Wolf's Mouth Read online

  “You know what I’m saying. How’d your men get into the van overnight?”

  Vogel raised his chin, insulted, and then said to the Shepherd, “I demand that my men be placed back on the truck and returned to the camp.”

  The Shepherd looked at the other guards, who were all younger and duller than he was, while the American drivers leaned against their trucks, smoking cigarettes.

  “All right,” Vogel said loudly. “Everybody back in the trucks!”

  There were about thirty prisoners in this detail. As usual a small group of them—I counted seven—stood around Vogel, staring back at the rest of us. Even though the Nazis were outnumbered, a few of the men began to move toward the transport trucks. But then they stopped at the sound of crackling branches. We all turned and saw that Adino was working his way up the hill, pulling brush out of the ground.

  “May I suggest, sir,” I said to Vogel, “that we all clear this area—it will have to be done anyway before the logging trucks can get up the hill, and in the meantime the van can go back to camp for more tools.”

  Vogel said, “Are you suggesting that our men use their bare hands?”

  I reached into my back pocket, pulled out my work gloves, and held them up. “No, sir, I’m just saying we can work productively until replacement tools arrive.” Vogel continued to stare at me, his arms folded, so I pulled on my gloves and walked away. Moving up the hill, I took hold of a bush and gave it a good yank. Though several branches broke off in my hands, the roots were firmly planted in the soil. I pulled several times more, and then one of the other men, the Russian, Dimitri Sabaneyev, fell to his knees and began digging at the earth around the base of the bush. Using the head of an axe, he cut through larger roots, and the bush began to work free of the soil. When we had the bush out, I looked up and saw that most of the men were also clearing brush.

  “Halt!” Vogel shouted.

  I dropped the bush and looked downhill.

  “Halt immediately!” he yelled.

  The other men had stopped and they were staring at each other uncertainly.

  Vogel made a sweeping motion with his arm, and the seven men standing behind him began to walk slowly up the hill. Some of them had picked up tools, while others had sticks, which they held before them like clubs. One had a rock in each hand. As they advanced, the first men they encountered on the hill backed away, their hands raised in an effort to indicate that they did not want trouble. The Nazis continued up the hill toward the rest of us. To my left I saw Adino break a good-sized branch off of a bush—it was the length of a baseball bat and he raised it up above one shoulder. Several others also quickly found weapons.

  The Nazis stopped a few steps below us on the hill and no one moved. I had seen that stare so many times; it was something fierce, unwavering, and committed to one purpose: victory. But now these stares were directed at me, and they were only too happy to kill anyone who stood in their way. One of the Nazis, a private named Beutel, threw a rock, which glanced off the left side of my neck. Adino lunged forward, swinging his long stick, which made a loud whop when it struck Beutel’s shoulder. The two groups came together, hurling rocks, swinging sticks and fists. I took blows on my head, arms, and thighs. Adino was attacked by two men, and I saw all of them tumble down the hill together.

  The fighting stopped at the sound of a rapid series of gunshots. At the foot of the hill, the Shepherd fired another burst into the air. The shots echoed off the surrounding hills, and then there was stillness. I turned and looked farther up the hill. A number of men—at least a dozen—stood about twenty yards away. They had opted to stay out of the fight, leaving the rest of us to the Nazis, who had done their damage quickly and well. Men were bloodied; they held arms and hands in pain; they breathed heavily, spewing vapor into the chill morning air. Kommandant Vogel stood by the tool van, his hands clasped behind his back, clearly pleased with the result.

  The guards put us on the trucks and drove back to Camp Au Train. Several men required medical attention at the infirmary. Others treated each other as best they could. I had a gash over my left eyebrow, and Adino wrapped my forehead in a strip of cloth torn from the end of my bed sheet. His shoulder had been injured, and we fashioned a sling for his arm. We slept through much of the afternoon, and when we went to dinner we both limped badly. As the prisoners gathered in the mess hall, it was clear that the Nazis had taken their lumps as well, but they had gotten the better of us. The reason was because so many men had refused to enter the fight, and that was the Nazis’ real victory.

