But Till will not let that go by; he comes back defensively, “René drags his Hitler dagger around with him,” he accuses, “and he’s got his armband on, someplace, too!”
I look across at René’s lowered head. “Why do you do that?” I ask him. “Did you like the Jungvolk so much?” He shakes his head, very hard.
“Oh, it’s not his dagger,” Bruce cuts in, explaining for him, and trying to shut Till up. “It’s Gert-Felix’s dagger, and armband, too.”
“Yes.” René looks up. “And Gert-Felix was my friend.”
Till’s mouth is still full. “But he’s dead!”
“Yes,” René repeats, “he’s dead. The doctor said he must have died a minute or two after the shot.” I begin to remember a story of their mother’s about an accident during night practice. “It was really almost murder,” René is going on, “no matter what the paper said.” Bruce’s arm is around his shoulder; it is hard to believe that the little boy with his toughness and his scratches can be so solicitous. “Everyone was supposed to bring rifles or pistols,” René says, “but Gert didn’t have any, and neither did I, so we brought flashlights, they were next best. Our leader was practicing aiming in the dark. We would hold up the flashlights and he would try to hit them. He was a fine shot, and it went very well at first. Then he went off his aim, and hit August in the knee. August didn’t cry when he fell down; it was probably just a nick. We tied it up with our armbands.”
“What did the leader say?” I asked. Bruce was listening to the German version of a story he must have known by heart in English as if it were a Wild West adventure.
“Oh, he swore, of course. August was holding his light too low, anyhow. Then it was Gert’s turn. He was good and afraid, and held his light as high as he could. The leader was a little afraid, too, I guess. He shot to the left, and that was where Gert’s forehead was. The light didn’t go out. Gert didn’t move at all. But the sound was different, as if it had hit a tree. Gert started to sway a little.”
Till goes on with the story as though it were his turn. “Then he fell over,” he recites. “First they put handkerchiefs on the wound, and when they were all covered with blood, they tried sticking moss in. He didn’t speak or groan again; the army surgeon said that was a good sign.”
“You weren’t there.” René speaks as if anybody who had not seen it knows nothing at all about life, and ought never to open his mouth again. “It was a very small hole,” he says, “and there was hardly any blood, just a little at the eye. We didn’t think it was anything. But Gert was dead by that time.”