Made In China Chapter 8

            When the war was over Ramus was the man who came around and opened the cells. It was a gray, cold, fall morning. He wasn’t angry or sad, but rather nonchalant about it, his usual pipe secured in his teeth, jutting from his gray lips unlit. He had a shadowy gray beard and a wrinkled warm face. If it wasn’t for the obligation I felt in returning to Betty Brown, I may have stayed there in that cell, asked to renovate it and to bring in some horses to restore it to its former glory as a stable that probably served some nearby farm. But the Chinese were moving through and had big plans for the territory, according to Ramus, so even if all other conditions were right for it, it would never have happened. It isn’t hard to desert a war after it is over. No one would have said anything; they would have figured I died along the way out which would have made for a most ironic and unfortunate story since I had lived through four years of slaughter, longer than anyone else. Those that knew my success in survival might have laughed at the cruel irony in it. Everyone else would have either said “freedom isn’t free,” or the usual.

Ho hum.

I sat on my bed and thought it over. I looked at Zula Zane’s beautiful face contemplating the fork in the road. Chances were that Betty Brown was dead so why go back to such an inevitable disappointment? Maybe, I could meet Jana and we could have beautiful babies and live happily-ever-after here and she could continue dancing in front of bonfires and I would play the flute as she did. I would protect her from ruin now that her father had surrendered and was set to be tried as a war criminal, certain to be hung.  What would happen to Jana if I left? I asked Ramus what would happen to him and he said sullenly that he would go back to being a fisherman; he hadn’t wanted any part of the war in the first place. That is, he added dolefully, if there were any fish left. I don’t know what he meant by that.

            But I left with the excuse that the Chinese would destroy the area and I would have no chance here as a farmer, tending horses, milking goats, and such. I don’t even know how to plow. We said our goodbyes to our cells, I did my best to make mine presentable for the tour groups, pulling the wool blanket tight and leaving a lasting impression of my head in the pillow, leaving my reading glasses and toothbrush along with a poem I wrote for Alexia. She had also earned immortality on my wall. The other men said farewell to their “beautiful” wall women and I heard more than one say “I wish I could take you with me…” They let their cats go but their pussies hadn’t been as loyal as my Alexia. We said so long to our captors and a Toyota of some sort screeched to a halt in the courtyard with a tattered Turkish flag flying from one of its fenders and Alexi Olavstrauss stepped out wearing a long gray trench coat, a red scarf and a helmet reminiscent of an old Kaiser helmet. He came to say goodbye to us, perhaps, to make amends for his part in the pain and misery that were our lives.  No one held a grudge. After all, it was over and we were still alive. He was tall with an impressive pepper gray handlebar mustache, a clean shaven chin, and sharp piercing gray eyes. His face looked like a post-war battle map, worn from the war, undoubtedly. He wished us well and said that he was going to be surrendering to the American Allied Commander, General T. Ridley Grant (no relation to Ulysses S. Grant, but interestingly, an alcoholic, too). It was a pleasure to shake Olavstrauss’ enormous hand. I thanked him for the books, the cat, and for sharing the beauty of his daughter with us and holding my hand firmly he started to cry. He then abruptly released my hand and left the line immediately without saying anything else. I assumed he was broken from the war but later as we trudged along through the muck I asked Ramus, who guided us along the gravel road past the quarry to ensure we found the main road which led to where allied forces waited for us. He told me that I had really said the wrong thing but was reluctant to explicate.

            I pestered him until he popped. “Why Ramus? Why did I? What did I say?”

            “Vecause his dotter ze bewteevul, Jana Olavstrauss, tuk hair own life vebore zhe vould geeve hairselv to toez goddamn Chings.”

            “She’s dead?”

            “Yaiz. Za Prinzayz, zheez dead.”

            I felt awful. A part of me died. I don’t know why it hit me so hard but walking with those pathetic scraggly-looking soldiers back toward the allied lines I cried. I was the only one who kept my cat and I gave Alexia a hug and buried my nose in the softness of her neck to mask my sorrow. Some of us tried to make our formation respectable and to march in cadence but I didn’t give a damn and neither did most of the others. Still there were those who kept saying “freedom isn’t free” and all that bullshit happy they were going home to inevitable unemployment and assured misery; to no women and no home; to further catastrophes and disasters but hopefully, to a parade and some veteran’s benefits, some good picks and maybe enough to pawn to buy a robot woman, a Betty, or dare they dream, a China girl? Bodies of dead soldiers lined the road with missing limbs and parts and cracked bones impaling flesh and twisted corpses that looked like contortionists frozen for effect, mostly Americans, last of the casualties, the unlucky bastards killed in the last days of the war. Had the war continued, they possibly could have been our lunch, served on rye or pumpernickel, or maybe in a loaf. There was no one left to dig graves, nor was there a need for the bodies to be recycled, so they lay there rotting. They were to either side of us; decaying, stinking, with vultures perched on shoulders hoping for eyeballs or innards, delicacies in their world. Some wild dogs were gnawing at the flesh and some of the soldiers who cared enough threw stones at them which did no good. They only stopped for a moment, looked up with a bloody snout, and continued when the stone thrower passed. “Freedom isn’t free,” someone said again. Next to me was the fellow with no arms who was worried as hell about falling. The guy behind him kept assuring him that they will fix him up at the VA hospital with a brand new pair and he would be as good as new. He only said that to make up for a distasteful joke he told a few moments earlier. He found two dismembered arms and threw them right at the poor bastard saying, “Hey, Rogers, found your arms! Catch!”

