Bobby waits outside the room, rubbing his hands together. The doctor’s been there for over an hour, stepping out every once in a while, asking for towels, tissues, hot water, never answering his questions. Is he well, doctor? Has he said anything at all? The man just shakes his head, waves his hand, there’s no time for talking. The sound of the door slamming shut is absolute, engulfing everything, echoing all over the house.

Will he die? Bobby doesn’t even consider the possibility.

He’s worried, but death is something that happens to distant relatives, grandfathers he never knew, not to him, not to his father. He closes his eyes, when the door opens again he’s already sleeping. The doctor speaks to him, breathless:

“He wants to talk to you.”

Bobby wakes up, startled, hoping he’s still dreaming. Then, slow motion, he nods a couple of times and stands up. The look in the doctor’s eyes is disheartening, he mouths warnings and instructions, don’t let him get too excited, don’t let him talk too much, don’t let him drink too much water, don’t let him…

“How is he?” Bobby asks.

The doctor takes a couple of seconds to answer. [He’s deciding whether he should lie to me or not]

“It’s not good,” he says. Then, he adds: “He may talk about things… He may be having delusions. I don’t know. He may speak incoherencies, or… Not be himself. Just don’t get him too excited.”

Bobby nods. The doctor shakes his head, I’m terribly sorry, and leaves.

[He walks like a duck] He looks out the oval shaped window next to the chair he had been sitting on: sees tree branches and grey skies and, a bit further, his neighbour’s roof. The day is already getting dark, how much time did he sleep? Over an hour? It doesn’t matter. He pushes the door open and then feels as if somebody was ripping out his stomach. His father is inside, laying on the bed. He looks so thin, pale. Bobby stands there, quiet, for what seems like an eternity, knowing that this is how he will remember the old man for the rest of his life: a pale ghoul wrapped in rancid, worn out blankets.

His father is trying to say something.

He moves his lips slowly, and then chokes, starts coughing, shaking, spitting. Bobby is next to him almost instantly.

“Dad? Dad, have some water. Daddy, please.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he mutters, before coughing again. Bobby doesn’t know what to do, every cough seems to tear the old man’s lungs in two. “Oh, God. This fucking body.”

[I’ve never heard him swear before] “Don’t get agitated.”

“Agitated? Don’t get agitated? I’m dying over here,” his father manages to croak, before shaking again. More coughing? No, he’s laughing now. Why is he laughing? “I can’t believe I’m going to die here in my bed like a goddamn cripple. Like an old geezer, like a bum.”

“You’re not going to die,” Bobby tells him, orders him, demands him. [Such a stupid thing to say. He knows he’s dying and wants to say goodbye, I can see it in his eyes, he wants to say goodbye to me and then I’ll have to tell mother he’s dead] “Are you listening to me? You’re going to be fine.”

The old man coughs again, shakes his head, his hands, tries to say something: “Bobby, I’m sorry— I’m not… I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You got nothing to be sorry about. Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know,” the old man groans. “For not taking better care of myself, of… I don’t know. I’m just sorry.”

Bobby feels, for the first time, his father’s hand touching his, grabbing hold of it. [Am I crying? I hope I’m crying] He says:

“You’re going to be fine.”

“Such a stupid way to die. I’ve been… I fought on wars, did I ever tell you that I was on a war? It’s… So long ago. Before I came to this country.”

“You never fought on a war,” Bobby mumbles. His father laughs again.

“Yes, maybe you’re right. Oh, God… I remember. I think I remember…”

“They’re going to kill us all. They’re taking us out in the snow, they are going to murder us,” Crawford explains, calmly. Henry can’t figure out if he is joking or not. The truck is small and uncomfortable, they barely fit in. They have been driving for over three hours, and whenever one of the prisoners asks the soldiers what the destination is they just curse in Russian and slap them gently on the head. Crawford is still talking: “I hope the shoot us on the back of the head, or in the heart. I want someone to recognize me when they find us. Captain, how you figure these guys execute their prisoners? Two in the back on the head, like in the mob?”

There’s no answer. Captain Sweeney smokes the cigarette with his eyes closed, he’s thinking about some place else. Henry sighs, envious. He tries do that sometimes, picturing his wife back in England and their house and his mother and a home-cooked meal, but it always ends up making him feel sad. They’re just memories, illusions, and when he opens his eyes he’s still in Russia and he’s still a prisoner and he’s still going to die. The cold is rigid, it makes everything look like a movie.

Graham is crying.

“What the fuck are you crying about?” Fred asks, angry. “Why are you crying? He’s just bullshitting, he’s just speaking out of his fucking arsehole. They’re taking us to another camp, is what they’re doing. Crawford, stop these fucking talk about shooting people or I’ll beat you, you understand? I’ll fucking beat you.”

“I’m just saying the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God,” Crawford smiles. Henry shakes his head. Graham is still crying.

“I hope to God he’s right,” he weeps. The captain opens his eyes. “I hope to God they’re going to kill us, and— Jesus, I just want it to be over.”

“What are you talking about, dad? What war?” Bobby asks again, his father is coughing, his face is red, his eyes are moist. “Are you being serious? What war, dad? You’re not making any sense.”

“We were… In Russia, it was winter and it was always… It was always snowing. God, I remember, it never stopped snowing.”

“Russia? When were you in Russia, dad? You’re not…” he stops talking. Bobby looks away. He tastes his tears. [Salty, I haven’t cried since I was a kid. Good God, I haven’t cried since King Kong]

“I don’t remember… I don’t remember,” his father mumbles, but he does, he sees everything so clearly, and it hurts his head to try and put it someplace, somewhere, to make it fit with his other memories, college and his wife and his first job. “I don’t want to remember.”

