood up to my shock of grayish-blonde hair. Keeping my head down and moving quickly was the best way to avoid stares, and my surgeon’s uniform kept me out of most confrontations. To get to the front, I had to make my way through the labyrinth of passages and tents, and I could not see no-mans land for hours.
Once I was so close to the no mans land that I could practically taste it, I could hold back my fate no more. Pushing through the pending exhaustion and sprinting the remaining length brought me quickly through the rest of the men, and only a few gathered their wits soon enough to call out to me in time, but I was already too far-gone. Throwing myself past the last barrier, I found myself screaming for my freedom in a foreign language. The words were sharp and guttural on my tongue, forcing their way out harshly.
The senseless chatter was the only thing that kept me running, bullets firing at me from behind…. from behind.
The Russians behind me were my enemies. That is why I have been holed up in that terrible medic center for a year.
The language I was screaming suddenly turned melodious and beautiful. A soft song coming from a Germans mouth. I was going home.
Suddenly the bullets stopped firing and I heard confused shouts from the empty space in front of me. I responded, though in that state I am not entirely sure what ended up echoing from my mouth across the open space. Whatever it was it bought my life.
Collapsing just inside the borders, I was roughly shoved into a standing position and half dragged in to a space reserved for medical inspection. I slipped in and out of sleep, drifting in an ethereal state of half consciousness; the past year of working behind everyone’s back taking its final toll on me.
This time I was the one being poked and prodded, but finally I was deemed worthy of exhibition to a man who would decide my fate after my interrogation.
His mouth tightened as he lays eyes on my Russian medic uniform.
“What is the meaning of this?” He demands.
“Sir, I can explain,” I begin. Telling the story of Afanasy over in a condensed form is not as hard as I expected it would be. It felt like I was telling it from the outside perspective of Sven and the words telling my story of intentional pain flowed easily from my lips.
Many emotions flickered over the Commanders face, but I could tell he was impressed enough with my insane story to grant me freedom.
“Please sir, let me go home.” I begged and pleaded with this man and my efforts finally wore him down.
“You may leave on the next truck out.” He gave in to my incessant cries.
Jubilation broke like a wave over me and I left the room triumphant.
September 30, 1917
Strasbourg is even more beautiful than I remembered, with its pristine gardens and beautifully carved architecture. Haunting memories of happy times tug at my subconscious and as I finally realize I am home, a tear of joy tracks a streak of silver down my grimy face. My steps retrace old timeworn paths of mine and I let them take me where they may.
I look up and find myself gazing at my precious sanctuary; the hospital. Pushing my way through the doors I notice the usual hustle and bustle of the past was gone. I make my way to the washroom and change into the soft scrubs I had grown so used to before the war. The thin clothing brush against my skin and make me feel light as a feather; I practically float down the hallways.
The eerie silence echoes through the empty recesses of my brain and turns into a haunting melody of times now past. Imaginary whispers tug at my conscience and tunnel their way deep into my emotions. A low murmur travels from behind one of the doors and sparks my curiosity. I wander over to the door and it creaks open. The frantic whispers stop immediately and two sets of curious eyes turn towards mine. These eyes are military eyes, soldiers by the look of it. I have had many a tortured gaze capture mine but none as haunted and empty as these.
Introductions are passed and I discover their names to be Saelec and Dieter. We sit in a comfortable silence, the unspoken hardships of war and terrible experiences hanging between us on a frayed string of knowledge. Saelec broke the sacred silence eventually by speaking in a shaking, hushed voice, “Rank. What rank were you?” Glancing down at my lap, I was surprised to find that I actually was not wearing my telltale uniform anymore. The soft scrubs no longer felt so smooth and water-like against my scarred skin. The folds again felt rough and unyielding, a portal into my past of war and surgery. I snap, caught between past present, and the far future, the world going momentarily black around me. ---
My vision blurs and tears pour out of my eyes. I am kneeling on the hard hospital floor, my wrinkled hands tearing at the uniform that bunches awkwardly on my frail old body. Finally remembering things past forgotten, for years I was corrupted by the devil, purposefully killing and injuring men for my own gain. I have lived years since that story and have pushed everything underneath the surface, forgotten, but I feel different now; I am flooded by revulsion from the things that I have done and the people I have harmed. The images of my Russian expedition incessantly pound on my brain like a waterfall of relentless information never ceasing its deadly torrent.
