To Gunther, sleepless and wide-eyed, the days crawled by with an agony only outdone by the pain throughout his body. He had been in a room carefully combed over by Josef to be rid of any wooden objects, and across the only window, a metal plate had been bolted to the brick wall. The floorboards had been pulled up, exposing the dry earth beneath them; the only things now saving the room from feeling like a large, empty coffin were two metal tables stacked high with instruments and medications, as well as the several daily visits from Josef and other doctors. Gunther had not been expressly confined to the dank, stale space, but in his weakened state, which only seemed to bear down harder each day, he could scarcely move a muscle. In addition, he was buried beneath a dozen blankets—it was the only thing able to warm his body to any level of comfort, and the idea of leaving them had no appeal.
Josef would always greet him, “Good morning,” and say “Good night,” when he left. For the longest while, aside from directly asking, this was the only context he had for the passing of time. He hadn’t seen the sky or felt a breeze since the first night they arrived, when Josef had wheeled him along a broad swath of barren dirt, past row after row of cold, ugly brick houses that reminded Gunther of the barracks he had trained on. Eventually, Josef brought a calendar into the room, affixing it to the wall where Gunther could see.
Through December, Josef spent all the time he could by Gunther’s side, asking questions and trying various medications and small operations. He examined every injury on Gunther’s body, continuously baffled, though he tried his hardest to hide the full extent of his amazement from the boy. He also asked a nearly endless list of questions. Speaking was a difficult task, but no matter how drained Gunther became, it always seemed he could be drained a little further. However close to death he felt, it always seemed he had a little more dying to go. He talked about his family, about growing up, about joining the HJ and being conscripted into the Wehrmacht. As he grew more comfortable, he talked about his experiences with Heinz and about Martin’s mysterious death. He even talked about the little Romanian girl he had found hiding in the village.
“Compassion is a virtue, even when it’s misguided,” Josef responded. “There’s no need to be ashamed about trying to save the girl, even if it was just a Romani—I understand.”
He talked about Jens some—not everything, but certain things, mostly what a good friend he had always been.
And then there was Luther. Nothing captivated Josef more than Luther. Even in Gunther’s haze, it had struck him as odd, but Josef explained, “On a fundamental level, you and your twin are identical, and yet you’re exhibiting behavior unlike anyone else in medical history. If your brother is like you, then think of the implications. And if he’s not? Think of the implications.”
Josef marked off each day on the calendar for Gunther, telling him each night, “We’re a little closer to solving your mystery.”
Each waking moment—as all moments were, now—Gunther’s injuries pulsed brutally as ever, and his constant groaning and wincing went ignored by both Josef and himself—what could they do? In a more lucid state, Gunther may have pressed Josef as to the details of his condition, but all he could do was lay quietly and trust him. Josef seldom offered information. “I’d like not to frighten you,” he’d say. “It’s best if you just try and rest.”
On Christmas morning, Gunther heard a train somewhere in the distance, and before the day was out, Josef brought Gunther a small radio.
“It’s not brand new, but it works, and here,” he showed Gunther that on the back, he had glued a piece of paper with two frequencies written on it, “these are the German stations we get out here.”
Josef placed the radio near Gunther’s fingertips and then slid a glove onto his cold hand.
“I’ll get you new batteries whenever you need them.” Josef grinned and then gestured to the radio dial. “Go ahead, try it.”
Gunther struggled a bit, but managed to twist his fingers enough to turn the dial. Static rolled in and out as he approached one of the stations Josef had listed. When he found it, there was a Christmas song playing, and as they listened, Josef moved his hand to Gunther’s shoulder.
When the song ended, Josef stood up. He said the same thing he always did before leaving, “You’ll make it through this, Gunther.”
The next few days went on like any other, until a harsh and unusual scream pulled Gunther away from the Christmas songs. It sounded like a child. It was the first of many. Sometimes Gunther felt like he could hear soft whimpering from the other sides of the wall. Occasionally they might have been adults, but most often, it sounded like one or two children. He asked Josef about it.
