San Marino and Other War Stories

The Island of Man Sarino cannot be found in any map. Too insignificant for even casual notice, it changed hands frequently between the United States and Japan during the course of the Second World War. After the defeat of Japan, the island - lacking in resources and strategic importance - was practically abandoned by the victorious Allies. Being uninhabited, save for the sporadic visit by the neighbouring tribes who lived on the islands near it, and who occasionally came to collect whatever brief vegetation the island offered, it was quickly forgotten and left to time.​

But soon these tribes stopped going to the island. In their typical superstitious manor, they claimed the island was now inhabited by a demon. This claim amused more rational minds, but the missing bodies of those who travelled to the Island were more problematic. They reasoned storms had killed the explorers to the island, or maybe a tar pit concealed in a bushy underground. But the tribesman were persistent in their belief; a demon inhabited the jungles of that place, and stalked those who entered for their lives.​

One day a tribesman, who himself was not as superstitious as his kin, travelled to the Island to collect some of its sweet fruit. As he landed on the shore, he noticed something carved into the large rock jutting out from the jungle. A large ball, with rays emitting from it in all directions, was chiselled savagely into the rock's red face. In front of that rock were the decapitated heads of all the tribesman who had gone missing before him.​

The living tribesman bolted back to his canoe. Splashing violently with his hands, having kicked both paddles overboard in his frenzy to escape, he suddenly heard a deafening noise followed by a piercing pain in his shoulder.​

The tribesman made it back to his home island, but the damage the demon had inflicted had been too great, and despite the workings of the tribe's shaman, he would pass later that day. But not before carving himself the strange symbol he had seen on the rock.
Decades past, and not the bravest man dared step foot on what became known locally as the Cursed Island.​

Much later, after the new generation had been born, and the old generation had died, a foreign explorer would enter the island that was home to the tribesman who had been killed so many years ago. Taking note of a strange carving the villagers periodically drew on the sand, which they believed kept them safe from dark spirits, the explorer instantly recognized the symbol treated with so much fear and reverence. The symbol the dead tribesman had seen carved into that rock long ago.​

Second Act​

​

The Soviets had won the Second World War, but at a tremendous cost. Millions of young Russian men had died to halt Hitler's war machine, and at the end of the conflict, with the ascension of new rival in the west, it became imperative for the Soviet's to determine just how many fighting men they had left.​

To this end, census takers were hired by the Soviet government to scope every city and village from Moscow to Magadan. One of these census takers was a young man named Peter. Peter was a veteran of the war, and knew just how damaging it had been to the minds of those who lived through it in a way his bureaucratic masters did not. His outspokenness made him unpopular to his superiors, and he was sent to take census in some of the most bitter and remote villages of Russia. Villages who probably believed the Czar was still in power. Still, it was no worse than fighting Germans, Peter thought.​

Now, Peter had a partner in crime. An older man, a veteran of the war himself, named Boris. Boris was distinctly bitterer than Peter. His defining trait was a gold tooth he claimed he stole from the mouth of a dead German. Peter was fond of saying that gold tooth made him the richest man in any part of Russia he fancied. In the fringes of Siberia, it practically made him an emperor.
There were two villages that needed to be taken in for census. At the spot where the trail to these villages diverged, one right and one left, Peter picked up a couple of dead sticks from the ground.
To Boris "Shorter stick goes right, longer left."​

Splitting up would save time. Boris snorted, and drew a stick, as did Peter. Peter drew the shorter one. The two friends parted ways, promising to meet again for a warm meal after the ordeal was over. Thus, they made their way to their respective destinations.​

Peter made his way down the steep trail. Eventually he glimpsed the village through the dead branches of the crossing, and saw smoke rising from the centre of it. Alarmed, he clamoured down the remainder of the trail. Bursting into the village square, he was met not with the sounds of the burning dead but the sounds of laughter and the passing of plates. The villagers were cooking a large stew. A hand pressed down on Peter's shoulder:​

"Everyone," said a hearty old voice "We have a visitor!"​

Peter turned around and saw the oldest man he had ever seen give him a toothless grin.
"What brings you here, Friend?" The old man asked, still smiling.​