This is too much for an old man, I am drowning in regret. Stumbling to my feet, I push the others away and shove myself through the door. Their unsettled cries ring after me but my troubled mind is filled with so much pain I don’t notice the concern threaded in among Dieter’s features. My ears are deafened to sound, my eyes deadened to color, my heart burns with pain.
I push my weak body up flights of stairs, my uniform feeding me energy borrowed from a young medic long ago.
Gasping in the fresh air of the rooftop of the hospital I hear my comrades steps pounding up the steps, their wheezing breath signaling they struggle as well. I gaze out at the pristine beauty of Strasbourg, my eyes frantically searching for that one last comfort, that one last jut of hope that I could actually learn to belong. There was no such luck. My experiences have set me apart from the rest of the world, fencing me off as an item of danger, fencing me off even from myself. Even as an old man in a welcoming community, I never really connected. That one fatal day where I decided my fate in the generals room, changed me to the point of no return. Life is worthless to a man with corrupted twisted honor; there is no space for him in an unforgiving world.
I gathered myself onto the ledge, holding my breath as if that would make it easier. Speaking outward to nothing, to the inevitable, beautiful death waiting to release me from a cursed life, I whisper in a cracked voice, “Consume me” calling out to the heavens, I cry, “death, consume me! Do with me what you will, carry it out quickly.”
My body betrays me and I watch as a silent tear traces its suicidal path to the ground, shattering on the lane below. It illuminates the way I must take to free myself, and makes the terrible path seem a little less dark, a little easier. With a final breath, I gaze out on the rest of the world, and find the beauty in every last stone-cold item on this time-ridden world.
Air whispers through my fingers as I soar to the soft forgiving street below.
From the outside it looked like I threw myself off the ledge, but I floated. I swept my way down to the street outside, then danced my way back up into the open sky, to whatever fate awaits me in heaven, never once looking back on the distraught face of Dieter, still looking in the wrong direction, looking down to the beautifully arranged, but terribly broken husk of the old man I used to be.
I had nothing left and I was free.
SVENS EULOGY
Today we honor the hero that wasn’t a hero. This is meant in the most respectful way, as the man we gather here for saw past the thick facade that veils the truth of war. Sven Vogt started as a simple man, but he, like the rest, was swept up in the current of the battles and the petty triumphs. The trouble is, he went off the waterfall sooner than the rest of us, because he was so wise as to see that what we’ve done in the Great War is inescapable in this lifetime.
Sven would not have wanted us to lie to you. He would have wanted us to tell you the horrors of his actions. He was corrupted with vengeance and lost sight of who he truly was. All he wanted was forgiveness, but all he received was regret, consuming him all these years later. But for everything he had done, his eyes still held the same light as he persisted through the cards he had dealt himself. Regardless of his past, he was courageous for the decision he made to take his own life. He was a pioneer in profound self-realization for our generation. To those he affected in Russia, he was a monster, but to those of us closer to home, with our own personal wartime struggles, Sven was a hero. But, really, what is the difference between a monster and a hero? The war changed us how it liked regardless.
But don’t mind a foolish soldier’s words. Make of Sven what you will. But I know that if he lived, he would stand beside us in our struggle against history. He would learn from his mistakes and love us like family, bearing his surgeon’s scalpel against the trials of tomorrow.
Mentally preparing myself for the ordeal ahead, I face Saelec and Dieter, two of the many innocent men who were dragged into the war and lost their minds. For weeks my memories have been laboriously dragging their way out of the deep recesses of my mind, and I am finally prepared to tell my story.
