Ben Burgis

         Fritz Handler peered warily through the little black grid separating him from the priest who was to hear his confession. True, the old priest seemed kindly and sympathetic and not entirely awash in patriotic fervor. Still, it was quite a leap from there to assuming that Fritz could trust him with his confession of murder, treason and madness.

         But he had made his decision well before coming here. He took a deep breath and plunged in.

         "Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

         Simply to be back in Berlin was pure bliss, after this long in Poland. This was Fritz's first leave of any real duration, and he planned to spend as much of it as possible with Anna. First, though, he could spend a few hours being the dutiful son—and a relaxing walk to the university was welcome exercise after the long train ride to Berlin.

         Fritz was happy to be far, far away from the front at least for a few days, but he felt oddly reluctant to change out of his Luftwaffe uniform. There were people he knew in Berlin who had never seen him in any uniform but that of the Hitler Youth.

         If one was to risk one’s life for the Fatherland, he thought wryly, it was only fair to milk the romanticism of being a fighter pilot for all it was worth.

         Sliding the metal box of cigarettes out of his pocket, he noticed the swastika emblazoned on the front, and wondered if he was going to ever be able to get the old slogan out of his head. It had been almost a year since he had left the Hitler Youth behind for the greater glories of the Luftwaffe, but he could still close his eyes and hear old Hans Beimler at the Academy chiding him. "A Hitler Youth does not smoke!" Even the tone of voice and slight Bavarian accent was preserved perfectly in his mind, like one of his father's archaeological scraps.

         After lighting up the cigarette, he walked on for a while without thinking of much at all. When he had called home from the train station, the new housekeeper had said that Herr Professor Handler had not yet returned from the University, but he should be back soon.

         Herr Professor Handler's son knew better. From the sounds of it, the professor had become sufficiently engrossed with the faded markings on the side of some bit of ancient pottery to forget when to take his lunch. That "soon" could stretch anywhere from minutes to hours. They would, Fritz thought as he took another drag of the cigarette, be lucky if his father did not decide to sleep in his office.

         As he reached the university, Fritz dashed out his cigarette and braced himself. He loved his father and was in many ways in awe of him, but from long experience he did not relish the task of prying him away from his research.

         Under the circumstances, he should have known better. The old man bounded from his desk when he saw Fritz enter his office.

         After a deep hug, Herr Professor Handler took a step back to contemplate his son. Seeing the joy and relief on the old man's face, it fully registered with Fritz for the first time just how much his father must worry about him.

         "Ah! Very dashing, indeed." A faint glint of amusement flickered behind the professor's eyes. "I do hope that you did not remain in uniform just to impress that mysterious lady friend of yours. I was merely a humble soldier in the last war, without the glamour of a Luftwaffe man, but I do recall..."

         Of course, Fritz knew perfectly well that his father was exaggerating as usual. He rarely spoke of his experience, or for that matter of any other bit of history less than twenty-five centuries distant. The fact was that in the Great War, he had received several promotions in the field—and, for that matter, medals for heroism.

         Fritz also knew that beneath the gentle teasing was his father's way of telling him how proud he was of his son, the strapping young air force officer. Still, there were fewer subjects that Fritz wanted less to discuss with his father than that of Anna Beimler, so he cast about desperately for a change of subject.

         "What have you been working on, Sir?"

         It worked. Natürlich. "...and the idiots at the museum would not have passed on this if they understood what it was." All but glowing with the excitement of discovery, his father picked up two shards of what appeared to be a broken stone tablet off his desk and lovingly cradled them in his hands to show them to Fritz.

         Trying to summon up an expression of polite interest, Fritz glanced down at the shards...

         ...and staggered back in amazement as the markings carved on the shard began to pulsate with a bright red light. The light leaked out of the cracks and for an instant illuminated the whole room. As it began to fade back into the shard, Fritz looked up sharply at his father's face, still outlined with a faint residue of pinkish light...and still talking away as if nothing had happened.

         "...although how an Israelite artifact of such an age could have made its way to Ethiopia is anyone's guess as far as that...what did you say, Fritzlich?"

         "I am the Lord, thy God, and thou shalt have no other gods before me," Fritz repeated, in a flat, empty tone. The phrase had come to him seemingly out of nowhere, and now he could not get it out of his mind, although he had barely been aware of it before he blurted it out.

         His father gave him a long, strange look and finally nodded. "Good guess." Another pause. "I don't suppose they taught you ancient Hebrew at that Academy, eh? Yes, this appears to have come from the Decalogue, Sorry, my boy, that would be ‘The Ten Commandments.' The last word is incomplete--see the line is read from right to left, like so, but it is almost certainly 'gods.'

         "Now, the inscription on one of the accompanying shards suggests... I say, are you all right?"

