Gunther had gone undisturbed for several hours. Inside the box, his trembling hands clutched a small flashlight which kept things dimly illuminated. There was still commotion outside periodically—a scream from a patient or a medic calling for morphine—but it seemed they had forgotten about him.
His mind struggled to form lucid thoughts through the biting, intense pain of his injuries and the fear that somebody might open the crate.
Was Heinz okay? He had never liked Heinz a day in his life—he hated him, in fact, but he hadn’t wanted him to die.
Had anyone else survived? What was going to happen now?
His mind wandered to Jens—a distant memory he always tried to keep close. He hadn’t seen him in years, and their interactions had been reduced to nothing more than letters, but Jens seldom left Gunther’s th—the letters! They’d been in his jacket, but he couldn’t think of what had happened to that after the medics stripped it off him. Realizing it, Gunther wanted desperately to burst out of the crate and find them, but… he couldn’t. Every ounce of his being compelled him to suppress whatever nonsensical fear he had about the outside world and go find the letters, but it was impossible: his will was incapable of conquering it.
Footsteps suddenly shuffled to a stop outside the crate. Hearing them, Gunther put his fingers on the latch again, ready to force it back down, and felt fear welling up inside again that trumped all other thoughts: don’t open it… don’t open it….
He heard someone speaking.
“This is the one.”
“In here?”
The top of the crate pushed down slightly as someone put weight on it.
“Don’t open it, please,” he screamed, hardly meaning to.
There was silence, but the weight disappeared.
Gunther listened, worried still, and then a man’s delicate, gentle voice called out, “What’s your name, son?”
He hesitated, still nervous, and had to wait a moment for his trembling to subside. “Gunther.”
“I see, Gunther.” The man said the name as if intending to remember it well. “Why are you in this box?”
“I don’t know.” It was the light, but what did that mean?
“You know you gave everyone here quite a scare.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, no, they’ll all be fine, but we’re worried about you.”
Gunther winced, giving no response
“Your injuries are pretty severe, and I hear you’re in a lot of pain. I’d like to help you.”
He said nothing.
“To do that, I’d need to open this box,” he said. “Gunther, coul—”
“No,” Gunther replied loudly.
“Is there something out here you’re afraid of?”
“I don’t know.”
The man hesitated. “I see. Then we’ll find another way to help. No one wants to hurt you.”
There was talking outside the crate for few seconds, and then the voice spoke to him once more, “The body you were found with was another Wehrmacht soldier—what happened to the rest of your unit?”
Gunther was quiet. “Is he okay?”
“Pardon me?” the voice asked.
“Heinz.”
There was talking among the voices outside once more.
“I apologize, but he didn’t make it.”
Gunther was silent.
“Gunther?”
Still no response.
“Gunther, by all rights, you shouldn’t have survived either: it’s a miracle that you did, but you still need proper medical attention.” The man waited for a reply which never came. “Gunther?”
Someone pressed down on the lid again.
“Don’t open it,” he screamed.
The weight disappeared. The man started speaking again, but his voice was directed to others, and he couldn’t make out the conversation. Before long, the men were gone, and the only sounds were the idle ones he had heard all day.
The flashlight in his hand began to dim and flicker, until finally, it went out. It was tremendously uncomfortable in the box, but he was careful not to move, lest he bump open the lid. He continued to moan painfully now and then from his injuries, but no one else approached the crate. It wasn’t until much later, and quite suddenly, that he felt the whole thing lifted upward. It jostled him and he immediately grabbed the latch, holding it fast.
“What’s happening?” he tried to shout, urgently.
There was no response. Two people were carrying the crate unevenly, and one of them said something to the other, “Guess the Hauptsturmführer has a new project.”
Gunther shook around a bit, and called out again, “What’s happening?”
“Hey—hey!”
Gunther heard the voice from earlier—no longer gentle as it had been with him—aggressively calling out, “What the hell are you doing? Be careful.”
The crate suddenly plunked down; the lid shook, but didn’t open.
“Move,” the voice demanded, harshly, before addressing him. “Are you alright, Gunther?”
“What’s happening?”
“This is a war zone,” the voice answered. “I’d like to transport you somewhere safe.”
Was there anywhere safe left?
