Half Sick of Shadows » Band of Brothers [2]

21: The Human Spirit

"There is something in the human spirit that will survive and prevail, there is a tiny and brilliant light burning in the heart of man that will not go out no matter how dark the world becomes." - Leo Tolstoy

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As soon as the door has slammed behind the hauptsturmführer, the French Resistance woman who sometimes translates my confessions places a gentle hand on my back. I almost want to flinch, because it's the first time someone has touched me without malicious intent in so long. But I'm so weak that I don't.

"Did he kiss you?" she whispers to me in French, wary of the guards still standing at the walls. "Your American boy, did he kiss you?"

I'm still gasping for breath and dripping wet from where the hauptsturmführer almost drowned me in a bucket of freezing water. Still, I smile a little bit. She means Gene.

I shake my head. "No. He didn't."

I wrote the entirety of my last few confessions in French, which was a bad idea, really, because the hauptsturmführer hasn't been in a good mood recently. But even though he tried to drown me, I think it was a little bit worth it. The French Resistance woman (I'm not allowed to know her name) has been beaten black and blue, but I think she gets fewer punishments when she's called upon to translate my confessions. Sometimes, when I haven't been tortured so badly in a few days, I deliberately write in French so that she'll get to spend a few days translating instead of being beaten. I don't know if she knows this, but she's always very kind to me, so I think maybe she suspects as much.

"What happened next, then?" she asks. Her voice is still a whisper but she's rubbing my back soothingly now. I think she doesn't care so much whether the guards punish her for it, so she's decided to be bold. The guards don't really seem to be paying much attention to us at all, though, so she's in the clear for the moment. We both are.

"He -" I begin, but I'm interrupted by my own choking cough. I can still feel the burn of water in my lungs. "He said that if I trust him then I can trust that that fear - number one - won't come true." I smile with a sort of regretful irony; Gene had had such good intentions when he said that, and there was truly no way he could've known. There was no way I could've known, either. I shudder to imagine that Tom has told him the truth because I know Gene remembers that conversation, and I know he'd remember that being captured is - was - my worst fear.

Well, at least that's one less thing to be afraid of. KZs are my number one now, skyrocketing up from the very bottom because I had no idea what they were before I came here. God, it doesn't bear thinking about.

When I glance up at the Resistance woman she's smiling sadly, and she rubs my back once more. "Good intentions," she tells me, and I nod. He always had good intentions.

When the door slams open again the woman springs back from me, or stumbles back, really - in any case she moves away as fast as she can with the extreme bruising she's obtained. Hauptsturmführer Becker wears an icy scowl, and I feel my heart sink. What will it be this time? He's already tried to drown me.

"So much wasted time," he says. My blood runs cold in my veins. He always punishes me worse when I write in French. I continue to make the conscious decision to do it but every time he comes to punish me I'm crippled with terror and regret. Oh, God, I'm too stupid for my own good. A pit of dread opens up in my stomach and I feel the urge to be violently sick, but they'd only stop my food for three days if I was, so I fight to keep it down at all costs.

The hauptsturmführer slams the door behind him and when he turns he has a bucket in his hands. I instantly feel myself start to sob. I hate the carbolic. I can't do it again. I hate it so much. I hate it so much.

He places the bucket on the floor and draws out a lighter. Now I feel the vomit actually come because only now do I know what that is and it is worse than carbolic acid.

When the two guards slam me back into my chair the hauptsturmführer laments his disgust at my being sick on the floor, and I have to breathe so heavily through my nose to not do it again. That, however, isn't so helpful, because the scent of petrol is so pungent just smelling it makes me feel lightheaded. Or maybe that's the fear, knowing that he plans to literally light me up from the inside.

When my head is forced back and the hauptsturmführer comes closer I let out an almighty scream. "Don't do it! Don't do it! Don't do it!" I plead, ugly sobs wracking my body. "Have pity! Please! Have mercy!"

"Why should I have mercy on you?!" Hauptsturmführer Becker demands. He spits at my feet.

I look down at him from where my head is still held firmly tilted skyward, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Because I'm a human being!"

I am dead shocked when that stops him in place. Stunned. Not only does his step falter but he goes entirely still.

The only sounds in the room are my heavy panting and the dripping of the gasoline off of the bottom of the bucket.

In silence, he picks up the bucket and leaves the cell, slamming the door behind him. When the guards release me I slump forwards in my chair, my relief so heavy it is all-encompassing. I can't believe that worked. I can't believe that worked.

When, eventually, I muster the strength to lift my head back up, the Resistance woman is trying to muster her best smile for me. I appreciate the effort. She inclines her head in the direction of the table I use to write my confessions and holds out the pencil towards me, a sort of offering. I try to nod. She hobbles over to me and helps me out of my chair and across the room; even though she hardly has the strength to cross the room herself, she uses whatever she has left to help me. That is compassion, kindness, and selflessness in their purest forms. She places the pencil directly in my hand so I can begin to write.