Peter became suspicious, for there are few things more disconcerting than a friendly smile in an unfriendly place.​

"I'm a census taker" said Peter, holding up a clipboard with a hammer and sickle etched "Ah, so the Czar sent you," cried the old man.​

Peter thought of his country's current leadership. With a sigh "I suppose you could say that."​

"Why don't you join us," said the old man, motioning a women to bring a bowl of broth. A women with gigantic breasts shoved a bowl to Peter's chest, splashing some of the soup on his uniform.​

The old man smiled at him, and Peter was awfully hungry. Usually these villagers demanded food instead of supplying it. Besides, it was a gesture of peace. Peter raised the bowl to his lips and drank. It tasted good. Better than anything he had tasted in a long time.​

Peter sang and ate with the villagers, who seemed to be in some perpetual celebration. The food was plentiful; indeed, it seemed to Peter that there was no end to it. All the meanwhile, Peter took the names and ages of the village residents. He was shocked at how little they knew about the war. Not one of them even knew of Hitler, though it was better that they hadn't.​

"Bismarck?" answered an aging man when asked by Peter who led Germany.​

Peter chuckled, and asked if any of the men had been conscripted to fight on the front. The villagers shook their heads. Not one men had left to fight the Germans. Certainly, if higher leadership found out, this village would not exist by tomorrow.​

Eventually all names were collected, and Peter bid the villagers farewell, happier and fuller than he had been in long time.​

He took the trail back to meet with Boris. There was his partner, all right, waiting where they had last split in the trail. Peter held up his census form. Boris snatched it out of his hand, gave it an amused look, and ripped it.​

"For Christ sake" cried Peter. "What the hell did you do that for?"​

"Why did you write down fake names?" answered Boris​

"The village I went too said the village you went too had been abandoned since the time of the Czar" said Boris. Pointing behind Peter to the now miraculous dilapidated village, Boris said "I'm inclined to agree with them."​

Peter was speechless.​

Boris chuckled, revealing his gold tooth. "A famine had done them."​

Peter could still taste the soup on his lips. The old man…​

Boris grimaced, kicking the dirt at his feet.​

Claus dipped his feet in the cool steam behind his house. Inside he could hear yelling, shouting, and the breaking of glass. Claus was all very use to it, but the black and growing bruise on his leg now that would take time to heal. But like all the other bruises his father had given him, it would eventually. As Preacher Adrian was fond of repeating" this too shall pass."​

Claus made his way up the stream, letting the sunlight hit his face. The day was beautiful, an Austrian morning truly. Butterflies fluttered and water shimmered. Claus would have love to talk to a friend, to anyone, but he born with an excess of bruises and a scarcity of friends. The other children mocked him constantly. His bruises were a joke to them, and always had been.
​

Claus heard a voice across the stream, followed by a shape. A man appeared, wearing a garment of silver which seemed to shimmer as the water did.
​

"You there, boy" he called to Claus. "Do you want to help me change the world?"
Claus shrugged. "Where did you come from," he asked.​

The traveller looked around. His garment changed colours to suit the green fields and stream. Claus was mesmerized.​

"I'm from France!" cried the traveller.​

"You're not like any Frenchman I've seen," smirked the Austrian. "My father killed a ton of you in the Great War," Then, blushing: "but, I'm really quite sorry about the whole thing."​

The traveller shrugged. "He didn't kill me."
​

"So, are you here to take you revenge on him," asked Claus, betraying a hint of enthusiasm. He touched the tender bruise on his leg, and grimaced.​

"Not him," said the traveller. "Another one of the villagers I seek. A young boy. You might know him. His name is Adolf."​

"Yes, I know Adolf," Claus said, slowly. "Can't say I'm much of a friend to him."​

"Why's that" asked the traveller.​

Claus wanted to say it was because he didn't have any friends. He went with a different, but truer answer. "Adolf doesn't have friends, he has subordinates."​

The traveller laughed. Sounded about right. He pointed to Claus's leg, which sported a worsening blue bruise.​