“We have to get you somewhere where nothing can harm you, so perhaps you could safely leave your box, right?”
Gunther said nothing.
“Trust me, Gunther, I won’t do anything to hurt you.”
Again, he only offered silence.
“Here, in fact, I’ll put a lock on your box. Only I have the key, okay?”
“Okay.” Gunther gave a weak reply. He heard the lock click on the latch of the crate, and while the idea of being locked in such a small space was disconcerting, it paled next to his inexplicable fear of exposure.
“See now?” The man shook the latch of the lid, rattling it.
Gunther squirmed, frightened, “No—” but stopped as he realized it was held shut. After a moment, an engine started and the box began to shake with it.
“We’re headed up north, Gunther, away from all of this madness and bloodshed.”
* * *
“That’s good. Wait, no….” Aurelio instructed from a seat on the couch while Ashley stood by an antiquated television, fiddling with the rabbit ears. Static hissed on the screen, disappearing for only moments at a time as Ashley’s hands swiveled about.
“Like tha—no… wait, okay—okay… there.”
Ashley froze and then carefully backed away as Aurelio literally perched on the edge of his seat. Ashley dropped down beside him as two newscasters bantered idly before throwing to a weatherman.
“Thanks, guys. Well, we’ve still got clear skies through the weekend. We’re following a winter storm pattern up in Michigan, but we aren’t expecting to see any of that down here in the northern Ohio or Pennsylvania area—maybe a few flurries as that storm dissipates over Lake Erie. But storm or no storm, bundle up this weekend as temperatures in the area hover in the single digits. Saturday low in Cleveland is nine degrees, over in Kent and Akron it’ll be down to six and seven….”
Aurelio smirked. “You know, Ash, you’re the only person I know who waits until the middle of December to mow the grass.”
Ashley only grumbled in reply; he was withdrawn from conversation as he poked through a small stack of records on the coffee table.
Aurelio then spoke up again, “Hey Stam—we should take a picture of your new ‘do.”
“My what?” Stam raised an eyebrow.
“Haircut,” Ashley clarified for Aurelio.
“Why?”
“So we can remember it.” He produced a small camera from his coat pocket.
“Just indulge him—and go ahead and put down that box.”
She did as she was instructed, setting her metal case on the carpet by Ashley’s feet, and turned so Aurelio could snap a photograph.
“We should take one together,” he insisted, placing a hand on Ashley’s back and urging him to stand up. “Come on.”
Once they were together, the flash spat a burst of light and the three were free to pull apart.
“See?” Ashley dropped back into his seat. “Aurelio likes the haircut. Maybe you should have gone to that dance after all and wowed all the boys.”
“I don’t know that that would have happened,” she replied.
“Whatever,” Aurelio interrupted. “They would have been fighting over you.”
“Mm.” Stam remained unconvinced.
“By the way, who’s this David guy?” Aurelio asked.
Ashley laughed, raising his feet up and dropping them onto Stam’s metal case to use it as a rest. Stam ignored him and responded, “A boy from the public school. He’s the Deacon’s son.”
“So he’s a nice guy?” Aurelio asked, cautiously.
“He’s a total jackass,” Ashley interjected. “Stam’s a poor judge of character.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “What’s wrong with him?”
“People like him are why teenage boys carry such a poor reputation, that’s all.” Ashley offered his opinion again.
“Huh?”
“We had an unpleasant encounter,” Stam answered.
Ashley smirked and cocked his head at Stam while speaking to Aurelio, “If you catch her drift.”
“What?” Aurelio still struggled to follow.
“Don’t worry about it.” Ashley stood, patting Aurelio on the shoulder. “She can take care of herself.”
Aurelio was hardly satisfied by Ashley’s response, but said nothing as the news continued in the background. For several minutes, it had gone unnoticed by the three—
“… Now onto the developing story of the unusual automobile mystery here on the north side….”
—Until it caught Ashley’s attention. He drew back from the television and watched it intently.
“Authorities say a 1972 Chevy Chevelle found abandoned in a parking lot outside a private school on Sherwood Road may have been involved in a twenty-year-old theft case. What first seemed like a routine find occurred early Sunday morning when a patrol officer took note of the suspicious vehicle….”
Ashley’s eyes narrowed. The screen cut away to a police officer speaking.