  The doors to the kitchen were closed, which was no surprise. The guards instructed us to stand at our tables. Some of them had the German Shepherds on leashes, heeling at their sides. The dogs were always a presence around the camp; they often accompanied guards as they patrolled outside the fence, but seldom had it been deemed necessary to bring them inside the grounds, and never before into the mess hall.

  When we were in our places, Kommandant Vogel sat at the officers’ table up on the riser and scrutinized the men. He appeared pleased because so many of them had worn their Wehrmacht uniforms. Camp rules regarding dress required men to wear their prison fatigues during the day when they were on work detail; but otherwise, they could wear whatever they wanted. Ordinarily, the majority of the German prisoners came to dinner in their PWs, as they were called. Only a small number, less than 20 percent, donned their military uniforms. Vogel could, of course, order them to do so, and did on special occasions. But now he looked out at the prisoners and at least half were in uniform. The fight on the hillside hadn’t suddenly converted many of these men into Nazi fanatics, but it had convinced them to go along.

  As Vogel pushed back his chair and stood, the hall became absolutely silent. “This afternoon I met with Commander Dalrymple and discussed this morning’s events. It appears that there was a work slowdown, or complete stoppage, in every work detail that left camp. There was, as you know, an altercation in one detail. The American commander has expressed deep concern regarding these events, and he has determined the following.” The kommandant took a sheet of paper from inside his jacket, unfolded it, and read, “One: damaged and destroyed equipment will be replaced or repaired by the day after tomorrow. The cost of this will be deducted from our daily pay and our general fund. Two: all prisoners will be placed on reduced rations for two days. Three: the canteen will be closed until Sunday. Four: prisoners who were involved in the altercation will receive individual review by the German command, as well as by the American command. Further reprimand will be determined on an individual basis.” Vogel folded up the sheet, and then he nodded his head once. The other officers at the table got to their feet and stood at attention.

  “Dear God,” Adino whispered. “Not this.”

  Vogel produced a pitch pipe and blew into it, sounding a single, clear note; then he counted off, one-two-three, and most of the men began singing the Horst Wessel Song. Those of us at the soccer table who were not German listened. The American guards didn’t move, nor did their dogs—except one, which tilted its head incredulously.

  When the song was concluded, the kitchen doors opened, and the cooks emerged with dinner: two loaves of bread and four pitchers of water for each table.

  5.

  In the morning we learned that during the night Wilhelm had collapsed in the latrine after shitting blood. Guards had taken him to the infirmary. After breakfast—bread and water again—I received instructions to report to the commander’s office.

  Corporal Marks had an open box of doughnuts on his desk. He was finishing a doughnut, and powdered sugar was caked in the corners of his mouth. “Sorry, I’d offer you one,” he said loudly, “but rules is rules. Now, we have to take Ruup back to the doctor’s, though I don’t know what he can do about glass up the ass.”

  He sorted through the box, selecting a doughnut that had chocolate on top, and led me outside. We got the commander’s Jeep, picked up Ruup at the infirmary, and drove out of camp. Marks left the dou
ghnut untouched, lying on a paper napkin on the seat between us. I tried not to look at it.

  Instead, I turned around. Wilhelm lay curled up in the small back seat, his eyes closed. The bandage that had been wrapped around the lower half of his face had been removed.

  “Don’t ask,” he muttered. “You have no idea.”

  I faced forward and looked out at the road. None of us spoke, all the way into Munising. The doctor’s waiting room was crowded with old people, and one young woman with a little white dog that yapped constantly. Marks, of course, didn’t seem to mind, and soon he was mesmerized by another issue of National Geographic.

  When it was Ruup’s turn to see the doctor, he walked with deliberate care into the examination room, and we remained in the waiting room for perhaps half an hour. I kept looking out the window toward the Frangiapanis’ roof, beyond the trees, which had now lost most of their leaves.

  “You’re not going anywhere this time.” Marks spoke loudly, and the others in the waiting room watched us with curiosity, if not alarm. “You get no spaghetti, just bread and water like everyone else. Sorry, pal. Besides, I didn’t understand the doctor so good the last time, so he’ll have to talk to you.”