"I fell down the stairs" the young boy said, though his eyes spoke differently. The traveller nodded.
"So how often does your father beat you?" he asked.​

Claus glared at him, silent. The traveller nodded "You know my own father was not the most.....patient of men." A sad smile followed.​

The traveller grabbed Claus leg with one hand and ran his fingers over the bruise with another. The child didn't resist. He felt a strange, tingling sensation where the bruise was. Was. Now it was gone.​

"How did you do that," Claus stammered.​

"Nanotechnology' muttered the traveller.​

"What!?"​

"Magic," said the traveller. "Do you know where Adolf is?"​

Claus nodded, still amazed.​

The Austrian nodded. "Franco-Prussian War"​

"He must be quite old," said the traveller.​

"Old enough," said Claus. "Moved to Austria afterwards." Claus turned around to his new friend, trying to impress: "Did you know I'm descended from Prussian Nobility."​

"I didn't" said the traveller. "Is that why your father fought in the "Great War"​

Claus shrugged. "He likes to think of it as a "Great War" My opinion, it was merely decent."​

The two came upon a deepening in the stream. There a young boy swam clumsily in the water, alone, splashing his hands dumbly to keep himself afloat. It was almost comical.​

Claus smirked "There's Adolf."
​

But he was speaking to himself. The traveller had vanished.
​

Claus watched Adolf struggle in the water. And he enjoyed it. Claus didn't like many people, but Adolf he particularly hated. He was a bully, and a tyrant. If only the traveller could see this!​

"Traveller, angel...God" Claus called, "Friend, you're missing quite a show"​

Then the babbling of the water stopped. No more did the boy splash pathetically on the stream. The water became calm over him.
​

"Help" Claus called, frantically, though he was alone. A part of him hoped no one would hear his cries…​

Then, a miracle: The traveller emerging from the water Claus had never seen him enter, holding the tyrant in his arms. He placed the young boy on the grass by the stream.
​

Claus ran up to him. "You saved him."
​

The traveller nodded. "He's unconscious, but he should be awake in the next few hours."​

He frowned.​

"So are you an angel, like Father Adrian speaks about to us in Church?" Claus asked, with mounting excitement.​

"No, Claus" said the traveller.​

"I have just killed millions of people. Countless happy lives will be obliterated because of my actions. I have doomed countries and people to ruin. I have raised the flags of war. I am the Holocaust. I am Stalingrad. I am British fathers drowning in a submarine. I am widows and orphans. I am Italians who starve in the African desert, Americans mowed down on D-day. I am Germans freezing in the Siberian wilderness"​

Claus was speechless. "Adolf will cause all of this," he said, finally. Claus was willing to believe anything with the day he had. The boy gritted his teeth. "Then kill him!"
​

He saw the traveller's eyes, then. Blue as the stream, calm, but holding a deep sadness.
"Yes, he will attempt to conquer the world."
​

"But you know the difference between you and him."​

Claus felt an object pierce his chest. Blood ran down his torso, down his legs. He couldn't speak. Life left him. He could only stare at the traveller, whose eyes were deeper and sadder than anything
​

The Nazis left a trail of human suffering so great it scarred past generations. Men were humiliated, killed, and forced to endure past endurance. After liberation, many of these victims would put the past behind them and seek the future. Start families. Start businesses. Start lives. But one man refused to forgive. To forget like all the others. Our story is about this man. Prey-turned-predator, in the jungles of South America. Two men met in the middle of the amazon jungle. Both men had blue eyes, blonde hair, and skin that once was very white, though now was very tan. One man held a revolver. The other only a machete. Neither had shown their weapon to the other. For a while they simply stared, while the jungle passed along through them with its currents of sound and light. Then one of the men spoke. The man with the revolver. The man who had a tattoo on his wrist. He held up his hand and waved, smiling as if at an old friend.​

"Hello, Albretch" said the tattooed man with the hidden revolver. "Do you remember me? You murdered my entire family!"​

Albretch did not remember the tattoed man. At that moment he could hardly remember his own name. He pulled out his machete.​

