Behavior Report 38

Dearest Love,

I run through the cave and up the stairwell without confronting a single Kraut. In a matter of moments, I return to the floor where I found the seamstresses and run to another stairwell to climb even further. Four flights higher and I come to another hallway that is an exact match of the hall with the seamstresses. Doors line the walls. Voices fill the air. There’s laughing. There’s storytelling. There’s even some arguing. Every word is unintelligible and sounds like someone is hacking or coughing.

I check the first doorway and find about twenty Krauts, dressed in American uniforms, sitting on bunks. I casually nod toward one who notices me and then move onto the next room. This process repeats itself over and over. Every room has around twenty soldiers and a quick count of doors in the hall adds up to a company of Krauts. I return to the stairwell and run up to find three more floors of Kraut companies. Putting all the floors together likely adds up to the battalion that will take the remaining Jeeps and tanks and trucks. 

One would think that finding hundreds of Krauts would send me into a state of fear and anxiety. But I don’t feel anything.

I’m not nervous or scared or worried. In fact, I’m numb. If I could get away with slaughtering every Kraut I pass, I would, but there are too many. One against one thousand is not the best odds. You don’t have to be a gambler to understand that.

Whether it is the goal of finding Earl or raising Lieutenant Talbott’s flag at the top of the keep, the only thing I feel is a drive to succeed. I know that if push comes to shove, every fiber in my body will fight.

Eventually, my travels take me to the top of the stairs where a modest entryway with two wooden doors awaits. I lean against the doors and listen for any signs of what lays on the other side, but the voices from the soldiers below interfere. I unsheathe my sword and push open the door just a crack to peek through. Sunlight bursts through like a spotlight, blinding me. My eyes need a moment to adjust. On the other side is an empty cobble stone road surrounded by walls. I wait a minute or two before I open the door completely and step out.

My Love, my path has taken me to a massive canal or trench-like road where the walls on either side rise hundreds of feet. Were the sun not directly overhead, I would be lost in shadows. Both walls were cut from the mountain. The road is comprised of a completely different, rounded, colorful stone, laid out to make a stunning pavement. I cannot imagine the effort required to build the road and walls within the mountain or why they would choose to do so.

‘Keep moving, Frank,’ I think. ‘No time for sightseeing.’

I look in both directions for any signs of where I should go, but the stone carries onward with no discernable change.

‘I guess I’ll go right.’

The arc in the road and walls prevents me from seeing any further than a few hundred feet ahead so I walk along the outer radius for the extra few feet of view. A minute or two passes and I come across the first landmark, one of the columns I saw from the outside. The column is meant to look like it is separate from the stone surrounding it, but its base tells a different story. There’s no discernable difference between the stone wall and the base. As one begins to look up, carvings and depictions begin to appear. My Love, try to not think of a Roman column that is straight with a design on the top and bottom. Imagine more of an Egyptian design, where there are numerous depictions of scenes chiseled all the way up until they reach the statue of the woman caring for several children. I don’t spend much time studying the column and continue forward.

A minute or two later, I encounter the next column and statue. Everything begins to add up between the mountain’s cliff and the wall and canal. The castle’s defenses were practically impenetrable.

My travels around the arc eventually reach a hole cut through the inner wall. It doesn’t look like a doorway, more like a short cave where sunlight exposes the other side. The smallest noise like a footstep or deep breath bounces and echoes within the cave. Directly in the cave’s center is foot-wide seam cut into the stone where a lattice work of iron bars and spikes are hidden overhead. I think back to the stories I read as a child to remember what the doors were called.

‘Posterns? Portals? Portcullis!’

I imagine an invading force running toward the cave and thinking that they’d found a weak spot only to come across portcullises dropping with a massive echoing clang.  

There’s another road and canal on the other side of the cave; however, it is dramatically different. The inner wall is still a sheer cliff but has windows and doors cut into it. There are front stoops and porches with empty flowerpots and faded decorations. It seems that people once lived comfortably here at some point in time. I check a few of the homes and all are empty.

I encounter another cave, like the first with its portcullis and exit into another arc. The third canal is where the unique buildings start. It feels like a city with perfectly cut stone sidewalks and carved benches and streetlamps. Every building has an entryway with windows and signage. Above, the structures span up to the sky with distinctive flare. Some have columns. Some are boxy. Some are rounded. They all follow the arced footprint and have alleys in between.