This story is the reason why my hands shake as I operate on civilians in need. This story is why I cannot bear to read the newspaper. For when I read the newspaper I learn of the Europeans and the Russians and the new treaties and deals. This news of the outside world brings up regrets and weakness; I sign away my life every time I bring myself to learn about the world.
Steeling myself, I smooth my well-worn uniform with a wrinkled hand. My old, war hardened joints creak when I walk through the door of a silent hospital room, and I am met by smiles and support. This is the first time my uniform has crawled its way out of the cupboard at home and made its way to its original position; draping its way over my body like a tattered, foreign layer of ill-fitting skin.
I fidget with nervousness, like a child on the first day of school, looking for their desk in a large school with unfamiliar classrooms.
“It started the day I requested to transfer to Russia.” I begin. As I slowly retell my unique experience, I close my eyes and descend into the abyss of my previously buried treasure trove of memories.
---I work through the shots and screams, through the wounds, the sickness, and death. Nothing can reach me as I work in my crystalized shell; pain and suffering bounce off a cold wall of ice constructed around me.
The courage of my current patient shows through as he writhes in pain, his cry barely concealed in the soft prison of his mouth. Finally, as I grab hold of the shrapnel in this man’s leg, he slips out from under our nurse’s hold and lashes out, nearly knocking my spectacles with one wild fist.
“Chloroform the scoundrel!” I call out to one of the assistants. Immediately he becomes limp under our silver instruments and becomes instantly meek. “Pardon me, Herr Doctor, I will keep still but do not chloroform me” My steady hand slips and I glance over to his sweat stained face. He speaks to me in complete seriousness and I start to chuckle, amazed by the will of this man. “Well now,” I say back. This man has some spark in him. Lets see how much he can handle. Gazing at him over my golden spectacles, I insert my tools into the man’s wound. He is flinching, gripping the handles tightly, but not a sound escapes from him.
Sweat beads on his forehead and his muscles bulge against the handles. Only a strong mind could handle this surgery without chloroform, and the urge to test him further consumes me. I will test him, but not to the point of exhaustion. After all, there is no point in purposely injuring your own soldiers. Finally I grab hold of the piece of shrapnel in this mans leg and extract it. As he lies before me I admire his endurance and am surprised when a man bursts into the room with a sense of urgency. I am not to be interrupted during surgery; all in the hospital knows that. Working on the front there is no time for an important surgeon like me to waste.
Panting, the man delivers his message. “Herr, the city, your mother, all gone. The Russians raided. There is nothing left.” I understand immediately what he is saying to me. I am alone. Leaving my patient to collect himself on the table, I nod to the messenger, keeping my emotions in check. With the nurse’s cries fading behind me in the passages, I purposely stride to the Generals office.
Once inside, I wait at the door and respectively salute. “Herr General.”
“Sven.” He replies, not looking up from his work. “I am busy. Whatever you are requesting can wait.”
I salute again and turn towards the door. Hesitating, I decide that this matter cannot wait. I fill my lungs with air and I seem to fill the small space with my large and bulky body. Spinning around I blurt out, “Sir I request to be transferred to the Russian army.” His hand stops scrawling across the paper. All of my six feet three inches towers over him. My vibrant eyes drill into his hunched-over neck, piercing him until he finally responds.
His eyes raise slowly up to meet mine, unfazed by my height and bulky body. “You do know we fight against them.” He says slowly, as if I have lost my mind, which I very well may have.
“Yes sir.” I reply. “I am a skilled surgeon who is half Russian, and I am requesting this transfer to take part in destroying the Russian army from the inside.” The General slowly and purposefully folds his paper; I could practically see the wheels turning in his head.
“I think, Sven, that I shall need some time. I will examine reports and your papers, and perhaps it will turn out. I will need to consider your skill, for you are a great asset to us here. It would be difficult for us to give you up.” Saluting, I turn towards the door and walk through without a sound, my anticipation brewing over, nearly breaking me at the seams.
I am so consumed in bloodlust and my wish for revenge that thoughts of discovery, danger, and the pure insanity of this idea do not affect me.