  One of the old women leaned over and whispered to her husband, who then said to Marks, “Shouldn’t he have handcuffs or something?”

  When Marks continued to leaf through his magazine, I nudged him, and he looked up. “He’s deaf,” I said to the old man.

  The woman looked away from us in disgust.

  “What?” Marks asked.

  “Never mind,” I told him.

  The nurse opened the door and motioned to us. We followed her down a corridor and entered a small examination room, where Ruup was on a table covered with paper. He lay on his side with a white sheet draped over him, and he looked like he was about to scream. The smell in the room was worse than the latrine on a hot day.

  “I don’t know if this enema is going to work,” the doctor said to Marks. “I would suggest that you get permission to take him to the hospital in Marquette.”

  Marks looked at me and said, “What about Marquette?”

  “Ruup should go to the hospital,” I said.

  “You can call the commander from my office,” the doctor said. “You should get this man to Marquette immediately.”

  Beyond the doctor I could see out the window. A column of smoke was drifting into the sky above the Frangiapanis’ house. It seemed too large, too dark to be burning leaves, and it certainly wasn’t coming from a chimney. I turned and opened the door, walked quickly down the hall to the waiting room and out the front door. Marks called after me, but as soon as I got down the steps I broke into a full run. Instead of going up to the intersection and turning left, I ran through several yards and leaped over one fence. It wasn’t until I was across the street from the Frangiapanis’ that I realized that the smoke wasn’t coming from their house, but from somewhere beyond. I sprinted around the side of the house and saw gray smoke pouring from the first-floor windows of the house directly behind the Frangiapanis’, and there was a young woman lying in the backyard, coughing. She wore a frilly apron and her hair was wrapped in a red bandanna.

  When I reached her, she wheezed, “My . . . baby! I couldn’t . . . get . . . upstairs!”

  I ran toward the side door, which was partially opened. Before entering the house, I took the bandage off my head and held it over my nose and mouth. In the kitchen the stove and the wall above it were on fire. The smoke was incredible. I went into the dining room, then turned right and saw the stairs in the living room. Taking the steps two at a time, I reached the second floor, where the smoke wasn’t too bad. I could hear sirens in the distance.

  There was a crib in the bedroom at the end of the hall. The baby was asleep on its back. It couldn’t have been more than a few months old. I went into the room, picked up the baby, wrapped it in its blanket, and to my surprise it remained asleep. It had fine dark hair and remarkably tiny hands. I couldn’t get over the small, perfectly shaped fingernails.

  Turning around, I saw that the smoke was coming up the stairway. I went to the window in the bedroom, but it was a sheer drop to the concrete driveway. The smoke was getting worse, and I could hear the crackle and pop of fire down on the first floor. I held the blanket over the baby’s face and ran down the hall, into the smoke. It was difficult to see going down the stairs, but in the living room, light came through the three diagonal windows in the front door, which I opened. I went out on the front steps and was surprised to see so many people in front of the house—neighbors, policemen, firemen rolling hoses out from their truck. When they saw me and the baby, there were shrieks and cries of joy. The mother, her hair now free of the bandanna, came across the yard, her arms outstretched. I handed the baby to her, and the child began to cry. Out by the curb, an elderly woman was on her knees, praying with a set of rosary beads dangling from her clasped hands.

  My throat and sinuses were full of smoke and I leaned over and began coughing. Then there were people around me, touching me, patting my back. A woman kissed my cheek; a man shook my hand. Someone was taking photographs. Marks was there, too, shouting things like “Verdi, you did it! You saved the baby!”

  At the back of the crowd that had gathered around me, I saw Chiara and her mother looking on. Chiara was in a yellow bathrobe, and her hair was piled on top of her head. Though she held the lapels together against her throat, I could see her graceful, slender neck.

  Then I must have passed out for a moment, because I suddenly found myself sitting on the front fender of the commander’s Jeep, sipping from a green bottle of Coca-Cola.