            Ho hum.

            When we got to where we needed to be there were cargo trucks quickly loading up men and pulling out. Supplies were left and would be used by the native people for the care of their sick and wounded. It sounded sweet but in truth there weren’t many supplies left to help, which were not worth packing up, but there were plenty of dead rotting corpses that if not handled would spread disease. It would be up to those vultures to clean them up and the native people to bury them in some mass grave or burn them if they could stomach the stench of burning bodies. It is a smell you cannot forget. Some of the local people were observing us in the crowded camp from where we were to depart, where trucks turned gears and spun out in the mud before gaining traction and pulling away in clouds of diesel smoke with back-ends weighed down by forty or more men. I saw a group of excited children on top of a small hill playing soccer with a decapitated head. No one else seemed to notice the bloody-pulp ball or care. The coordinators of this mess were the MPs who could be identified by their Nazi-like MP armbands on their upper right arms and their helmets with “MP” embossed on the front in white. POWs got priority but we were treated like shit until they realized we were a special class, like senior citizens, or women and children boarding Titanic lifeboats. We were shuffled to the front with the wounded and I noticed the cute little pathetic faces of four young Turkish children standing around the enormous trucks. They were smaller than the tires. I don’t know why they watched us; they weren’t asking for handouts or anything, they just stood there in the grass off the mud staring at us. Perhaps, they wondered where we were going or if we were ever coming back. None of them could have been older than six. Three were barefoot and the other one wore sandals. One looked particularly feminine but her black hair was cut as short as the three boys. I felt so damn sorry for them, and for her. When she developed the lie wouldn’t be as easy to keep. What would become of them?

            “You can’t take that!” someone yelled my way.

            “Excuse me?”

            “The cat, Jack! You can’t take that fuckin’ cat!” All military guys were called Jacks since 2029 when Captain Jack Flash became the utter embodiment of a US soldier in the war in Canada, saving America from the Muslim menace. Captain jack Flash is the greatest military hero but not even he has a Blue Eagle. He died in combat at Niagara Falls becoming a martyr. On our honeymoon, Betty and I visited his grander than life statue.

            “Why not?”

            “Rules! Nothing living but soldiers on these trucks. No kids, no animals, no fuckin’ cats!”

            It was my intent to punch the young cocky asshole in the nose as hard as I could but I hadn’t the strength and I figured if I let Alexia down to do so she might run. Then I thought about finding another truck and stowing Alexia in my bag. But I knew she would never go in the bag without creating such a disturbance that would give us away. The persistent MP stood there watching me, scowling, but then suddenly realizing that his callousness and intimidation was not going to work with me he became polite and asked me to “please, relinquish the cat, sir.” I was a captain but I didn’t have a uniform to distinguish my rank. He even suggested I give the cat to the children in the grass and vouched for their character. I looked at them for a moment studying their body weight to determine if they looked as though they were starving enough to eat my beloved Alexia. I knew I couldn’t keep her and I was sorry for a moment that I hadn’t left her with Ramus when he left us at the road, but with his history with animals I dismissed all regrets. They looked pretty decently fed so I walked over and found the girl among them, figuring she would be the most compassionate. She didn’t speak English. She stood there looking at me as I knelt down, Alexia in my arms. Her face lit up when she realized I was holding a cat which she called repeatedly, “Kedi!” 

            Her parents were clearly making every effort to disguise her as a boy and I smiled at her as her eyes lit up. There was nothing besides subtle differences between boy and girl which separated her from her brothers but in about eight years the masquerade would be far more difficult to maintain. But that is eight years! People don’t look that far ahead and Alexia will be a very old cat then, or dead, and assuredly this girl would protect her and love her like her own until then. I held out Alexia to her and nodded and she knew it was her cue to take the cat from me. Giving up Alexia was the hardest thing I have ever done.

            “One pussy to another.” I said philosophically. She had no idea what I meant but was grateful and uttered what I assume was “thank you” in Turkish before she ran off excited with her new cat. I climbed in back of the cargo truck and watched the children scamper off after her. I don’t know what would ever become of Alexia, but I remember her fondly and there were many lonely nights when it was only the two of us in our cell. I left her fancy litter-box where it was at the foot of my bed with fresh sand for tourists to see, maybe to take pictures of. The truck jerked into gear and carried us to the airport and I would never see Turkey or Alexia again.