         Fritz smiled weakly as his father helped him to a chair. "I'm sorry, Sir.  I'm afraid I'm still a bit weary from the train ride."

         His father's forehead was creased with concern. "Well, I should think so." He shook his head and seemed to recall himself to his surroundings. "Well, let's get you home. We can discuss this over lunch."

         "I began to notice changes almost immediately."

         "Such as...?" Father Altnau certainly sounded subdued after Fritz's description of his vision in his father's office, but Fritz couldn't tell if the priest thought he was insane or lying or none of the above.

          "Little things. I would say things I had never said before, react differently... That night I visited my friend Anna. She offered me a drink." Fritz licked his lips, thinking of how ridiculous and petty this would sound. "I asked for wine."

         "Nothing terribly unusual there."

         "Well, it certainly shocked her."

         Fritz couldn't make out the priest's expression from across the partition, but he could certainly hear the smile in the old man's voice. "Ah, well it would be unusual for any young soldier—"

         "Airman," Fritz corrected, out of habit.

         "—to refuse a beer, but tastes change. If that's the worst of it, I wouldn't worry about it."

         Fritz sucked in his breath, and closed his eyes. "No, Father, that was not the worst of it."

         This was Fritz's fortieth aerial mission over Warsaw since Poland had provoked the Reich into taking action, and the first since his return from Berlin. A few close calls coming under anti-aircraft guns had sapped something from the romance of combat, but he had always been proud of what he did.

         Their father had rarely discussed the Great War with Fritz and his brother, but he had done so one time that Fritz had never been able to forget. Growing up, they all saw each other at meals, but Fritz and his brother Hans had grown used to his father always being at the university or in his study at home or even away on an excavation for months at a time. When their mother had died, they seemed to see even less of their father.

         Under the circumstances, any time their father spent playing or talking with them was something to be treasured. Once, when Fritz was 9 and Hans was 12, their father had told them about the War. He showed them his old gas mask, and awed and horrified the boys by telling them what it was for.

         He had put it on to demonstrate, and for a long surreal second reality seemed to Fritz to have come undone. He knew better, of course, but his father seemed to have disappeared and been replaced by something that was hardly human.

         A monster, almost, but an endlessly fascinating one. From that moment, years before the songs and patriotic fervor of the Hitler Youth, combat had seemed to his young mind like the most terrifying and thrilling test of real adulthood.

         As Fritz flew above the Warsaw skyline, he let his memory drift back to that moment even as he scanned the periphery of his vision for signs of the enemy. Of course, Fritz knew from experience that "lightning war" was no mere bluster. It had already been a long, long time since the enemy had been much of a factor in the skies above Warsaw.

         As Fritz flew over the target—he was fairly sure it was a government building of some kind, but beyond that he did not know—he reached over to set off the release to drop his payload. As he did so, his hand began to shake violently and he could not drop the bomb.

         In forty missions, this had never happened. Why would he suddenly have an attack of nerves, now of all times? He took a deep breath, and tried again. His whole arm was shaking now, and he still could not complete the act. By force of will, he finally managed to steady it and he made a third attempt. The same thing happened. He switched hands and tried again, and the same thing happened.

         He could feel sweat covering his whole body now, and he had no idea what to do. Not only his hands but even his fevered brain seemed to have deserted him. A long string of nonsense syllables was going through his mind, the same string over and over again. They were strangely melodious, but none of it sounded anything like German or any other language he knew.

         His concentration was so shredded that he only noticed that he had let go when he felt the plane begin to plummet. The spectacle of impending death finally restored him to himself, and he wildly gripped at his controls. With a supreme effort of will, he was able to regain control of the plane, but he had lost too much distance already to regain his altitude. Already, he could see the street below him far too clearly.

         It was too late, and he was going to crash.

         "I managed to land in a field... I guess it was a park. Not a smooth landing, but I was able to leave the plane in one piece. Everyone must have been in the air raid shelters, because no one saw me or followed me. If they had, I probably would have been shot right then and there. After that many weeks of bombardment, I doubt they were taking too many prisoners. I..."

         Fritz lifted up his eyes to stare miserably into the little partition separating him from the priest before going on. "After what happened later... I love the Fatherland. You have to understand that. I joined the Luftwaffe because I love my country and I wanted..."

         He let the pause linger before going on. "After what happened later, I almost wished that I had been shot."

         After three days of hiding in an abandoned house, Fritz ran out of food. God, however, was smiling on the Reich on the fourth morning. Twenty-six days after the beginning of the lightning war, the city had surrendered. When he came out of hiding, the streets of Warsaw were full of German soldiers.

         Wandering the city streets, Fritz felt dazed and befuddled, floating above the scene in a strange detachment.

