Flash Fiction: Piano · 8:44pm May 15th, 2017
Ha ha ha it's end of semester, all my assessment is due, and I've been too headsick to really function for three weeks now, so it's all hit me at once.
The only real writing I've been doing is for assignments. But I'm actually kind of happy with this one, so I thought I'd share it. I am, in fact, still alive.
“Sergeant! A captain has surrendered with his squad.”
I ash my cigarette. “The law is we have to feed enemy prisoners of war the same thing we would eat ourselves, da?”
“Da.”
“Bring me Captain. Kill the rest. The men are already fighting over bread. There would be mutiny if I spread it any thinner.”
“Da.”
The lounge bar is nice. It was a nice luxury you could afford when you felt safe and far away from the front lines. Some parts of East Germany survived bombing, and here, here is one such place. There is still liquor in cellars, still grand piano on stage. Upholstered seats and electric lighting, though no electricity. Oil lanterns give the place a nice feel of its own. You could step in here and forget everything outside for a while. Of course officers had taken place for ourselves.
I walk behind the bar and grab gin, pour myself a shot.
“Where’s Pieter?”
“Outside. Digging.” Private Dmitry says, not taking off his helmet inside.
“Bring him. Tell him I just need him for German, or else he might think I have task worse than digging for him.”
The captain is brought to me and I pour myself another gin. It burns warm, I thump my chest to help it go down. Rations are what you can find, and alcohol is very filling.
He wears the double breasted Hugo Boss winter coat of a German captain, but he is Wehrmacht, not SS. He’s young, younger than me, and has such long, thin hands. Not a soldier’s hands, not even a farmer’s hands. He is on his knees, head bowed towards the ground with rifle rammed into the hollow in back of skull where it meets the neck, and we both wait for Pieter.
Pieter comes running in, because he is eager to not be shoveling. “Da, Sergeant?”
“Translate for me.”
“Da.”
“Ask him what he did before the war.” I want to know about those hands. Spoiled brat of some nobleman, maybe? Kept him out of war this long.
I listen to the short exchange, but don’t know enough German. I trust Pieter though. “He says he was learning piano and classical composition. In Hannover.”
Ah! They were a pianist’s hands. A scholar’s hands. They had no place holding a rifle.
I point to the piano. “Ask him if he will play.”
Pieter translates. The captain bobs his head. “Ja! Ja!” He rushes to the piano and his fingers hit the keys. I recognize this; Rimsky-Korsakov? He knows some Russian then.
It reminds me of home. Of a time before all this.
“Good. Tell him we won’t shoot him until he is finished.”
Again, Pieter translates. The captain stumbles, but only for a moment. There is only piano for nearly a minute after before we all hear the choked sobs. But his playing does not falter.
Pieter goes back out to shovel graves, and we officers listen for a while.
I close my eyes and get lost in the music, and it stutters as the captain hits a few sour notes. I round on him; “What is this? You think you can slack off? You have a job to do, take pride in your work!”
He flinches, continues playing, more focused this time. Perhaps he didn’t understand me.
I go to inspect the men and see if there is enough to loot here so we can continue our march forward. Siphon petrol where we can, steal food where we must. And always eyes open for resistance; Even a child can pull a trigger. We have dealt with many already.
When I get back some hours later, the music greets me. I feel home again, I feel safe. The captain is no longer crying. He is grim resolve, and his hands are no longer trembling. He no longer fears death, maybe? Or is just resolved to the task? Is admirable, to have become a man at such a young age. I could see him as a leader of men, even if most of his had been boys.
I close my eyes and listen.
It’s late now. I go to the mess, a fire with some pots hanging over it, and get the stew the men have made. It’s terrible, but filling. I bring a bowl back for the pianist.
He eats it with one hand, playing with the other, knowing what will happen if he stops. I hope he does not stop.
I go to bed. I sleep through the artillery, I have had practice. It helps that there really is not so much as there used to be.
When I wake up, the pianist is still playing, slow and thoughtful. I am impressed, and watch those fine hands for a while. They are black now.
“Someone gave him gloves?” I ask.
“No,” another replies. I look again. He is not wearing gloves. He plays through the cold, determined and desperate.
I close my eyes and listen to the music.
I go out again and watch the men dig. The ground near water is the easiest to shovel, but I dare not risk poisoning the supply. We have lost too many to illness already to lose more to laziness.
It is hours later when I return to the bar, and the music still plays. The captain is sagging now, like all but one of his strings have been cut. He has resorted to playing slow Christmas carols, the most his hands still allow.
Twenty-two hours after he started, he collapses against the keys, sobbing.
The others all stand and applaud. There is a great cheering for this brave, tired man.
It’s a pity I have to shoot him now.
Special thanks to Caligari, Norm De Plume and Scarlet_Weather for helping me look over this.
Honestly I can imagine that something like this really happened. War was brutal and the enemy had to be punished. There was no mercy to be for the enemies in the Great Patriotic War. It is fascinating in grim sort of way.
I have to ask but is this correct? Seems wrong to me.
4534002
True story! And intentional quirk of the language!
WELL THATS DEPRESSING
This story provoked a physical response. My throat has tightened. There is a knot in my guts. A bitter taste permeates my mouth.
Excellent job.
I'd heard this story before, but it was still tragic to see it retold again. Kudos.
War is war.
And Nazi killed way more.
I don't know if it were more noble to say fuckk off and get a bullet from the start, or struggle to live another day...