Stars & Stripers

I can still remember him. He was a tiny man, at least a head shorter than me and I stand well under six feet tall. He had a shock of snow white hair that reminded me of the flowing mane of Robert Frost. Liver spots covered arthritic hands that shook ever so slightly, and there was the persistent smell of alcohol on his breath. He wore a soft flannel shirt and a wrinkled pair of Khaki pants. Clinched carefully against his side was an old musty scrapbook.

"I'd really enjoy speaking to your class," he said.

I had met him a few years ago when he came to my school to do an article for the local newspaper. He had retired a few years before and he did this to keep his hand in the business,” he'd said.

My class had just completed a unit on World War II and he had seen some of their reports on a bulletin board. It was then he told me about his scrapbook. He wanted to share it with my 8th graders; a piece of oral history.

He seemed a shy man. Quite different from what I would have expected an old newsman to be. He spoke haltingly and self consciously, no Walter Winchell type here, as he spoke of his background to the children. He had been a reporter with Stars & Stripes during the war, attached to Patton's 3rd Army.

He passed his scrapbook around the room and answered questions. He told a few stories and explained that the army newspaper worked much like a regular newspaper. He tried to tell them what it was like gathering stories and fighting in a war. They listened politely. Soon he finished and my students applauded.

When the class ended, he motioned for me to come closer.

"I want to thank you for letting me talk to the kids. I think they enjoyed it," he'd said, but it sounded more like a plea.

"I'm sure they did. That's a nice scrapbook you brought with you."

He waved a hand as if swatting at a fly.

"Yeah, it's what I did and I'm proud of it. But I have another story to tell and I didn't think I should tell it to a bunch of eighth graders."

He was breathing harder now; agitated. The smell of alcohol clung to his breath.

The death camps. Hitler's demented handiwork. The Final Solution. 'By Your Work You Shall Be Set Free.'

"You know, I was one of the first ones into Buchenwald. Went in on the third day," he panted. "We'd heard rumors you know-- about the camps. But we weren't prepared for what we found. I can still see it-- taste it..." He wiped a gnarled hand over his nose. "I can still smell it. Those bastards," he hissed.

I took him by the arm. "Do you want to sit down for a moment?" I asked. His complexion had turned ashen. I was afraid the frail little man might faint.

He shook his head, dismissing my question, unable to stop the memories flooding back.

"We went into the camp. It was horrible. The place was still crowded with inmates. Bodies were stacked everywhere. Our doctors and medics were working round the clock."

He grimaced. His bony knuckles shone through his mottled skin as he gripped his beloved scrapbook.

"They brought a few of us in. The locals had already been through the place by the time we'd gotten there. Said they didn't know anything about it. Jesus Christ, how could they miss it?" he hissed. "The smell was something awful. Never smelled anything like it! Don't ever want to again."

"Some of the locals committed suicide after they visited the camps, didn't they?" I asked.

"Yeah, they did, the good mayor and his wife, some townspeople, too. And it was too good for them, I tell you. I had all I could do to keep from killing a few of them myself."

His hands were trembling more now.

"They took us through the camp. The barracks. You should have seen them. They were these thin, drafty, rickety, wooden buildings with dirt floors and no insulation. Bunks on both walls, three high. They say that the barracks were originally designed to hold about 200 men. They said more like 500 men lived in each one."

The old man's eyes had taken on a far away look. He was back at Buchenwald again.

"Anyway, they took us into one building. It was like all the others except this one had a cellar. They brought us down there. The smell was terrible. The army'd cleared it out but our captain said the damned Nazis had stacked the dead down there because they were dying faster than they could get rid of them. We walked over to one of the end walls. It was lined with stones and a thin layer of cement had been applied to it." He waved his arms as if he was a laborer. "You know, almost like a plaster. I remember it was still white."

A shiver suddenly wracked the old man's body.

"I walked over to the wall and noticed that there were regular marks on it-- in pairs-- that went right up the wall until they reached the ceiling. They were more like discolorations than marks. They seemed so familiar yet I couldn't place them. I asked the captain what they were."

The was a long silence. He swallowed repeatedly before he could go on. When he did, his voice sounded strangled as it came out. Tears rolled slowly down his cheeks. He wiped at them with the backs of his hands.

"You know what'd made those marks? The captain said those were oil marks-- from the soles of the feet of the corpses that had been stacked up so tight that they'd left stains against the walls." He sighed. "They went all the way up to the ceiling. Must have been close to ten feet high."

"I see why you didn't want to tell that story to the students," I mumbled.

"I know. They're not ready to hear that. And I wasn't ready to see that."

He turned and started down the hallway, scrapbook under his arm. Suddenly he turned back.

"You know," he said in a voice barely a whisper. "That's why I drink."

He turned on his heel and shuffled out the door, into the daylight, into the clean air beyond.