Two days later I return to his office, overwhelmed, I protect my hopes against harm, and push my way through the opening.
“Sven,” he says my name without looking up. “This may be the one thing the Germans need over on the Eastern front. Permission granted.”
Barely containing my excitement, I snap into the respectful salute once again. “Thank you, Herr General. I will chart my passage presently.”
Slightly dazed from my success, I resume my daily routine, impatiently waiting for my opportunity to travel to Russia and avenge my mother’s death.
August 23, 1917
Barely awake, I shake the long night from my mind and stumble into routine. The day is barely breaking as I move to relieve the on-duty surgeon from his night shift. The sun here in Riga blazes through day and night in the summer and as I walk outside in the early morning hours, I am momentarily blinded. Ducking into the makeshift hospital, the smell of enemy blood once again does not fail to wake me from my morning stupor.
A cacophony of noise and cries and general bustle meets my ears with a defiant ferocity. There was a bombardment along the front today and there are many injured men begging for reassurances and assistance. I make my way to the cell where I have been jailed in during my shift for the past year or so and accept that there will be no peace today.
The operation table is covered in blood and man is strewn all over; his intestines commandeering any spare room they can find outside of his body. Out of the many purposefully botched surgeries, this will be one of the easiest. All I shall need to do is sew a piece of his intestines together, patch him back up, and all is good as new! No one will even get the chance to wonder if it is me who is sending all of those soldiers home, exhausting their resources, and overall, doing all I can to make life difficult for the barbaric Russian army. This surgery shall be quick, for since he is already unconscious, I need not prod around and cause more pain to scar him mentally as well.
Any regrets I have ever felt have faded to the back of my mind, forced down by the hard cold façade I have to uphold for the Russians. I have successfully convinced everyone so far, and am becoming the man I pretend to be. The fake surgeries no longer tarry in my mind, tugging at my subconscious and whispering this is wrong Sven, stop. I have been using my skill at surgery for many months to (putting it nicely) relieve the Russian soldiers from their duties. I give them pain and suffering, sew together pieces that should not be connected, and overall, try as hard as I can to scar them mentally as well as physically.
I put my doubts aside many months ago as I gave into the revenge. I am now consumed with thoughts of evil and corruption, the Devil having easily consumed me the day I was most vulnerable. I shall die satisfied and fulfilled, now that my mother’s death has been avenged.
Doing my sadistic, twisted, duty, I slog through the heavy air from one bed to the next. Choking on the thick smell of blood and sweat, I dig myself further into routine. It has become an alternate reality for me. I am now Afanasy, the Russian medic on the front.
October 23, 1917
The second Russian Revolution is happening. Lenin is making his final ascent to power. Chaos will reign and I will make an unnoticed escape
I am in the process of sewing up yet another botched surgery when someone rushes in the room, smashing the door open wide. I jump from fright and my arm swings wide, slashing yet another hole in this injured soldier. A man approaches me with a hostile glare in his eyes.
“Sir, you will need to come with me.” His body is angled towards me threateningly; ready to confront me physically if I do not conform to his orders. His rough gravely voice demands obedience.
“I do not understand. What is wrong? Has something happened?” I feign innocence on a whim and hope for the best.
He began delicately and finished harsh. “Words have been passed that many of the permanently injured soldiers have been traced back to you. Is it you sending them home?”
“B-But sir,” I stammer, “why should I be sending them home? Are you questioning my skill?” I splutter, weakly pretending to be affronted.
“Sir, we question your loyalty. I am here to escort you to the transport.” And with this he turns towards the door. In a wild hopeless dash I throw myself out of the opposite patchwork doorway, landing awkwardly in a ditch on my right leg hard and I feel something tear. Excruciating pain follows, but I limp south anyway, I have to get away…I have to get away.
I hitch a ride on the next truck out and make up a quick story about how I was urgently called to the next encampment over.
This plan was dangerous and stupid, and would possibly result in death.
