snatched by the wind off the tops of trees and bushes. Had it been at Shumyachi? Two years earlier, already. The shots at Shumyachi had reverberated under the hospital’s vaults as far as the tree-lined expanse across the street, where his car was idling. A dazzling spray had trembled off the bare branches
then. The sight of wind-borne minutiae had remained with him ever since, as the flash of sunlight on one of the hospital windows, opening and closing in the icy breeze. No one remembered his name at Shumyachi, if anyone had ever even known it. Why should he think of it? It did no good. But the godforsaken town was a wound he carried around no differently from his other injuries.
Snow was melting on the roof of the command post, and all around the eaves dripping water created a necklace of sound in the dark. Bora had made up his mind hours ago. This was the agony that always followed such decisions. These were the times when he felt most distant from his wife, nearly lost to her and to any hope they would ever reunite. Time collapsed onto itself until their days together – few, so comparatively few – were a kaleidoscope that at will could be reconfigured, but in the end remained nothing but bits of bright foil and coloured paper. He had stood in the face of imminent death, and had not feared it as he struggled through these endless moments between choice and action. Lost, lost. He was lost to Dikta, to his mother, to everyone who’d ever loved him. Of him, as in the stark black-rimmed death notices, it would be said, “He will return to us no more.” He’d given himself up for dead long ago, so why was he so tempted to expect a different end? He’d said yes, meaning it as much as he meant anything these days. The answer was immense, a world in itself. Hell could not be larger than the gulf contained in saying yes.
Nagel came and went, without rapping on his door. Bora recognized his step, his refraining from the knock on the door. The room was cold and no longer identifiable by shape. Only the limned strip under the door
marked the existence of reality. Bora bent over from where he sat, feeling around for the bootjack. After taking off his boots, he began to undress, until he was naked, and, without prosthesis, he lay motionless under the covers.
There had been a season, still fresh in Bora’s memory, when the fastidiousness of German uniforms would have put to shame the Italian Militia. This late morning of 1 December 1943, it was all washed-out field-grey. Everywhere. He could look at the truck pulling into the place in the street where yesterday the SS car had sat, and judge vehicle and men alighting from it as no shabbier than his own soldiers. I’ve done this before , he thought, I’ve done it before and know how to manage it; there’s no great expenditure of emotions once one has done it the first time.
He went downstairs and into the street, where the truck rattled in idle. The driver saw him through the window and hopped out, baggy trousers and ankle boots mud-spattered. He gave the Fascist salute, and presented a piece of paper signed by one high official or another. Bora no longer looked at names; it made no difference what the alphabet combination might be – it was all power about to slip away, and not even history’s footnotes would pick up those names tomorrow.
“These prisoners are to be delivered to Gries,” the driver said. “So we need an escort.”
“I’ve been informed.” Bora walked around the truck. The guardsman who was in the back had also alighted and was standing at cramped attention, his black fez impossibly stuck to the back of his head, as if nailed in. Without a word, Bora indicated by a short wave that he
wished to have the canvas flaps lifted. When it was done, he looked in from where he stood. “How long have you been riding?” he asked the guardsman, as if the information were no more than a formality.
“Ten hours, signor maggiore , with eight more to
then. The sight of wind-borne minutiae had remained with him ever since, as the flash of sunlight on one of the hospital windows, opening and closing in the icy breeze. No one remembered his name at Shumyachi, if anyone had ever even known it. Why should he think of it? It did no good. But the godforsaken town was a wound he carried around no differently from his other injuries.
Snow was melting on the roof of the command post, and all around the eaves dripping water created a necklace of sound in the dark. Bora had made up his mind hours ago. This was the agony that always followed such decisions. These were the times when he felt most distant from his wife, nearly lost to her and to any hope they would ever reunite. Time collapsed onto itself until their days together – few, so comparatively few – were a kaleidoscope that at will could be reconfigured, but in the end remained nothing but bits of bright foil and coloured paper. He had stood in the face of imminent death, and had not feared it as he struggled through these endless moments between choice and action. Lost, lost. He was lost to Dikta, to his mother, to everyone who’d ever loved him. Of him, as in the stark black-rimmed death notices, it would be said, “He will return to us no more.” He’d given himself up for dead long ago, so why was he so tempted to expect a different end? He’d said yes, meaning it as much as he meant anything these days. The answer was immense, a world in itself. Hell could not be larger than the gulf contained in saying yes.
Nagel came and went, without rapping on his door. Bora recognized his step, his refraining from the knock on the door. The room was cold and no longer identifiable by shape. Only the limned strip under the door
marked the existence of reality. Bora bent over from where he sat, feeling around for the bootjack. After taking off his boots, he began to undress, until he was naked, and, without prosthesis, he lay motionless under the covers.
There had been a season, still fresh in Bora’s memory, when the fastidiousness of German uniforms would have put to shame the Italian Militia. This late morning of 1 December 1943, it was all washed-out field-grey. Everywhere. He could look at the truck pulling into the place in the street where yesterday the SS car had sat, and judge vehicle and men alighting from it as no shabbier than his own soldiers. I’ve done this before , he thought, I’ve done it before and know how to manage it; there’s no great expenditure of emotions once one has done it the first time.
He went downstairs and into the street, where the truck rattled in idle. The driver saw him through the window and hopped out, baggy trousers and ankle boots mud-spattered. He gave the Fascist salute, and presented a piece of paper signed by one high official or another. Bora no longer looked at names; it made no difference what the alphabet combination might be – it was all power about to slip away, and not even history’s footnotes would pick up those names tomorrow.
“These prisoners are to be delivered to Gries,” the driver said. “So we need an escort.”
“I’ve been informed.” Bora walked around the truck. The guardsman who was in the back had also alighted and was standing at cramped attention, his black fez impossibly stuck to the back of his head, as if nailed in. Without a word, Bora indicated by a short wave that he
wished to have the canvas flaps lifted. When it was done, he looked in from where he stood. “How long have you been riding?” he asked the guardsman, as if the information were no more than a formality.
“Ten hours, signor maggiore , with eight more to
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