“Well, this is a children’s ward,” Josef replied while treating some of Gunther’s injuries with an alcohol rub. “War is a brutal thing—I think it’s best if I don’t tell you what’s been going on out there lately.”
With the Christmas songs disappearing from the radio, news was the most frequently available option, but the last thing Gunther cared to hear about was the war or another of the Führer’s speeches. He scanned the radio for other stations, finding several, all in Polish, of which his understanding was extremely limited.
All winter, Gunther heard trains, sometimes one each day. He wondered where they were going—where they came from—but never asked.
Each night Josef seemed convinced they were on the brink of curing him.
“It won’t be long now, Gunther.”
January passed.
February… He felt like little more than a corpse. His injuries, still unhealed, were dried and hard. They never seemed to fester. Nothing ever seemed to change, and he was never hungry. In three months, all that Josef had offered him—from breads to fruits to candy to water—if it went in Gunther’s mouth, it came right back up. It was the only reaction his body seemed to have to anything: violently expelling food.
For the first few weeks, Josef had kept a bed pan on hand which went unused.
He felt lifeless but for the pain which bit through him in constant waves. The whole world felt impossibly far away. Everything he had ever known seemed too distant and out of reach to ever be had again, and so often now, he could hear a voice inside himself praying for death.
* * *
Stam’s footsteps echoed as she crept into the church. The young girl who had welcomed her inside had already disappeared, leaving Stam all alone as she passed into the silent and empty nave. She wouldn’t typically have come on this particular night, but Ashley deserved the solitude he demanded, and she knew there was little else she could do for him.
A few bibles were strewn about on the pews. Dutifully as ever, she began to gather them, but had only managed to cover one side of the room before a voice called out to her.
“Hey, Stam.”
She turned to David, who had materialized by the entrance with a few friends at his side. He bade them a quick goodbye and started toward Stam as his friends disappeared down the hall.
“Hello,” she replied, returning to her task.
“Hey,” he repeated. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” he said, fetching one of the bibles in an effort to assist her.
“I wasn’t expecting it.”
“So you came just to see me?” He grinned as he handed the book to her.
“No,” she answered.
“No?” He laughed, feigning disbelief. “You mean you didn’t reconsider going to the dance with me this weekend?”
“No.”
Her manner tonight was terse, even by Stam’s standards, and David seemed to notice. He moved to the end of a row she was in. “Hey, listen, Stam….”
She glanced to him, though it may have been because he was in her way.
“I just want to get to know you better, you know? I want to be your friend.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Well sure, but,” he began, “why won’t you give me a chance?”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“What does it have to do with, then?” He still stood in her path, and it became clear he had no intention of moving. Stam turned away.
“Me.”
“Come on, that’s not an answer.”
Stam said nothing as she moved to a cart where extra bibles were stored and began unloading her arms’ contents. Her belated reply came with a hint of resignation in her voice. “What do you want?”
“I just want to get to know you better,” he repeated. “I just want to know about you, stuff like that.”
She said nothing.
“Like, okay, that big metal trunk or whatever that you’re always carrying around—that’s not normal.”
“So?”
“So it’s interesting,” he explained. “In fact, this is like the first time I’ve ever seen you without that thing.”
“Hmm,” she replied dismissively.
“What’s in it?” he asked pointedly.
As she finished placing the last book on the cart, she replied, “It’s something of Ashley’s which he asked me to watch.”
“Ashley?”
“My… friend.”
“So, your friend Ashley asked you to carry that thing around?” He raised an eyebrow. “All the time?”
“No,” she replied.
Dissatisfied, but knowing it was the best answer he’d get, he moved on. “So, what is it?” He pressed her.
“It’s a German ammunition case from the second world war.”
“So, is it like, valuable or something?”
“Not particularly,” she answered, unsatisfactorily.
“Is there anything in it?”
Stam shook her head, fed up with the conversation, “I have things to do.” She began walking away, but David quickly reached after her, clutching hold of her arm.
“Wait,” he pled. “If you won’t go out with me, will you just give me a few minutes? I mean, you’ve got all night to clean this place.”