"Back" he yelled. "You're not the first."​

The tattooed man laughed.​

"I could say the same of you! How did you find yourself in this..." the man motioned his hand to the surrounding jungle "...place. Take a wrong turn in Berlin?"​

"Are you a Jew" asked Albretch.​

"No"​

"A criminal."​

"No"​

"A faggot, a communist, a gypsy..." asked Albretch, his teeth clenched.​

"No, but my good friend is a gay communist gypsy," said the tattooed man.​

He pulled out his revolver.​

"Now show me what you call home."​

Albretch thought of running. But he had the dread suspicion that the man was a good shot. He reluctantly made his way back home.​

Home was a decaying log cabin which contained as much of the jungle inside of it as outside of it.​

The floor: bare.​

The bed: a rock.​

The wall, a portrait: The man who had led his nation to glory. He had died in a bunker in Berlin, or that's what he had heard, anyway.​

"Who is that," asked the tattooed man, motioning to the portrait.​

Albretch cursed under his breath. "You damn know well who that is..."​

The other man pondered, stroking his chin. "I mean, he looks familiar. What was his name again...? Claus, was that it?"​

"Adolf Hitler," barked Albretch. He was being ****ed with. Tortured like the animals he played with as a kid.​

"Oh, that's right. Where did I get Claus from?" The tattooed man shrugged. He looked around the cabin, hiding a smirk. The place smelled of decaying log and dirt.​

"So, do you want to say anything meaningful before I kill you?" he asked Albretch​

Albretch shrugged "What is there left to say? Look at where we are. What we're doing," Motioning to the gun, "What your holding."​

The tattoo man whistled. A rat crawled out of the log cabin and into the jungle. Somewhere, a bird was either hunting or being hunted.​

"I know I killed you're entire family," said Albretch, raising his hand to his heart," And for that I want you to know, that I'm very, very sorry."​

The tattooed man smiled. An empty smile, and for a second he was somewhere else. Back in that camp, watching his wife and children die over and over again. Purchasing a ticket to Brazil, standing over a map of South America, and tracing his finger to the location he now stood on.​

"Oh, friend." Albretch called.​

He pulled out a revolver from under a log. The tattooed man glimpsed it briefly, in those last seconds, just enough to know it was Israeli. The bullet pummelled into the tattoo's man's head. Shot clear through. The Israeli's certainly made some quality revolvers. The original owner wouldn't be needing it anymore, Albretch thought. He was buried somewhere outside, near the latrine, or the lake maybe.​

"You're not the first," Albretch repeated, gasping for air.
He dropped the gun.​

"Not the first..."​

Albretch took the corpse of the man outside and butchered him. He didn't need to, but he wanted to. He grabbed an axe he had brought or stolen or killed from one of the local tribal and made a red paste out the man. He must have done it for hours. It was cathartic. At the end he buried the remains near the lake and went to sleep. Albretch did not know how the man found him. The others had discovered him in Havana and Buenos Aries. Here he was isolated, he thought- safe! But he knew. Where there was one, there were others.
So he fell asleep that night. He never thought of the family of the man he killed, or the man he killed himself. He clutched the revolver and yelled at the Amazonian darkness from the depth of his nightmares.​

Then a voice came, and a body at the doorway. The voice croaked, and the body was mutilated beyond what life could sustain. But still it spoke.​

"We're not finished, Albretch."​

Albretch couldn't mhad a lamp but he didn't want to see the thing that was speaking to him.​

"You're not human," said Albretch. He was exhausted.​

"I could say the same of you," said the creature that may have once been a man. Then "You killed my entire family."​

Albretch broke down into tears. The revolver shook in his hand.
The voice continued "Two daughters, and a wife, and do you remember their names?"​

The former commander shook his head, placing his hands to his ears. No ****ing more.​

"You should, because..."​

"Because, Albretch, they were your wife, and your daughters. You killed them because she was a half-Jew, and you knew you could never make it up the ranks with that under your belt. If someone found out...and your daughters, they heard you do it. You killed them with the same knife you used on your wife."​

"Don't we look awfully alike?"​

Albretch couldn't bear it any longer. He pointed the revolver at the creature, the monster, the freak, and fired.​

....​