Yet everything is empty.

There’s no life anywhere. There’s only evidence of life. I enter a few buildings and come across dust and rodent droppings. Piles of ash show signs of past lives in empty fireplaces. Chairs and tables patiently wait to support the next meal. Bedframes and dressers stand vacant.

‘Where could they have all gone?’

Several thousand people could have lived here. Several thousand probably did.

‘Did the Krauts force them to leave? They are a cancer to the rest of the world, invading and taking up space, so it makes sense that they would do the same here.’

The emptiness takes me back to my very first interaction with civilization in France.

Le Perir.

Homes and businesses left behind. Evidence of some great migration from the people who once lived there. They were forced out all because of some others who feel superior.

‘Where have all these good people gone?’ I look about wondering if a Kraut watches me from one of the empty windows. ‘Maybe a whole platoon waits for an ambush. There are millions of places to hide, but why worry about me?’

A breeze plays with a curtain that catches my eye. ‘Is Earl anywhere inside these rooms?  There are millions places he could be … but why would he be in any of them?’ I shake my head and think, ‘There’s no reason for him to be locked away on the fourth floor of some random building.’

Moving further into the center of the castle, I come across another cave and another ring, but this one has a completely different aura. The cobbled road and stone buildings feel the same, but what’s different is that there are Krauts bustling about in all directions. None of them appear to have seen a minute of battle. Some hold folders and others, briefcases. All are dressed in pristine uniforms. The men are clean shaven, wear pressed pants, and have precisely combed hair. The women are in skirts and tightly fitted jackets, much like Madam Teuflisch’s. They all smile and talk gayly as if there is nothing to fear.

My presence does nothing to alert the Krauts. Several that pass either nod or say “Hallo” or “Guten tag” or something like that. My uniform doesn’t instill fear or concern from them.

The commotion and countless bodies give the space urgency. The people mill about, entering and leaving buildings or walking hurriedly to some destination. Voices babble on. Heels click and clop on the cobble stone. There’s a constant flow of people. I feel like a trout swimming upstream against a current of Kraut minions. I bump shoulders. I nod. I respond to their greetings. I wonder, ‘How can this happen? How can they accept me so easily?’

These people practically embrace me.  

If they only knew what is in my heart.

My Love, war is idiocy.

We fight and kill one another because of some ideology and instilled fear. Yet, when that ideology and fear is missing, people accept one another. People are friendly.

Maybe that’s why I struggle with all of this.

Maybe that’s why I don’t consider myself a soldier.

Do these people feel the same way? Do they consider themselves fighters? Are they ready to kill me when the truth comes out? If anything, this moment teaches me that the future may be okay. Once the ideology and pressures are gone, people will return to being friendly, civilized, and caring.

This hope carries me forward. I push through the crowds, examining the buildings for any signs of Earl. There’s a bakery with ovens and counters full of breads and pots and pans. Aromas of yeast and flour and sugar laden the air. I could stand here for hours with my eyes closed and a smile as the smells bring back a memory of my great grandmother’s kitchen. Her house had dirt floors, three rooms, and an outhouse, but it all felt like this castle when she baked her pretzel bread.

Further along the ring is a blacksmith inhabiting a building constructed to look like a large, long handled tong standing on end. On one half of the ground floor, flames dance within several forges. Sweaty aproned men load shields and swords into a bubbling vat. Another man pours a thick orange syrup into a mold that forms molten golden bayonets. On the other half of the floor are several large tables covered in bits and pieces of damaged rifles. Numerous Krauts work on taking apart the rifles, tossing the bad parts in a dirty box set to be dumped into the bubbling vat and replacing them with new parts from a wooden crate affixed with the Nazi seal.   

There are numerous other buildings bustling with activity within their windows. None appear to show any signs of being a prison that would hold Earl. The river of crowds dissipates the further I move along the arc and fade into a trickle once I reach the end. A small cottage-like structure with large windows sits at the end like a punctuation. Tables covered in a mess of electronics and wires and tubes stand inside. In front of the mess are five Krauts wearing headsets and sitting with a transmitter. Two puff cigarettes with the cadence of machine. Two others tap out code with the rapidity of a Kraut M.G. The last one just sits and listens attentively to his headset. Braided wires slither out a side window of the cottage and crawl up the outside wall to a bevy of antennae.

