The Winter Soldier

8.

And he was right. The front was far away. In Latvia and Byelorussia, Italy and Mesopotamia and Verdun. Throughout the winter, fighting had continued in Galicia and the Bukovina, but these were smaller skirmishes, a seemingly endless back-and-forth for snowy country, downed bridges and open craters, pastures. Little lost, and very little gained.

One day in the middle of March, they thought they heard shelling, and slipped cautiously outside the church. But it was just a village woman, her face red with exertion, replacing a fencepost with the booming flat of her axe.

Occasionally, evacuation lorries stopped to drop off soldiers injured on the plains. They were mostly from Hungarian regiments, trying to transport the wounded back across the mountains to hospitals in Munkács and Máramarossziget, only to be held up by the snow. There were more cases of war nerves among them, soldiers beset by shakes and twisted postures, who tumbled when they tried to walk. Like Horváth, they had no wounds that he could see, and like Horváth the palsy followed no known pattern. But they were different, more like the cases described by Brosz and Berman. They ate, and spoke, and wept, and their movements were purposeful; some scurried beneath their blankets with the slightest sound.

Lucius was tempted to try to give them Veronal, which had been resupplied the week before. But Horváth now needed ever larger doses just to keep him from tensing up, and again Lucius feared running out of pills. Now, with Horváth’s stay approaching a month, he found himself increasingly pessimistic, even angry, though he didn’t know toward whom.

At the end of the month, a conscription detail appeared on horseback.

The commanding officer was a lieutenant called Horst. A tall man, accent from Upper Austria, with pale, almost lashless eyelids, a dark-brown moustache trimmed neatly above unusually white teeth, and a scar on his forehead in the distinctive shape of a third, tiny eye. He wore a black cape trimmed with red ribbon over his broad shoulders, and grey trousers tucked into a pair of steel-tipped boots. From Margarete’s look of disgust, Lucius sensed this was the same man who had appeared last winter, whom she had cursed so viciously. But Horst gazed right through her. He was accompanied by a pair of Hungarian batmen, granitic specimens, each a good hand taller than Lucius and likely twice his weight.

Inside the church, the batmen sat sullenly at the table and drank from bowls of soup while Horst explained. A year and a half of war had taken a heavy toll on the armies, he said. In Vienna, the draft was expanding. Now they were canvassing the hospitals for men well enough to fight.

“No one here is well enough to fight,” said Lucius, looking past the lieutenant into the dim light of the nave. “An evacuation convoy just passed through two weeks ago. They took fourteen patients to the rear. The rest are still too sick to leave, let alone return to battle.”

“There are new orders about what constitutes battle-readiness,” said Horst, taking another spoonful of soup. “Certain doctors do not understand the needs of a fighting army. What constitutes illness in war is not the same as peace.”

A hush had descended over the hospital, and Lucius could sense Margarete watching him. He knew that further protest would only raise Horst’s suspicions. “Whatever Herr Lieutenant thinks,” he said.

Horst downed the last drops of his soup and rose, saber clattering against his chair. From his pocket, he removed a leather case and extracted a cigarette, which he handed to one of the batmen to light.

They began in Limbs, in the nave, beneath the gilded image of Saint Michael.

One by one the men lifted their stumps for him. Horst moved quickly, stopping only to inspect a wound. He seemed impatient, Lucius thought, even annoyed to find so many amputees. Halfway down the second aisle, Horst stopped. “Where are the neurological diseases?”

“Over there,” said Lucius, pointing toward the south transept. “We haven’t many. But they’re all quite ill.”

Horst drew on the cigarette and tapped the ash free. “And I told you I’ll decide.”

The first two patients both had head wounds; both were comatose and didn’t stir when Horst shook them with his foot. In the third bed was an Austrian private named Berg, a former sapper who’d been buried in his tunnel. His sight had failed him, though Lucius could find no sign of injury to his eyes or brain. At night he woke up screaming, and when they sat him up to eat his meals, he couldn’t keep his head from drooping down. He had been there two months, having missed the last evacuation due to a passing bout of dysentery.

But Lucius knew that none of this was likely to protect him from the conscription officer. “He’s blind,” he said.

