“What was her name again? Ingrid? Inge?”

“Maria. Where in the world did you get Ingrid?”

The two young men sat on the hillside drinking lukewarm water that was meant to be coffee. Dirt coated their faces and ragged clothes, and worn rifles lay beside them.

“Think she’s still alive?”

A shrug.

“Hopefully she fled before the Reds arrived. If she is alive, I have no idea where she might be.”

“Ah. Sorry.”

“No worries.”

They kept drinking. In the distance, a straggling line of soldiers wove through the craters left by artillery fire. A few noticed the men on the hill and waved. They waved back.

“What do we do now?”

Another shrug.

“Dunno. Do… jobs still exist?”

“Gravediggers.”

“Ha.”

“Think they’ll let us? Have jobs, I mean.”

“Never considered that. Are we conquered now or something? Maybe we’ll just be imprisoned.”

“They can’t do that to all of us. Not enough room, surely. Executed, maybe.”

A mirthless chuckle.

“Rather bland way to go. Here I thought I’d die a war hero, carried back under the weeping auspices of Maria, proclaiming her undying love for me as I am pinned with badges of honour.”

“‘Auspices?’”

“Shut up.”

One took another sip from his coffee, then peeked inside before placing the cup down with a sigh.

“Do you think they’ll help us? The economy’s still broke.”

The other finished his coffee.

“450,700.”

“Sorry?”

“450,700. The number of English killed in this war. Heard it on the radio. 567,600. The French. 418,500. Americans. The Russians lost 24,000,000. What’s the cost they think we owe them, I wonder.”

“What about us?”

“What about us? We lost. Every German casualty is just another foot of ground the Allies suffered in taking. Our own deaths work against us.”

Several hills away, a dirt cloud shot up, accompanied by a delayed “fwoomp”. Someone must have stepped on a mine. The two silently watched the dirt settle.

“How many did you kill?”

“Twenty-six. No, wait: twenty-seven.”

“Do you regret any?”

“No.”

…

…

…

“One.”

“Who?”

“Little Jewish boy, probably eleven or so. With blue eyes.”

“Blue eyes?”

“Aryan mother, I think.”

“That what bothered you?”

The man tapped the ground as he thought.

“No. Well, sort of. I mean, I’m looking at this kid, and he’s clearly Jewish. Down to the funny hat. But he’s got these big blue eyes, just the bluest you’ve ever seen. I kept thinking to myself: if his Jewishness is what condemned him, why couldn’t his Germanness save him?”

The two sat in silence for a time. The sun stood at its zenith. The Americans would be here soon.

“I still see them sometimes, too. When I sleep.”

“What? His eyes?”

“Yeah.”

“You in love with him or something?”

Neither of them laughed. They didn’t have the energy.

“You think Heaven’s real?”

“I’m too tired for big questions.”

“If we’re too awake, we might not be able to ask such questions.”

“Fine. But if Heaven’s real, so is Hell.”

“Why? I think I’d like Heaven by itself.”

“If there’s no Hell, then where are we supposed to go? We lost, remember?”

“Ah. I guess that would get awkward.”

“You guess? What would you say to that Jewish boy if we all wound up in Heaven?”

The other could not answer.

“At least we’ll see some Reds in Hell.”

“True enough.”

The rumbling of engines thrummed in the air like distant thunder. The men did not move, even as they spotted the American trucks slowly making their way over, skirting around the minefields entirely.

“You know, I’m fairly certain I’ve got some Jew in me. My mother’s side.”

“Huh. Maybe you’ll wind up in Heaven then.”

“My Jewishness save my Germanness?”

“Maybe.”