Hours later, after being bumped and jostled roughly in the back of a truck, we arrived at our destination. This part of the front was eerily quiet, a perfect setting in which to execute my plan. I leap out of the back of the truck, still nursing my sore leg. Avoiding questions and introductions was key, as I already drew suspicion with my odd appearance. My mind frantically goes over my appearance, assessing my demonic apparel. I am covered in blood up to my shock of grayish-blonde hair. Keeping my head down and moving quickly was the best way to avoid stares, and my surgeon’s uniform kept me out of most confrontations. To get to the front, I had to make my way through the labyrinth of passages and tents, and I could not see no-mans land for hours.
Once I was so close to the no mans land that I could practically taste it, I could hold back my fate no more. Pushing through the pending exhaustion and sprinting the remaining length brought me quickly through the rest of the men, and only a few gathered their wits soon enough to call out to me in time, but I was already too far-gone. Throwing myself past the last barrier, I found myself screaming for my freedom in a foreign language. The words were sharp and guttural on my tongue, forcing their way out harshly.
The senseless chatter was the only thing that kept me running, bullets firing at me from behind…. from behind.
The Russians behind me were my enemies. That is why I have been holed up in that terrible medic center for a year.
The language I was screaming suddenly turned melodious and beautiful. A soft song coming from a Germans mouth. I was going home.
Suddenly the bullets stopped firing and I heard confused shouts from the empty space in front of me. I responded, though in that state I am not entirely sure what ended up echoing from my mouth across the open space. Whatever it was it bought my life.
Collapsing just inside the borders, I was roughly shoved into a standing position and half dragged in to a space reserved for medical inspection. I slipped in and out of sleep, drifting in an ethereal state of half consciousness; the past year of working behind everyone’s back taking its final toll on me.
This time I was the one being poked and prodded, but finally I was deemed worthy of exhibition to a man who would decide my fate after my interrogation.
His mouth tightened as he lays eyes on my Russian medic uniform.
“What is the meaning of this?” He demands.
“Sir, I can explain,” I begin. Telling the story of Afanasy over in a condensed form is not as hard as I expected it would be. It felt like I was telling it from the outside perspective of Sven and the words telling my story of intentional pain flowed easily from my lips.
Many emotions flickered over the Commanders face, but I could tell he was impressed enough with my insane story to grant me freedom.
“Please sir, let me go home.” I begged and pleaded with this man and my efforts finally wore him down.
“You may leave on the next truck out.” He gave in to my incessant cries.
Jubilation broke like a wave over me and I left the room triumphant.
September 30, 1917
Strasbourg is even more beautiful than I remembered, with its pristine gardens and beautifully carved architecture. Haunting memories of happy times tug at my subconscious and as I finally realize I am home, a tear of joy tracks a streak of silver down my grimy face. My steps retrace old timeworn paths of mine and I let them take me where they may.
I look up and find myself gazing at my precious sanctuary; the hospital. Pushing my way through the doors I notice the usual hustle and bustle of the past was gone. I make my way to the washroom and change into the soft scrubs I had grown so used to before the war. The thin clothing brush against my skin and make me feel light as a feather; I practically float down the hallways.
The eerie silence echoes through the empty recesses of my brain and turns into a haunting melody of times now past. Imaginary whispers tug at my conscience and tunnel their way deep into my emotions. A low murmur travels from behind one of the doors and sparks my curiosity. I wander over to the door and it creaks open. The frantic whispers stop immediately and two sets of curious eyes turn towards mine. These eyes are military eyes, soldiers by the look of it. I have had many a tortured gaze capture mine but none as haunted and empty as these.