“Blind?” Horst crouched, and tilted the man’s head back. “His eyes look fine.”

“Of course, but on proper ophthalmic exam…”

“Stand,” said Horst.

The soldier didn’t seem to hear him.

“I thought you said he was blind,” said Horst. “Not deaf.” He nodded to a batman, who hauled Berg up to his feet.

Berg stood trembling, in half-genuflection, as if he didn’t know whether to sit or stand. His chin hung to his chest.

“What’s wrong with his neck?” asked Horst.

For a moment, Lucius paused, trying to gauge how best to respond. “Shell-blast kyphosis,” he said at last. He reached out and turned Berg roughly by the shoulder, as if to show that he, too, was no sentimental fool. He ran his thumb over the soldier’s spine. “Probable compression of the vertebrae secondary to the explosion. For a time, we suspected a subdural hematoma. I thought I would have to open his skull.”

This was all, of course, a lie. But the medical language seemed to give Horst pause. As he walked on, Margarete helped Berg back into his bed.

The next patient was one of the new Hungarians, named Virág. According to the story, he had been talking to his commanding officer when an errant bullet from a soldier cleaning his gun burst through the C.O.’s eye. Two days later, out of the blue, Virág had dropped to the ground, screaming, clawing at his own face, saying it was burning. For his first few days in Lemnowice, he kept trying to flee into the cold.

Horst told him to stand, turned him, told him to walk.

Virág obeyed.

“Get dressed,” said Horst.

Lucius stepped forward. “Please. You can’t take him, Lieutenant. Even yesterday, he thought we were under attack. He’s still sick. He doesn’t even know where he is.”

Horst ignored him. “Dress,” he said.

Again Lucius interrupted. “Lieutenant. These are my patients. I have my duties.”

Now Horst turned to look at him again. He said, “Your patients? These men belong to the Emperor.” He paused. For a moment he looked at Lucius as if seeing something he hadn’t seen before. “How old are you anyway? Nineteen? Eighteen?”

Lucius didn’t answer. “You can’t send him back into battle. He’s as sick as any of my amputees.”

“Then I will take your amputees, too. I’ll take you and your nurse; I’ll put you in an ambulance team in a real zone of battle. So you can see real bravery. Then you can tell me what constitutes health.”

They had reached Horváth.

“And what is wrong with this man?”

If only I knew. But the lesson from the first two men was clear. He didn’t hesitate.

“Dementia praecox, Lieutenant. Catatonic type, most likely a primary presentation. Quite classic per the descriptions set forth by Professor Kraepelin of Munich. Highly unstable vital signs with hypertension and tachycardia, which you might know forebodes progression to the fatal form.”

“He’s been here a month,” said Horst, studying the manifest.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” said Lucius.

“That’s a long time,” said Horst. “If he is so sick, why wasn’t he evacuated?”

“There is always a question of priority. There were other men…”

But Horst had turned from him. “Stand,” he said.

There was silence. Horváth stared up at them. He said nothing.

Again, Horst said, “Stand.”

Again nothing. Lucius said, “He speaks Hungarian…”

“All soldiers understand basic orders in German,” Horst answered, looking at the patient on the ground. “Are you showing disrespect for a senior officer, Private?”

In answer, József Horváth squeezed his eyes shut very, very tight.

Outside, a cloud must have passed before the sun, for the room grew dark.

Horst looked to his batmen and then turned away from Horváth. For a moment, Lucius thought he had decided to leave the soldier alone. Then, with a swiftness that seemed impossible for such a massive person, Horst turned back and brought the heel of his boot down into Horváth’s belly.

Horváth doubled over, heaving pale green soup onto the floor. He began to cough.

“I said stand, you piece of shit.”

Again Horst kicked him. Horváth writhed, burying his face in the straw. The lieutenant put his steel-toed boot to Horvath’s neck. He pressed. A low groan came from Horváth’s mouth.

Beneath his head, beneath the coat Horváth used as a pillow, Lucius could see some of his drawings.

Lucius said, “Lieutenant, you are going to break his windpipe. I assure you the man means no disrespect. This is classical negativism… catatonic symptoms… common, Lieutenant, you can find it in every textbook.”