“Well, we don’t see a lot of vintage cars in this neighborhood—definitely not left in parking lots overnight. Just routine, you know, we checked the plates and they didn’t match the vehicle….”
The screen jumped to a shot of the maroon sedan.
“Authorities say those plates were reported stolen from a car of a similar make and model twenty years ago in 1981, while the mysterious vehicle itself—according to records—is unregistered. Police say as of yet, no one has come forward to the impound lot to claim the mysterious automobile, and they are asking anyone with information to please call the local—”
Ashley stood motionless, eyes fixated on the screen, with his mind seemingly elsewhere. Aurelio glanced between him and Stam. “That looked like your car—‘72 Chevelle, right?”
“It is my car,” Ashley said flatly.
* * *
There was a knocking sound on the lid of the box. “Gunther? The sun set out here,” a voice called. “You’re safe now.”
He was still uncomfortable. He said nothing.
“You said it was the light that was bothering you?”
“… Yes.” Gunther’s voice quivered nervously.
“I’m going to unlock this box,” the voice replied. “You try coming out when you’re ready, okay?”
“…Okay.”
The lock clicked open and slid away, but Gunther still lacked sufficient courage to try the lid. In time, as they drove along, the truck hit a rough patch in the road, jostling the crate in such a way that for but a moment, the top bounced open… and it was fine.
Hesitantly, Gunther reached upward. He was stiff from being crammed in the tiny space for so long, but he managed to lift the lid one cautious inch at a time. The fresh air was a welcome change from the stale, wet breaths he had been taking all day. Slowly, he adjusted his position to where he could lift his head from the crate, and in doing so—with a fairly wide opening to peer from—he could see where he was. It was indeed on the back of a truck; he could see out the back that wherever they were, it was still snowing. He pushed up more, and then caught sight of the man bearing the gentle voice.
“Hello, Gunther.” The man grinned, exposing a small gap between his two front teeth. He had a wide face and exuded a palpable warmth. His pleasant demeanor was a welcome change from the hostile, abrasive teenagers and gruff Einsatzgruppe officers.
The man shot a quick Nazi salute to Gunther and then reached out a hand. “My name is Doctor Josef Mengele—you can call me Josef.”
Gunther struggled to raise his arm in salute, knowing it to be the proper response, but failed. Josef took his arm, gently. “Don’t strain yourself—” He seemed to notice something upon feeling Gunther’s skin, and waivered before continuing, “Come, let’s get you out of there.”
He lifted Gunther carefully from the crate. Gunther stumbled weakly in Josef’s arms a few feet over to a sleeping bag that had been laid out. Josef helped Gunther to lie down and then pulled a thick canvas blanket over him.
“Gunther,” Josef said after a time—he was looking over some of the exposed parts of Gunther’s body. “What on earth happened to you?”
“I was shot,” he struggled to answer.
“Yes, it looks like they got that bandaged up, and you took some heavy shrapnel over here,” he observed. After a pause, he asked, “Are you cold, Gunther?”
“Yes.”
“I’m worried about your temperature—you may have hypothermia.” He pulled another canvas blanket onto Gunther and then laid his own coat on top of that. “Do you mind if I take it?”
“Okay.”
Josef dug through a bag, eventually producing a small thermometer. He wiped it down. “Open, please.”
Gunther obliged.
With the thermometer waiting in Gunther’s mouth, Josef took hold of his wrist. He held it briefly, looking more confused each moment, and then reached two fingers to Gunther’s neck before stopping at the sight of a bloody bandage.
“What’s that?” Josef asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm….” Josef replied, moving on and touching Gunther’s throat. He felt around a bit, still looking worried and dissatisfied. He pulled away and murmured again, “Hmm,” while scribbling something onto a notepad.
Gunther shifted. The extra covers seemed to be doing some good with the cold, though when he moved, pain ripped through his body all over again. He winced in agony.
“Gunther?” Josef asked urgently. “Are you all right?”
Gunther grumbled painfully. The thermometer fell from his mouth—Josef was quick to catch it. He looked it over.
“Hmm,” he said for a third time, making another note on his pad before checking on Gunther again. “Gunther….” Josef pursued his lips, trying to think on how to word his next remark. “I think I know why you’re not responding to morphine.”
* * *
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