         Fritz saw patrols and heard orders given from bullhorns, but also many soldiers who seemed to be wandering with no specific orders. He wondered vaguely whom he was supposed to report to in such a situation in order to find his way back to his base, but it didn't seem urgent.

         He was still in a daze when he heard the voice booming from behind him and recalling him to his surroundings. "Fritz Handler, you dog, could that really be you?"

         Turning around, he saw Reinhard, his closest friend from the Hitler Youth, behind him beaming in the uniform of a Wehrmacht lieutenant. Laughing the two men embraced, and Reinhard shook his head in wonder. "What's a Luftwaffe man even doing here, anyway?"

         Fritz didn't have to think before telling the prepared lie. "I was shot down, three nights ago. I hid in an abandoned building, and then this morning..." He waved his hand to encompass the scene, and laughed with genuine amazement. "As you see."

         "I'm amazed the bastards had the ammunition left!" Reinhard gripped his shoulder firmly before going on. "Well, I'm sure you'll be looking for a ride back to your base, but I doubt anyone can spare you the lift just now. For the moment, I have been given the rest of the day off. You can report back with me in the morning, and we'll see about getting you that ride. Until then, I seem to recall that one night in Berlin last year you dealt a terrible blow to my sense of honor by drinking me under the table." Despite everything, Fritz felt like his old self when he looked at the mischievous expression on his friend's face. "That is the sort of insult that I will not leave un-avenged."

         A beer—perhaps ten or twenty beers, he had long since lost count—later, Fritz was stumbling back through the darkened street with Reinhard and one Wolfgang Gibler, or was that Wolfgang Gimler? He was a "wonderful fellow" in Reinhard's unit that Reinhard had introduced Fritz to somewhere around their tenth beer, and with whom he had become close friends around the twentieth.

         They were singing the Horst Wessel Lied, or at least Fritz and Wolfgang were. Reinhard kept on getting words wrong, and Fritz wondered with some amusement if his friend's tolerance really had gotten any better over the last year.

         That was when they heard the shouting. One voice was raised in German and the other in what Fritz assumed must be Polish. He detached himself from Reinhard with some effort. "Do you think we should help?"

         Before Wolfgang could answer, they saw Reinhard slowly sink to the ground. Fritz thought he heard his friend say something about a "tiny bit of sleep" before closing his eyes. Sighing, Fritz met Wolfgang's eyes.

         "I'll take him back." Wolfgang sounded honestly crestfallen to miss the brawl that seemed to be ensuing around the corner. "You'd better see what's going on. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

         There were more shouts and a crash from around the corner and Fritz put aside the last of his hesitation. Probably just a drunken brawl, but just in case...

         He took off running around the corner, only to see three Wehrmacht men standing face to face with a fat old Jew in a black coat, a black hat and a long white beard. Another man in the same attire was lying next to him on the ground. He had probably got into a fight with the soldiers and had the wind knocked out of him.

         Fritz slowed down as he came closer. Well, he thought, you can't blame them for that. Probably just having a bit of....

         That was when he saw the bullet wound on the Jews' forehead.

         One of the Wehrmacht men still had his gun out, but the other were laughing and chatting as the second Jew continued his litany of incomprehensible screaming.

         Without any conscious thought whatsoever, Fritz removed his own gun from its side holster. He didn't even realize that he had taken it out until he had brought it up to face level.

         "Hey, what are you—?"

         Fritz's bullet cut the soldier off mid-sentence. His two comrades were staring at Fritz with horrified incomprehension—like the figures in a shooting gallery, Fritz thought, feeling sick—and never had time to process what they had just seen as Fritz fired off two more shots.

         Coming back to himself in a rush, Fritz looked down at the warm gun in his hand with disgust and dropped it clattering to the ground. He realized, belatedly, that he had once again started hearing the string of nonsense syllables that had plagued him in the plane, over and over again in his thoughts.

         "Do you remember what the sounds were?"

         The priest's voice recalled Fritz from his horrible reminiscence. When he had discharged the burden of his tale, Father Altnau had invited him up to his private rooms to discuss the matter at leisure. They were sitting across a little table cluttered with books and papers, almost like his father's study at home, and sipping coffee. The scene of scholarly comfort and domesticity was only marred by the fact that they were discussing Fritz's confession of treason and worse...

         ...a confession that, all in all, Father Altnau had taken rather remarkably well. It sounded as is if everything that Fritz had heard about the priest was true, as well as a good deal that he would not have guessed.

         "I'm sorry. Which sounds?"

         "You said that in your plane, just before your emergency landing, you had heard sounds, inside..."

         Fritz smiled grimly. "You can say it, Father. Little voices in my head."

         Father Altnau plunged on. "And again when you defended the Jew in Warsaw."

         "By murdering soldiers of the Reich."