“Insubordination is what it is called. I said stand, soldier.”

“Lieutenant,” said Lucius. “He is not resisting you. It is a symptom of his condition.”

Horst pushed harder. “It is a symptom of disrespect,” he said. He drew on his cigarette.

A horrific wheezing rose from Horváth. Lucius looked to Margarete, trying to find some mooring, now afraid that she would try to intervene. “I said…,” he began again, turning back to the lieutenant. “I said he has dementia praecox. This is classic catatonic stupor. It is not purposeful. It—”

“And I said I’ve never heard those words,” said Horst. “I think you are making this up. If it is a disease, then why haven’t I heard of it?”

Now a taunting smile flickered across Horst’s lips.

“Because you’re ignorant and never went to school.”

The two guards exchanged glances. Margarete took a step forward. “Herr Lieutenant,” she began in hesitant German.

Horst turned, his face suddenly red with anger. “A nurse dares speak to me!” He met her eyes and pressed his foot harder into Horváth’s neck until she backed away. The soldier gasped and twisted. Horst turned to Lucius. “Who else are you hiding, Doktor?”

“No one.”

Again Horst pushed down harder. Horváth was clawing at the officer’s riding boots. The lower part of his body flopped like a fish. “Who else?” Horst shouted.

“I said, no one,” said Lucius, and against all wishes, he felt tears begin to well behind his eyes. “Take your foot off him.” But then Horváth had writhed off his mat, and the papers were in full view.

Horst motioned toward a guard, who picked them up.

“And what are these?” On the piece of paper, a wreath of little Grottenolm circled a sun.

“Drawings,” Lucius said, miserably.

“Drawings. He’s not well enough to fight, but he’s well enough to draw.”

Lucius said, “It’s treatment… it… distracts him. Otherwise I waste morphine on him. I let him draw because it distracts him. It keeps him from disturbing the other men.”

“He must not be very disturbing if you’ve kept him for a month,” said Horst. Now he let the papers fall. “You understand there are punishments for desertion.”

“This man is not a deserter, sir.”

The lieutenant released his boot, and Horváth broke into a spasm of gasping. Horst turned to his guards. “Anbinden.”

Lucius looked to Margarete, but she was still as stone. “Lieutenant,” he said, taking a step closer. “I take full responsibility for this patient. I… I understand the principles of medicine in war. Were there a coward among these men I would happily punish him myself. But this man is sick. He has no visible wound, I know, but he is very sick. He sees… spirits. Hears them speaking to him.”

“Then his spirits can tell him how to hold a rifle, how to behave.”

The batman yanked Horváth to his feet. He began to moan, that same cry as when he had first arrived. There was a foul smell, and looking down at Horváth’s trousers, Lucius realized to his horror that Horváth had defecated. Horst had also noticed, and his lip curled with disdain.

“Lieutenant,” Lucius begged. “He’s terrified. Please. It is twenty below zero. It’s too cold.”

Horst turned back to the batmen. “The doctor, who spends his days in this nice warm church, worries it’s too cold!”

Lucius was frantic now. “I take full responsibility. Send him before a medical review board. If I am wrong, I will take whatever disciplinary measures…”

But Horst wasn’t listening. He turned and walked toward the courtyard exit. His guards followed, Horváth struggling in their hands, the moans growing louder. Throughout the church, many of the patients were watching. “Back to your beds,” said Lucius, weakly, but bereft of any authority now.

Outside, in the courtyard, the men stopped at the beech tree. They stripped Horváth of his clothing, first his shirt, pulling it over his head without unbuttoning it, then yanking down his soiled trousers. Shit streaked his trembling legs. The soldiers made a sound of disgust and tried to pull the trousers off, but the cuffs got stuck over his ankles, and Horváth tumbled facedown into the snow. They roughly yanked each pant leg off, then threw the trousers into a heap and heaved him up. They tied his hands behind his back and bound him to the tree. Now the moans became words. “Kalt!” he shouted, in heavily accented German. “Cold. Cold! Oh! It’s so cold!” He struggled against the rope. Lucius looked back at the church. Patients were gathering at the door. Lucius started toward the struggling man, then turned. Then back again. There are forty of us, three of them, he thought. The church is full of weapons. We could overwhelm them.

