Then we picked up the bodies. We laid them in a row and covered them with blankets. It seemed for a moment that they were still alive, only sleeping, and would soon wake up.
It was strange, how quickly we put up the tents, fixed the stoves. The wounded had been moved and were lying on boards padded with twigs. Several were badly wounded, and Salo and Maxie didn’t leave their side. But the burning stoves and the water boiling on the tripods reminded us of our old routines, when everyone was active and satisfied by the activity.
Hermann Cohen now took Tsila’s place in the kitchen. Salo, who saw how Tsila was suffering, gave her a sedative, and she stopped wailing. There were still sandwiches and tea for breakfast, and anyone who ran out of cigarettes could ask Hermann Cohen to advance the next day’s packet.
During the shelling, Milio clung to Danzig’s chest and went completely mute, but then he began pounding with his hands and making loud sounds. Danzig explained to him that we’ll soon go down below, but that there’s nothing to be afraid of; the war is over and there will be no more shellings.
Then Felix stood up and asked to speak. His distress was apparent, his fists clenched close to his body. He began by saying, “I’m sorry Kamil is not standing here instead of me. He led us day and night. He knew these mountains not from maps but from his footsteps. He saw things we did not see. It hurts so much that this great commander is not with us.” He was clearly dissatisfied with what he said and was about to apologize. Fortunately, Danzig, holding Milio tightly, spoke up and reminded us of Karl’s love for his fellow man, a love that had led him to communism. His communism was pure. How terrible that his wife and small children would not see their father return home. Danzig suddenly burst into tears, and we silently clung to one another beside the covered bodies, the question of why they died and we were alive unanswerable.
Then we moved the wounded and weak to the tents, and the line dividing the living and dead became sharply drawn. We grabbed the tea and cigarettes; these were our hold on life at this hour of need.
Michael, despite his weakness, knew what had occurred and asked what would happen now to the dead who lay on the ground. Maxie answered very simply: there is no need to worry about our heroes; they have gone to heaven, and in time we will go up there, too, and be with them.
“And we’ll be together, like here?”
“Presumably.”
Michael is very familiar with the word “presumably” and has the feeling that it conceals something important, but he asked no more questions. He saw that Maxie was distracted and it was best not to burden him.
More survivors have recovered and some stood up, wanting to know where the kitchen was. Everyone is hungry. Hermann Cohen, replacing Tsila, distributed small portions of sweetened porridge.
No one asked what we will do with the dead who lie before us, where we will bury them and when; as in every war, hunger is stronger than grief. A man hides his head in a plate and savors every spoonful of hot porridge.