         The priest gave him a straight look. "Under the circumstances, it sounds very little like murder to me."

         Fritz returned his gaze, and shrugged. "I honestly don't know what to think. You are the first person I've told."

         "What did your superiors think?"
         "That I had been shot down over enemy territory, that I made it back to the base alive and unharmed and that I am a hero."

         Father Altnau shook his head in amazement. "I myself have never had the opportunity to perform such an act, but I am widely suspected of being a dangerous subversive. I may soon face more than whispering." He gave Fritz another hard look. "I assume you yourself heard some of that whispering, or you would never have dared to make that confession to me. At the moment, however, what I am interested in is this ‘string of nonsense syllables’ you heard. Do you remember what they were?"

         "With perfect clarity." Fritz swallowed uncomfortably before meeting Father Altnau's gaze again. "I do not believe that I will ever be able to forget."

         Father Altnau took out a pen and a pad of paper, and Fritz repeated each syllable to the best of his ability. Father Altnau read it back to him, being careful that he had heard each precise sound correctly. He sat for a few more minutes scribbling, and then he held the pad of paper up for Fritz to see.

         It was full of markings of the sort that Fritz had seen before, carved into the shards of stone tablet in his father's office. "Hebrew?" The priest nodded wordlessly. Shaking with tension, Fritz forced himself to ask the question. "What does it mean?"

         Father Altnau read off the message in a flat, emotionless voice.

         "My name is Aaron, and even across a thousand lifetimes, I remember. My name is Aaron, High Priest of Israel and brother to Moses our teacher, and I will not let my people die."

         The RAF pilot who shot Fritz's plane out of the sky over London hadn't seen him parachute out minutes earlier. He had merely seen an undefended plane and easy pickings. As Fritz floated down to touch ground, he looked up at the burning wreck of his plane and reflected that, whatever else, his father would be told that he had died a hero. If there were ever a way to re-establish contact without endangering both of them, he would try, but for the moment that was a small mercy.

         As he changed into the civilian shirt and slacks that he had brought in his pouch, Fritz reflected that even now he didn't want his father to know that he had added an impressive new line to the ledger of his sins—murder, treason, madness and desertion. Be that as it may, he had stopped feeling truly guilty about any of that the moment that Father Altnau had translated the message.

         It had been a shock to body, mind and spirit such as he had never experienced before. It was not a shock because it sounded so absurd or outlandish, but because after a lifetime of happily complacent conformity, a life that had at times begun to feel complete and fulfilled in military valor and romantic entanglements and the happy companionship of friends and comrades, he suddenly knew that what Father Altnau translated was true.

         The voice speaking a language he no longer knew was not some invading alien mind, it was the part of him that remembered who he was. That shard in his father's office, that tiny and battered piece of rock that he had recognized from his earlier life, had simply reminded him who he really was. In a second or less, he went from having no inkling of this to knowing that the life he had been living was the worst kind of lie.

         He could not as yet remember that other life in details, but in that moment with a sudden horrifying certainty, he knew that he had lived it and he could see this life from a totally different perspective. The stir of pride that he had felt when he heard the news of each of the Reich's previous victories. The rounds of beer he had bought for his comrades in the inevitable bouts of celebration, the patriotic songs he had sung with as much fervor as any man there. The endless propaganda about the innate superiority of the Aryan race he had sat through in the Hitler Youth, not precisely caring about such ideological matters, perhaps, but certainly not disagreeing.

         Had there been some small persistent spark within him that had made him skeptical of all that, perhaps on an unconscious level? Had he felt some trace of outrage at the signs forbidding Jews from sitting on Berlin's park benches, some part of his mind that remembered his tribe and cared about what was happening to them? He would like to think so, but when he was honest with himself, he had his doubts.

         Since hearing those words, though, he had never doubted who he really was and had always been, and where his loyalties lay. Whatever had come before, now that he remembered who he was, there was no turning back.

         Father Altnau had given him documents to present to the appropriate authorities when he defected—documents that should certainly establish the sincerity of his defection beyond all doubt. Fritz had not pressed the priest on where he had obtained them, but he had no doubt of their authenticity or of the fact that they would be very, very interesting to the British military.

         Of course, he had no idea exactly whom to present them to, but he was fairly sure that if he wandered around London for long enough babbling in German, he would have a chance to have a conversation with someone in a position of authority whether he wanted to or not.

         First, he had somewhere to go. When his meandering path down the half-deserted street took him there, he was delighted but not truly surprised. Under the circumstances, it seemed only appropriate.

         Without another thought, Fritz walked into synagogue to pray.

 

 

Copyright 2006, Ben Burgis

Ben is a graduate student in the Philosophy Department at Western Michigan University. His previous short fiction has appeared in Walking Bones Magazine.