CHAPTER 12 - LILLE, FRANCE—OCTOBER 1, 1916
Bruno, his uniform speckled with dried mud and blood, exited the train at the Lille station to begin a two-day leave.
On the horizon, a scarlet sunset created the illusion that the western front had been set ablaze.
Despite leaving the battlefield, twenty kilometers away, screams and shellfire echoed inside his head.
It had been two months since he’d left Lille to train regiments on the use of the German Empire’s new weapon—gas artillery shells.
Under the close supervision of Haber, Bruno schooled artillery units on the use of chlorine and phosgene shells, which looked much like regular explosives, except for the green cross painted on the base of the shell.
Because chlorine omitted a detectible green gas, as well as a strong pineapple and pepper odor, phosgene had become the poison of choice.
Being a colorless gas with a smell like musty hay, phosgene was less detectable than chlorine.
Also, phosgene was far more deadly due to its power to react with proteins in the alveoli of the lungs, destroying the blood-air barrier, leading to suffocation.
However, phosgene did have a flaw; it could sometimes take up to two days for symptoms of the poison to manifest. Therefore, an enemy soldier could continue to fight until they drowned from the fluid in their lungs.
Haber, who was determined to win the chemical arms race, assured Bruno that chemists would soon be devising deadlier variations of poison gas.
Death is death, regardless of how it is inflicted, Haber’s voice had chimed in Bruno’s head as he watched colossal guns fire gas shells toward enemy lines.
It sickened him to think that he had sold his soul to Haber.
Equally, he was revolted by the fact that his family’s business was profiting from producing nocuous weapons for the government.
There was little he could do, he believed, but fight to survive the war and pray that Anna would never learn of the atrocities he was ordered to commit.
The suicide of Haber’s wife, Clara, weighed heavy on Bruno’s conscience.
Like a festering sore that would never heal, Bruno feared that Anna would someday discover what he’d done.
When we marry and move to Frankfurt, how will I keep my war duties and my family’s role in supplying the army with poison gas a secret?
He was plagued with horrid dreams of Anna—her eyes filled with tears—raising his Imperial German military revolver, and then placing the tip to her breastbone.
Each night, he woke with his body trembling and his clothes saturated with cold sweat.
He thought that the visions would subside with time, but as each day passed and showers of poison shells rained down on the enemy, his feeling of dread escalated.
Fear of hurting Anna was not the only thing that had shaken Bruno.
His new assignment, which led him along the French and Belgium front, often placed him under enemy shellfire.
The German artillery guns, which fired both explosive and gas shells, were a prime target of British, French, and Canadian forces.
Eight days ago, Allied forces initiated a bombardment while Bruno was training a group of soldiers on the proper handling of phosgene gas shells.
As screaming bombs hailed down from the sky, Bruno grabbed a soldier by the arm and leaped into a bunker.
An explosion quaked the ground. Bruno, compelled to aid yowling men, emerged from the bunker and discovered a massive crater where a howitzer once stood.
Chunks of iron and mutilated bodies covered the ground.
He dragged a soldier, who was moaning and clasping his rib cage, into the bunker.
Using his hands, Bruno applied pressure to a hole in the man’s chest, where he was missing several ribs.
A steaming shard of metal protruded from his hip.
Bruno shouted for a medic, but his voice was dwarfed by the bombardment.
As minutes passed, the metallic smell of blood grew, and the soldier’s whimpers dwindled. He held the man until he bled out.
Bruno, attempting to shed the macabre images from his mind, made his way through the streets of Lille.
As he passed a café, boisterous chatter of drunken German soldiers permeated the air.
Most of the soldiers, staying in Lille while on their way to or from the front, sought bars and brothels.
But Bruno, weary and hungry, craved the sequestered sanctuary of the bourgeois house that Haber had arranged for him.
Although he was required to inspect railway shipments of gas shells during his brief military leave, he planned to spend much of his time in his room.
As he turned a corner, the grand, three-story home came into view. Near the front gate, the woman caretaker, whom he recognized by her svelte stature and auburn hair, was speaking with two soldiers. Celeste. A memory of the woman serving wine to Haber flashed in his head.
One of the soldiers, a mustached and broad-shouldered sergeant, clasped Celeste’s arm and pulled her to his chest.