But no one moved.

“Close the door,” he told Margarete in Polish. “They don’t need to see.”

She started across the yard, but Horst motioned for one of the guards to stop her. “Let them watch,” he said. “Let them see what the punishment for desertion is.”

“Close the door, Sister!” Lucius said, his voice beginning to crack.

“If you touch the door, Sister,” said Horst, “I will need to take another soldier, until the lesson’s learned.” She didn’t seem to understand the German, but the guard now stood between her and the door. Lucius turned. Five paces away Horváth was struggling. Deep bruises in the shape of a boot could be seen on his belly, a shoe tread on his neck.

As he struggled against the ropes, violet lines appeared on his shoulders. He began to bleed. The blood turned pink as it froze, but he seemed oblivious of it. “Cold! So cold!” he shouted. He yelled at Lucius now. There was something particularly horrible in how he had chosen German, as if, despite his illness, he was making some final attempt to be understood. “Kalt! Kalt! Oh! Oh, oh! My feet!”

“He doesn’t sound so crazy now,” said Horst, and one of his guards laughed.

Lucius looked wildly between Horváth and his patients in the doorway. He knew what they were thinking. You chose to keep him here. This is your fault, your arrogance, your greed… He lunged forward. The guards restrained him. Again he tried to break loose. He knew they were stronger, but it didn’t matter. He wanted to have Horváth see him struggling, to have all his patients see. To prove to them that he had done what he thought best.

To turn back time.

But as the guards fought Lucius, hooking elbows, dragging him down, Horváth wouldn’t drop his eyes. He tried to speak but now his lips were trembling too violently to form the words. He made a strange twisting motion as if he were attempting to free his feet from where they had frozen to the ground. The skin began to tear, but he didn’t seem to feel it. Spit froze to his lips, his muscles shook, and his penis had shrunken into his pubic hair. His pale skin turned yellow, then blotched with white and pink, and then the pink began to retreat to pallor once again. The entire scene seemed leached of any color, the church walls clad in ice, the courtyard bare, even the tree trunk dusted white with snow, as Horváth vanished into it, leaving only a pale pink froth at his feet.

His voice grew quieter, just a hum. Still, he wouldn’t drop his eyes.

You did this.

The eyes: Lucius had the horrible thought that the eyes would freeze in place. Again, he begged Horst to cut the ropes. He didn’t know how long Horst wished to punish him, but already they were passing the point at which corporal punishment became an execution. A final anesthesia would be setting in. The pain was gone, the damage by now was probably irreversible. The sounds that came from his patient were nothing Lucius had ever heard, thrown up by some monster of physiology, the winter air on vocal cords, a spasm of a palate, he didn’t know.

She told you that I asked to leave.

The gaze. Mama, Haza. Home.

At last Horváth closed his eyes, very slowly, as if even his eyelids had grown stiff. Across his body, his shivering muscles slowed and knotted up. He was still alive—steam lolled from his mouth. But his head hung down, and his skin gave an unearthly alabaster sheen. He looked impossibly peaceful. Horst told his men to untie him. The rope had frozen to his skin, and as they pulled it off, it tore long red strips. Horváth fell, his feet still in place, frozen to the ground. One of the soldiers struggled to detach them, and when he couldn’t, he kicked them free with a sickening crunch.

Horst motioned to Zmudowski that he could bring Horváth inside. To Lucius, loudly, so that all could hear, he said, “Doktor, there are thousands of courageous soldiers risking their lives for you and your family. We will not tolerate our medical staff abetting deserters. The next time we come to the hospital, we will execute all malingerers, all of them. You will be court-martialed and your nurse forever banned.”

Inside, Virág was still waiting silently by the door, blanket draped over his shoulders. Lucius had almost forgotten him. Now, he followed him out to the wagon before the church doors, as if making one final, ineffective attempt to protect this other man. What would they do to him? Lucius wanted to ask, but now he feared that any word he uttered would only worsen Virág’s fate.

The driver removed the heavy blankets and the leather pads used to keep the horses’ eyes from freezing. Then Horst mounted his horse, and the batmen climbed aboard the wagon, and Lucius was left alone.