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he must have when he was a little boy on Christmas morning, but he refuses to answer me. When the nice-looking bartender brings me my bottle of beer, Charles proceeds to flirt with him, then buys two shots of whiskey. When the liquid is poured, my friend gives a parting smile to the man behind the bar and pushes one shot glass over to me.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“Because now I know what to get you for Christmas” is his reply. I watch as he raises the small glass to me in a salute, then knocks back the amber liquid.
I touch the glass lightly and slowly rotate the shot. “And what’s that?”
    “Your little German cleaning boy.” He stops when I give him a look. “Fine, the man who cleans the university.”
    I look away and take my shot. The muscles in my face and throat tighten as it goes down. “And why would I want the German janitor for Christmas?”
    Charles laughs loudly. It’s irritating, and I contemplate leaving. He must sense my mood because he quiets and places a light hand upon mine. His fingers pry mine off of the bottle of beer, and I realize how hard I’d been gripping it.
    “We were talking about finding you someone to love, John, and then you spoke of him. You don’t see the connection?”
    His gentle words and light touch do nothing to soothe the boiling emotions within me. Even when I think there is someone who understands, I find they truly do not. I pull my hand away and use it to bring the beer to my lips.
“John,” Charles says softly.
     
“Why would I want him like that? He’s a fucking Nazi.”
    Charles seems to shrink beside me. I turn my focus onto my right hand, which is gripping the bottle of beer so tightly that I fear I may break it.
    There is so much darkness in my mind; everything around me slips away into it. The night before we entered the camp is cold and dark. We know we are getting close to something big. The civilians around us are just odd. We’ve been seeing sickly people for days, but most of us think it’s due to heavy rationing. Some soldiers say they saw people in striped clothing, like that of prisoners, but I’ve seen none.
    I can’t sleep. Over time, the body adapts to battle, sensing when something is coming up. Morning comes quick. I grip my M1 Garand tightly, the butt of the stock pressed against my hip. There are signs of the horrors to come, but I’m too anxious to do any more than notice them and move on.
Things go smoothly. Too smoothly. There’s no firing. It doesn’t seem right.
    Then the things I see make my stomach lurch. Bodies. No, not bodies. Just skeletons covered by skin.
    Some of them move.
Now there are gunshots. Now there’s shouting. Now there are hands raised while my
    finger squeezes tightly on the trigger. I’m not sure where my mind is, but my body is on autopilot. I see the uniform, and I shoot at it, regardless of who is wearing it and what they are doing.
    Tears roll down my cheeks as my stomach clenches. What have I done?
When the firing stops—I’m unsure if I stop before or after the rest—the quiet overtakes me. I sit down in the dirt and filth. The men move around me.
I can no longer determine which ones are living and which ones are dead.
What have I done?
“John. John!” someone calls to my right. I turn to see five of my brothers helping prisoners who cannot stand. They are beckoning me over. They need me.
“John!”
I blink. When my eyes focus, Charles is in front of me. I’m in the little bar again.
I feel sick. I’m sweaty and can barely breathe. I take a look at the bar as I stand up. My beer is rocking back and forth. Charles’s hand grabs the bottle quickly to keep it upright. My jittery body rebels against my mind. I tell my body to calm down, to realize where I am, to allow me some form of dignity before everyone in the place begins to stare at me.
A cigarette will help. With shaky arms, I reach out and grab my pack of smokes. With nervous fingers, I am able to pluck out a cigarette and bring it