Bruno’s skin turned warm. He squeezed the handle of his leather case and quickened his pace.
“Non,” Celeste said, pressing her palms to the man’s tunic.
“Leave her alone,” Bruno ordered.
“Go to hell,” the sergeant said, his back to Bruno.
The second soldier, a corporal with a jagged scar on his lower lip, turned his head. His eyes locked on the insignias on Bruno’s uniform, and he slapped his comrade on the shoulder.
The sergeant released Celeste. He turned, and then snapped to attention. “I am sorry, sir. I wouldn’t have spoken to you like that if I had known you were an officer.”
Bruno approached the sergeant. An odor of sweat and beer permeated his nose. Drunken bastard. He fought away the urge to strike him. “She works for Germany.”
The sergeant’s eyes filled with fear.
“She billets officers,” Bruno said. “Perhaps you would like to explain to them why you are harassing a woman who cares for them.”
“I—I am sorry, sir.”
“I am not the person you should be apologizing to.”
“My apologies, fr?ulein. I meant you no harm.”
Celeste lowered her head.
“Return to your barrack,” Bruno ordered. “If I should see either of you on the streets of Lille again, you will be severely punished.”
The soldiers saluted and left.
“Merci, Herr Wahler,” Celeste said, looking at Bruno. “However, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
He nodded, feeling abashed by the soldiers’ conduct.
“Come inside,” she said. “Your room is prepared.”
Bruno followed her into the house and shut the door.
Her eyes gravitated to bloodstains on the sleeves of his jacket. “I’ll prepare you a bath, monsieur. The tub is in a room next to the kitchen. Leave your dirty uniform, and I’ll clean it.”
“Okay.”
“Will you be going out for dinner?”
“Nein.”
“I’ll prepare something to eat.”
“That will not be necessary,” he said.
“I’ll place something in the parlor, in the event you are hungry later.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen.
Bruno scaled the stairs, boards creaking under his boots, and entered his room, which contained a four-poster bed and a stand with a porcelain water bowl. While he waited for the tub to be filled, he removed a stack of Anna’s letters from his leather case, slumped in a chair, and read.
Bruno shifted in his seat. If she learns the truth about my duties and family’s role in supplying poison gas, her feelings for me will change. He hoped that by the time he was awarded his two-week leave, he’d find a solution to the dilemma.
Bruno rubbed stubble on his chin, pondering how different Anna and Norbie’s relationship was to that of his own family.
I wish things could be different for us.
He put away the letter, and then retrieved a straight razor and clean uniform from his case.
In a small, windowless room off the kitchen, he bathed in a tarnished copper tub.
Although the water was cold, it was far better than his last bath in an old wine barrel, of which the water was used, over and over, by over a dozen officers until the water turned the color of the trenches.
Using a chunk of lye soap, which omitted a strong ammonia odor, he washed his oily hair and body.
He scrubbed until his skin turned raw but was unable to cleanse the horrid visions that lingered in his brain.
Dressed and clean-shaven, he followed an aroma of sizzling sausage to the kitchen, where Celeste was standing by a stove. His stomach ached with hunger.
“Have you changed your mind about eating?” Celeste asked. Using a fork with two long tines, she rolled sausage over a hot pan.
“Ja,” Bruno said. He left the kitchen and sat at a table in the parlor. A moment later, Celeste delivered a plate of sausage and roasted potatoes, and then retrieved a bottle of wine from the cellar.
“Will there be more officers staying with you this evening?” he asked.
“Non, monsieur.” She poured wine into a glass.
“Danke.” He took a sip. The wine was dry and crisp, with a hint of toasted vanilla. “Have you eaten?”
“I will have something after I clean your uniform.” She placed the bottle on the table.
A decision burned inside him. He craved solitude, yet he wanted to know more about what life was like for Celeste and the citizens of Lille. Before he changed his mind, he stood from his chair and said, “Would you like to join me?”
She clasped her hands. “I only made enough for you.”
“I’m not that hungry,” he lied. “We can share the food.”
She glanced to the wall, as if she were pondering his offer, and then nodded. She retrieved a plate setting and wineglass, and then sat, draping a napkin over her lap.
Bruno cut the sausage in half. He placed it, along with a helping of potatoes, on Celeste’s plate and poured wine into her glass.
She forked a bit of potato.