She glanced at David’s hand, where it was clenched about her tiny wrist, and then at his face, which wore a hopeful smile.
* * *
April.
Spring had come with no discernible change; the names of months and each passing day struck from the calendar had shed all of their meaning.
For at least a week, Josef had been working on a project outside of where Gunther could comfortably watch. He talked less often to Gunther than he used to, but still explained things now and then. “You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is for me to get supplies out here, Gunther. I’ve been putting in requests for this equipment for ages.” The sound of clanking glass and metal briefly punctuated Josef’s words. “Your condition, however inexplicable it appears, still maintains some degree of logic. There’s a reason your wounds aren’t healing.”
Gunther, at best, could only ever mumble in acknowledgement.
One day, Josef approached him with a small glass cup.
“I need you to try drinking this for me, if you could.”
Gunther groaned. “I’ll just throw it up.”
“Anything is possible, Gunther, but I think we’re getting closer.” He held the cup to Gunther’s lips. “Please, I don’t want to see you like this any longer than I must.”
Gunther winced as Josef lifted his head. He poured the contents of the cup into his mouth, and Gunther grimaced with disgust, swallowing a little, but messily spitting what remained in his mouth. He gurgled hideously, “Urgh, what the hell….”
He spit again.
“Bad taste?” Josef expressed concern. “I’m sorry.”
“Tastes… like blood,” Gunther grumbled.
“Hmm,” Josef responded, taking a rag to the thick red liquid dripping down Gunther’s chin. “Do you feel anything?”
“No,” Gunther started, and then, he hesitated.
Josef noticed, and a hint of excitement spread across his face. “Gunther?”
Gunther shuddered and turned; he vomited just as he had with anything and everything else Josef had ever tried giving him. The little bit of blood he had swallowed trickled from inside his throat, to his mouth, dripping from his lips to the floor. Josef shook his head, dropped back, and sighed with defeat.
May.
It was hard to form cohesive memories when everything felt so similar day-to-day, but since the incident with the blood, there was a change in Josef’s demeanor. The doctor seemed increasingly stressed, less considerate, and always agitated.
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” he shouted, tossing one of the dozens of notepads he had filled with theories and thoughts on his subject before standing up and pacing around angrily.
“Your wounds don’t heal because your body has no blood in it,” he mused out loud. “That is the key to all this.”
He dropped down by Gunther’s side. “You defy all conventions of life itself,” he growled. “Absolutely noth-ing about you, other than the fact that you’re speaking to me, even suggests you’re alive.”
Gunther could offer no response.
“What in the hell is keeping you here?” he dema-nded. “They say you came stumbling out of that storm looking more dead than the frozen corpse in your arms.”
The doctor’s rage was unnerving—frightening even. He had never before displayed such callous frustration.
“If you’re not going to get better, then why don’t you just die?” In a fury, Josef took hold of Gunther’s shoulders, lifting his head. Gunther was powerless to fight back.
“Those absurd fangs, those red eyes. You’re like some folkloric monster.”
Red eyes? He knew about his fangs—he could feel them in his mouth—and wasn’t sure when they had appeared. They’d grown in slowly, and he was used to them now, but… red eyes?
“My eyes are blue.” Gunther coughed, still held up by Josef.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Josef angrily grabbed a mirror nearby and thrust it into Gunther’s face. Gunther caught a glimpse of his own visage, and immediately, the same shock and terror that had held him when the sun rose and when he stepped on the twig hit him all over again. His whole body flailed and an uncontrollable scream ripped from his throat. His head smashed into the mirror, casting it from Josef’s hand to the dirt, where it shattered. Gunther shook wildly, breath heaving, as Josef watched, alarmed but fascinated. Ultimately the boy’s gasps and convulsions shortened, and despite a few trailing whimpers, he resumed his normal, limp state.
Josef sighed, also seeming to calm down. He picked up his notepad and made a new entry, scribbling almost half a page before finishing, at which point he offered a sympathetic half-smile in Gunther’s direction.
“We’re going to figure you out.”
* * *
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