Introductions are passed and I discover their names to be Saelec and Dieter. We sit in a comfortable silence, the unspoken hardships of war and terrible experiences hanging between us on a frayed string of knowledge. Saelec broke the sacred silence eventually by speaking in a shaking, hushed voice, “Rank. What rank were you?” Glancing down at my lap, I was surprised to find that I actually was not wearing my telltale uniform anymore. The soft scrubs no longer felt so smooth and water-like against my scarred skin. The folds again felt rough and unyielding, a portal into my past of war and surgery. I snap, caught between past present, and the far future, the world going momentarily black around me. ---
My vision blurs and tears pour out of my eyes. I am kneeling on the hard hospital floor, my wrinkled hands tearing at the uniform that bunches awkwardly on my frail old body. Finally remembering things past forgotten, for years I was corrupted by the devil, purposefully killing and injuring men for my own gain. I have lived years since that story and have pushed everything underneath the surface, forgotten, but I feel different now; I am flooded by revulsion from the things that I have done and the people I have harmed. The images of my Russian expedition incessantly pound on my brain like a waterfall of relentless information never ceasing its deadly torrent.
This is too much for an old man, I am drowning in regret. Stumbling to my feet, I push the others away and shove myself through the door. Their unsettled cries ring after me but my troubled mind is filled with so much pain I don’t notice the concern threaded in among Dieter’s features. My ears are deafened to sound, my eyes deadened to color, my heart burns with pain.
I push my weak body up flights of stairs, my uniform feeding me energy borrowed from a young medic long ago.
Gasping in the fresh air of the rooftop of the hospital I hear my comrades steps pounding up the steps, their wheezing breath signaling they struggle as well. I gaze out at the pristine beauty of Strasbourg, my eyes frantically searching for that one last comfort, that one last jut of hope that I could actually learn to belong. There was no such luck. My experiences have set me apart from the rest of the world, fencing me off as an item of danger, fencing me off even from myself. Even as an old man in a welcoming community, I never really connected. That one fatal day where I decided my fate in the generals room, changed me to the point of no return. Life is worthless to a man with corrupted twisted honor; there is no space for him in an unforgiving world.
I gathered myself onto the ledge, holding my breath as if that would make it easier. Speaking outward to nothing, to the inevitable, beautiful death waiting to release me from a cursed life, I whisper in a cracked voice, “Consume me” calling out to the heavens, I cry, “death, consume me! Do with me what you will, carry it out quickly.”
My body betrays me and I watch as a silent tear traces its suicidal path to the ground, shattering on the lane below. It illuminates the way I must take to free myself, and makes the terrible path seem a little less dark, a little easier. With a final breath, I gaze out on the rest of the world, and find the beauty in every last stone-cold item on this time-ridden world.
Air whispers through my fingers as I soar to the soft forgiving street below.
From the outside it looked like I threw myself off the ledge, but I floated. I swept my way down to the street outside, then danced my way back up into the open sky, to whatever fate awaits me in heaven, never once looking back on the distraught face of Dieter, still looking in the wrong direction, looking down to the beautifully arranged, but terribly broken husk of the old man I used to be.
I had nothing left and I was free.
SVENS EULOGY
Today we honor the hero that wasn’t a hero. This is meant in the most respectful way, as the man we gather here for saw past the thick facade that veils the truth of war. Sven Vogt started as a simple man, but he, like the rest, was swept up in the current of the battles and the petty triumphs. The trouble is, he went off the waterfall sooner than the rest of us, because he was so wise as to see that what we’ve done in the Great War is inescapable in this lifetime.
Sven would not have wanted us to lie to you. He would have wanted us to tell you the horrors of his actions. He was corrupted with vengeance and lost sight of who he truly was. All he wanted was forgiveness, but all he received was regret, consuming him all these years later. But for everything he had done, his eyes still held the same light as he persisted through the cards he had dealt himself. Regardless of his past, he was courageous for the decision he made to take his own life. He was a pioneer in profound self-realization for our generation. To those he affected in Russia, he was a monster, but to those of us closer to home, with our own personal wartime struggles, Sven was a hero. But, really, what is the difference between a monster and a hero? The war changed us how it liked regardless.
But don’t mind a foolish soldier’s words. Make of Sven what you will. But I know that if he lived, he would stand beside us in our struggle against history. He would learn from his mistakes and love us like family, bearing his surgeon’s scalpel against the trials of tomorrow.