We had no idea how right Kamil was. In the early hours before dawn, we were hit by a hail of shelling. At first it appeared to be a “softening up,” to be followed by an attack by the company that was training down below. Kamil didn’t say “I told you so.” He was glad we had moved the sick and recovering to a relatively safe place.
The shelling intensified, and luckily all the shells did not reach the summit. Salo and Maxie took care of the wounded, and it was a good thing that our positions were deeply entrenched and that the fortress wall provided protection.
The shelling got heavier and lasted about two hours—in fact, until daybreak. When we poked our heads out from our positions, we were stunned by what we saw: many fighters were lying on the red snow, doubled over in pain, calling for help. Salo and Maxie went from person to person, trying to stanch the bleeding and bandage the wounds. The tents had collapsed, and there were no fires or water.
Werner had taken a direct hit and was lying with outstretched arms, soaked in blood, no longer breathing. Not far from him lay Big Karl. His tall body was crumpled, and it looked like he had suffered terrible pain before dying. Quiet, devoted Miriam had been struck in the face by shrapnel as she emerged from the bunker; her head was now hanging down on her shoulder as she lay motionless on the ground. A distance away, legs spread apart, lifeless, lay Kamil.
There was silence, and it was red. And for a moment it seemed that Salo and Maxie, who were busy saving lives, would look up and berate us for standing and doing nothing.
It had stopped snowing, and the sun shone brightly on the summit; not a whisper was heard. Salo and Maxie moved on their knees from person to person, trying to revive them. Victor was at their side to help. He carried the box of medicines and bandages and a pail of water. His beard had grown since he came to us, and he looked like a man completely devoted to other people.
We didn’t know what to do and just stood. We saw the dead lying there and the blood spilled on the snow, and we did not absorb the magnitude of the disaster.
Felix was the first to regain his bearings and told us to set up the stoves and the tents to prevent the wounded from freezing. Tsila wept bitterly, beating her head with both hands. The fighters tried to console her, to no avail. Her whole body shook. “Why were they killed now, a moment before the liberation?” she wailed.
“They died like heroes,” a young fighter said gently.
“I don’t want them to be heroes; I want them alive. For whom will I cook? For whom will I make soup? I want the hands that took plates from me; I want the faces that smiled at me. They were younger than I am. I should have died, not them.”
The young fighter withdrew, as if chastened.
As we started to put up the tents, to arrange the tripods and the stoves, as we saw Hermann Cohen carrying a bundle of wood and Felix’s penetrating gaze, we knew we must not delay. We had to take care of the many wounded and ease their pain.
Dr. Krinitski seized the opportunity and ran away. He had done nothing of his own free will, only under duress. Words and gestures had no effect on him; he never stopped complaining and blaming and speaking ill of everyone. It was good that he was gone, and it would be good, too, if he were to end up buried in the snow.
This small discovery did not pull us out of our shock. The disaster spread as the sun rose higher. We had not seen such a sun for months. The great light exposed the damage and the death. We were afraid to approach the dead and cover them. Felix, who was now in command, reasoned that the silence coming from below indicated more than anything else that the German Army was in retreat and the Red Army was flanking it on all sides. But we should not risk going down; instead, we should first ascertain that the Red Army had reached the train station.
Without delay, a patrol went out to check the area, and we watched as it disappeared from view.