He managed to slip past the few guards posted along the perimeter of the camp. It was past curfew and he knew that if his commanding officer caught scent of his midnight escapades, he would undoubtedly be made an example of, and that was not something to look forward to when one is in the German Blitzkrieg Division. But he needed these walks. They were his one release from the rather grey life of a soldier. Eat, sleep, kill, repeat; and if one managed to get himself killed between these activities, he was free.
Death. The only freedom he could now look forward to.
It was raining outside, light, refreshing. A few drops made their way along the back of his neck and continued down his spine. He sighed as the cool drops slid over his numerous wounds. Stab-wounds, gunshots, shrapnel. He’d seen his share of action, that was for sure. The rain fell around him, onto a broken Germany. Now, towards the tapering end of the Second World War, Germany had little to be proud of. A few territories scattered about Europe and an army of dejected men awaiting the gallows. The rain fell, almost as if cleansing the city, washing away all past agony, all sorrow, all the hurt. Cleaning the country’s open, bleeding wounds.
He walked on, his shirt now almost soaked. He cursed under his breath, wishing he had brought his overcoat.
He stuck to the left pavement, now slick with rain, trying to avoid any street lamps and soldiers who may be stationed about. He stared into the distance, pondering. He thought of the numerous people he had killed throughout his life as a soldier. Sons, brothers, fathers, husbands; all cut down by the brutal axe of war. He at times wondered how he managed to sleep at night with the blood of so many people on his hands. Wasn’t it all very futile, all rather pointless? As these thoughts traveled across his mind he forgot to look where he was walking.
He stepped into a small puddle. He withdrew his leg. The disturbed water danced about, finally settling down.
The rain too had stopped, leaving the street in silence.
He looked down at the puddle, and in the faint light, saw his reflection. He peered in. He saw his scarred face, which once was innocent and pure, believing that he fought for a noble cause. He remembered his mother, and recollected how she would deny him supper when he returned home soaked in rain. He missed her gentle chiding, her caring touch. He doubted he would ever feel it again.
He lightly footed the puddle. The reflection disappeared, but formed again. He began kicking the puddle repeatedly, almost in disgust of himself. Finally, he fell to his knees and wept. Wept, after what felt like a lifetime. He cried his heart out that night. A few soldiers nearby heard his commotion and came by to investigate. They saw a grown man lying curled in a ball, crying to himself. They half-dragged him back towards camp. He offered little resistance. They could hear him humming softly, “Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday.”
- Surjo Siddhanta Ray.
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