‘This has to be the communication hub for Madam Teuflisch’s army.’

I feel the sword begin to vibrate in its sheath on my back, telling me to take a few swipes at the wires. They won’t know what has happened until I am long gone. Their biggest mistake was assuming that they were safe, set inside several rings within the castle. I take a step toward the wire and stop when I hear footsteps coming from around the corner of the arc.

A striking young woman with curls of blonde hair appears. She wears the same uniform as the rest of the women I passed earlier, but she has a completely different quality about her. Maybe the best way to describe her is to allude to Hitler’s ideal master race and the images and posters we’ve seen on newsreels and in newspapers. This young woman fills out her uniform with broad shoulders, curvy hips, and muscular calves. While she may have the solid presence of a Panzer tank, her movements are fluid and demure.

As she walks closer, I realize that I have no exit. She smiles when she notices me. My stomach churns. I have no idea of what to do. I can’t speak German. I can’t just run away. I’m stuck.

“Guten tag,” she says with a wave. Her voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. She carries several records in her other hand.

I smile because that is all I can think of doing.

She steps closer and says, “Sooken see hemonden?”

My mind takes off in a million different directions. ‘Do I respond? Do I run? Do I run her through? Do I smile and just walk away? Do I pretend to be hard of hearing? Do I act sick?’ And then, without any warning, I speak.

“Nein. Nein. Nein! Only speak English with me.” The words flow out with an attempt at an accent.

The young woman smiles and say, “Oh, excuse me. My apologies.” She stops within a few feet of me. Her steel blue eyes, as dark as the deepest parts of the ocean, could cut into a man’s soul if he were not already in love. “Are you looking for someone?”

“Yes.” Before I say anything else, I’m struck by a memory. Her voice strikes a chord inside my head. I can’t place it, but her tone is angelic, and her cadence is smooth. “How do I know you?” The words fall out of me like a question and a thought all rolled together.

She laughs and says, “You hear me on the radio.”

Everything makes sense. Her voice, the records in her hand. I think back to when I would have heard her and remember lying in bed in a daze. Her voice replays and I recall the stories she told of soldiers missing their girls back home. She prevented me from falling too deep into the abyss of the morphine.

“Yes!” I say with a little too much excitement. “That’s why I recognize you.”

“Virginia,” she says while reaching out a hand to shake.

Her name makes me think of Earl. I take her hand and say the first Kraut name that comes to mind, “Werner.” The ‘W’ rolls out like a ‘V.’

“Meeting you is my pleasure.”

“No. You say, “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Virginia.” I pause and then add, “How did you get that name? I don’t know any other Virginia’s from back home.”

“My name is Ingrid, but I changed it for the radio. I didn’t have a good name until I met someone several weeks ago. He was from Virginia and it … just … I liked it. It feels American.”

Sweat forms in my palms. I swallow dryly. She’s seen Earl. I hold myself back from reaching out and strangling her for his location. Instead, I nod in recognition and say, “Ah. Interesting. I believe that is who I am to see.”

“Why?”

“I have orders to question him about some things.”

“You are in the wrong place.”

“Yes. I know that. I must have my directions wrong. Do you know where he is?”

She stares into my eyes for several unnerving moments. I smile, uncomfortably.

“Please,” she says. “Don’t hurt him.”

I step back. “No. Not at all. I need to ask a few questions, that’s all.”

“He’s American, but he is a good man.”

“Is he okay?” Urgency in my voice ignores my attempts at a Kraut accent.

Virginia’s shoulders straighten. I can tell that something clicks inside of her, a recognition, an understanding. “You’re not German.” She looks around as if looking for help.

“I just want to know where he is. I’m not going to hurt you or anyone.”

Her steel blue eyes connect with mine. Instead of searching for help, she searches my heart.

“I want to bring him home.” I pause. “To his wife. To his son.”

She attempts to say something, but the words don’t come out.

“Please.”

Virginia takes a step toward me and whispers, “He’s in the tower.”

“What tower?”

She turns and points to the sky where the castle’s keep rises above everything.

“Thank you.” I start to run back to the center of the arc but stop when Virginia calls out.

“You won’t make it.”

I stop, turn, and say, “Nothing will stop me.”