Apparatus 33 by Lawston Pettymore (bearly read books TXT) 📕

So that is that what Russians do? At least they would not eat us, as Geronimo was now doing to Gorgass.

Todtenhausen’s voice echoed after us through the corridor, “We’ve been defeated by an enemy who has never before seen a flush toilet, Raynor. Do you realize that?”

Despite all the banging of metal doors in their jambs, the sound of explosions, and the epithets from Todtenhausen, Zerrissen managed to find an unguarded exit, though taking it meant abandoning Pyotr. There were stairs, then a ladder that led to a trapdoor buried in the forest floor outside, with a tree stump bolted on top. The trapdoor only opened a few dozen centimeters, but they were plenty for me and Halina to pass through, and with some struggle, Zerrissen did as well. We were finally standing on solid ground under the sky. The sky was not blue but was gray and cold as the concrete biosphere we had just escaped.

This was the first time Halina and I had been outdoors in three years, effectively, therefore, the first time in her life. Pale as troglodytes, we were all immersed in the aromas of pine, soil, rain, and even the cold chill, if cold could have an aroma, with overtones of baking bread on an occasional breeze. Even as the rain was turning to ice, I thought that this was how humans should live.

Not quite sure of Zerrissen’s intentions, I nonetheless extended my hand, and in German I said, “I’m Nicolaus.” He returned his hand, and, in Polish, said, “Call me Raynor.” A short distance away, studying the base of a tree, Halina overheard our introductions and waved. I pointed at her.

The Schwesterkriegerine did not like the boys getting to know the girls, even though we shared shower time together, but we knew the names of some of them. She was a bit peculiar, but not because of her leg brace. Leg braces were common in the Bunker. She was shy, and I had never heard her speak.

“I think her name is Halina. She’s in the six-year old cohort.”

“Does she talk?”

“Not sure. Maybe.”

I was not yet ready to build a friendship with this adult. To me, he was an official staffer of Die Kuppel responsible for the separation from our families, exploitation, and, for just now, the abandonment of my brother. I was not going to call him by his first name. I was thinking of calling him Zerżnąć Dupę12 to his face; his Polish was so terrible; he would not get the slur.

Instead, I pushed my current agenda in German, “My brother Pyotr is still back there. I need to go back and get him.” This statement produced a veil of confusion on Zerrissen’s face—an expression I would see on many adult faces over the next few years. How could one explain what was and was not possible in this world to a nine-year-old to whom anything seemed possible for adults?

Then, a cry from Halina, a tiny lilting sound you would expect from a fairy rather than a human, brought me out of my growing contempt for Zerrissen. There was a squirrel. She had never seen one before, and she was mesmerized. Naturally, she wanted to catch it and hold it. Not having had any form of protein in as many as three days, Zerrissen and I imagined other scenarios for the squirrel, Pyotr and I having hunted and eaten many of them in the Polish woodlands. Naturally, the candidate squirrel was too fast to fulfill either fantasy.

Returning his attention to me, Zerrissen explained that Todtenhausen was not wrong to warn us away from the Soviets. The priority now was to find the Allies, any Ally but the Russians. British, French, Canadian, Australian, or American Allies, it did not matter, just not the Russians. Sadly, this meant fleeing in the direction opposite of the delicious intoxicant of baking bread, now laced with the musk of frying bacon.

He insisted we the Allies would soon rescue Pyotr. And meanwhile, we had to listen for anyone speaking English or French. Pyotr and I could speak a little of both. Zerrissen could recognize English, but his Polish was terrible. I asked him to stop trying, and to stick to High German.

The sound of damp branches and underbrush crunching beneath boots followed by our first encounter with a soldier as he emerged from a stand of trees. A Russian jogging in the direction of the Bunker, heavily laden with satchels hanging from his shoulders, bulging with what must have been the plastic explosive that was reducing Die Kuppel back to its original pre-concrete form of sand. He slowed to a gait, gave the shopkeeper a glance, then looked at Halina, and finally at me. He did not look like a monster, nor did the thought of eating or even raping us cross his mind. Perhaps it was because of our appearance and obvious state of near starvation. He reached inside one of the bulging rucksacks, and instead of producing explosives, he pulled out a string of the most beautiful sausages I had ever seen. My family made wonderful sausages, so I was an expert in the matter. He tossed the entire string at us, moved his head with a “that way” motion, and scrambled off.

We were too dehydrated to successfully choke down much, but as we nibbled at the sausages, staggering on our way westward, we stumbled across a relatively thawed stream that seemed potable, and we immediately fell onto it, cracking through the thin coating of ice floating on top, soaking ourselves in near freezing, but pure, clean, water. Between that Russian private and this stream, we felt, for the first time in a week of desultory resignation, that we could witness the end of the war alive.

Star Crossed

We crossed the stream, and continued to move west, only stopping to rest and shiver, stamp our feet to avoid frost bite, keeping each other warm by huddling again like the boys did when Pyotr and I were still together,