  I spent the night in the camp’s infirmary. My breathing was very shallow. In the morning I was offered a bowl of oatmeal, but because the other men would be on bread and water for another day I refused it. The two medical officers looked at each other, and I told them that I wouldn’t say anything if they wanted to share the oatmeal. They didn’t bother with the spoon but simply used their fingers.

  That night I was released from the infirmary. Adino and many of the other men cheered when I returned to our barracks. Pinned on the announcement board by the door was the front page of the local newspaper, which was accompanied by two photographs: one of the house with smoke pouring from the windows, and another of me clutching the baby to my chest. The headline read: “POW Saves Baby from Inferno!”

  Adino insisted I translate the article into Italian. When I read the headline, he folded his hands over his heart and moaned, “Sei Dante!”

  I slapped him gently on the side of the head, saying, “I’m not Dante.” When he responded with those big, soft eyes I began to read the article, but stopped after a few paragraphs. “It says I’m a member of the German Afrika Korps,” I said. “There’s no mention that I’m Italian.”

  “Americans,” Adino said in disgust. “We’re all ‘krauts’ to them. It’s because of the bread, I tell you. They eat this white bread that’s like cake, and they don’t know one damned thing.”

  6.

  We had new or repaired tools the following day and, after being served a breakfast of eggs, bacon, rolls, and coffee, we returned to lumbering in the forest. We didn’t work too hard that first day because we were all so weak, but after several days it was clear that many of the men were following Vogel’s orders regarding work. Our progress was sporadic, and there were frequent problems with equipment.

  One evening after dinner, I was summoned to the officers’ barracks, escorted by two of the kommandant’s men. At night these men had taken to patrolling the grounds until lights out at ten o’clock. They wore the gray uniforms of the Afrika Korps. Vogel’s “office” was an area at the back of the barracks where blankets had been hung from the rafters to create a small, private cubicle. Drawings of Hitler, Himmler, and Rommel were pinned to these “walls.” He sat behind a “desk” that was made from boards laid across stacked produce crates.

  “Captain Verdi, I wanted to give you the
good news personally,” he said. “The officers have discussed your situation and decided not to court-martial you.”

  “Court-martial? What would the charges have been?”

  Vogel stroked his smooth cheek a moment as he squinted up at me. “Oh, any number of things. Striking a German soldier. Insubordination. Perhaps even treason.”

  “That’s nonsense, Kommandant.”

  Vogel took a book off of a stack of papers on his desk and picked up a folded sheet of newspaper. It was the front-page article about the house fire in Munising. “These people may consider you a ‘hero,’ but this—this is sufficient evidence that you have committed treason.”

  “I carried a baby out of a burning house.”

  “You escaped from your captors, which is to be lauded, as it is every prisoner’s duty to do so. But instead of using your freedom to harass the enemy, you save the life of this child—who may one day grow up and join the American armed forces.”

  “Certainly, Kommandant, the Third Reich plans to win the war before that happens.”

  Vogel leaned back in his chair; he seemed to be attempting a smile. “You do believe that, Captain Verdi: that we are going to win the war?”

  “The bulletins and reports your officers issue always contain positive news from the front, so why would I think we might lose?”

  “Precisely,” Vogel said. “And I have more good news for you, regarding Lieutenant Wilhelm Ruup. His treatment at the hospital has been somewhat successful, but it has been determined that he will be sent home.” The kommandant’s finger tapped a sheet of paper on his desk. “He has agreed to memorize this list and take it back to the authorities in Berlin.” Now he attempted to smile again, which meant he looked like he was in excruciating pain. “You are not on this list because you are a member of the Italian army.”

  “Who is on it?”

  Vogel shrugged. “German soldiers whose behavior has been suspicious or unsatisfactory. The Third Reich needs to know that they have not been doing their duty while in captivity. They are too willing to work for the benefit of the enemy. Some of them, we have noted, have attended religious services on Sundays when ministers come out from the village. It is one thing for you and the other Italian prisoner to attend Mass when the priest comes to camp, but the authorities will want to contact the families of these men. Such primitive religious ceremonies are no longer necessary in Germany.”