“I was just kidding, man. There’s no need for that,” Crawford says, patting Graham on the back. “We’re going to be fine.”

“You shouldn’t be kidding in the first fucking place,” Fred shouts. “We’re prisoners of war, you understand? I haven’t seen my home in eight months, eight months I haven’t seen it, and you’re making jokes about that? You’re saying they’re gonna kill us like it’s a big fucking joke?”

“Jesus, I was just trying to lighten up the atmosphere.”

They hear the Russian soldier say something. They are sitting on the sides of the back of the truck, cold metal planks, staring at each other, three on each row— Graham, Crawford, Henry and captain Sweeney, Fred, Haggis. The soldier has been crouching all the way, listening to them talk. The driver says something back. Henry hates the language, doesn’t understand any of it, it sounds like they’re getting ready to spit out a huge ball of phlegm.

“What are they saying, captain?” he asks, just to keep the men talking, he can’t handle the silence. “Did you catch any of it?”

“This one,” the captain says, pointing at the first guard, “is asking how long till we get to where we’re going. That one,” and he points to the driver, “says we’ll get there in ten minutes. That’s about it.”

“Did you catch the name of the place?”

The captain doesn’t answer, he puts the cigarette in his mouth and takes a long drag, closes his eyes again. Graham sniffs.

“I hope they kill us,” he says, but nobody is listening.

[I can’t breath, someone should open a window. No wonder he's dying] His father is shaking, his mind is someplace else, looking at the ceiling. He is coughing and the sound of it is every bit as piercing and devastating as it was the first time.

Bobby sighs, and tells him, crying:

“You were never in a war, dad. You were never…”

“You’re right,” his father croaks. “You’re right, you’re right, you’re right. I… I was studying when I was seventeen, I was… What was I doing? I was…”

“You were studying, dad, remember? You were studying at Kellogg and you got your diploma and everything and you met mom. Remember? That’s how it happened, right? Do you remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. She was so scared, too! Wasn’t she scared?” he asks, smiling now, his eyes no longer lost in the nothingness of a few seconds ago. They are fixed on his and he looks lucid, clear.

[What is he talking about? I don’t know what he’s talking about]

“She was. She was real scared,” Bobby nods.

“I was driving like a maniac, I was so drunk. I could’ve killed us both!” his father laughs hysterically and, after a moment, Bobby does too. “And then you wouldn’t’ve been born. I always bothered her… Getting in that car with me, I was a complete stranger, so drunk too… Oh, God— But— Bobby. Tell me, what about…? What about poor Graham? What about the…?”

“Who?” he asks. They are no longer laughing.

“What about Fred and… Everybody, we were everybody in that small truck, and we were going to the woods, and it was snowing. What about Tommy?”

Tom Haggis chuckles, breaking the silence. Everybody looks at him, waiting for what he’s about to say. They’ve heard it all before:

“You’re all a bunch of assholes,” he laughs. “You’re joking about us getting killed? Right. How dumb are you? It will probably happen, you know what? Sooner or later, it’ll happen. That thing you said, about them taking us to our executions, that could very well be true. And here you are, like a bunch of assholes, joking about it, crying like little girls when we should be doing something.”

“Do what, Haggis? You think you’re really fucking smart, but all you do is complain and it’s getting on me fucking nerves,” Fred blurts out.

Tommy just shrugs:

“I’m just telling you what I know. These are all facts. We’re going to die if we do not do something. We’re all going to die.”

Silence. A minute goes by, and Henry can’t stand it: “I’d rather wait, Tommy. If there’s still a chance that they’ll just… let us go when the war is over, then I’ll wait. I don’t wanna die, fighting or otherwise.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot. They’ll kill us like dogs. If we fight them, maybe we’ll even get to shoot one of them. It’d be worth dying just to see a bullet go through this asshole’s brain,” Tom says, making out a gun with his fingers, pointing it at the soldier. He notices this, points his rifle at Haggis.

Then he smiles.

“I win,” the guard mutters, thick accent. Henry panics for a moment. Does he understand them? Has he heard everything they were saying? Then he calms down. It doesn’t really matter. Haggis looks away.

Suddenly, the truck stops moving. Minutes later, they walk out.

“It was a… a field, a white field with leafless trees, son, it was horrible, like hell but cold,” he groans, before moaning and choking again. Bobby shakes his head. “And there was a pit, somewhere. Was there a pit…? It was full of dead bodies… They had killed them all.”

“Who had?” [I shouldn’t encourage him, but he’ll tell me anyways, so what’s the difference? My dad is dying, oh God] He asks again: “Who killed them?”

“The Russians! The Russians!” the old man yells, angry.

“Calm down, dad.”

“It was the Russians,” he whispers. [And when he took us out to the lake, it was the best vacations ever. He caught a huge fish and we ate it for dinner, and now he’s talking about Russians and I don’t understand shit] “It was the Russians.”

“You weren’t in any wars, dad, please.”

“I was and… I was in college too, and that was 1944, and college was 1962, I was at both places and I… Was I? I swear I was, Bobby, I was.”

“You were born in 1944, for God’s sake,” he cries. He’s holding his father’s hand tighter. [I’m hurting him] “Please, dad…. You weren’t in a wars. Please, just let me say goodbye properly, just say something… something sweet, something heartfelt. Please, just let me say goodbye.”

“No! No, no, not here! Not like this!” the old man screams. He’s lost now. He’s not there. Bobby stops holding his hand and weeps and Henry tries to run, but the soldier grabs his arms, and punches him in the neck, and he falls on the ground and Bobby [I shouldn’t be here, I don’t want to see him like this] stands up and gets ready to leave and four other soldiers walk towards the truck to handle the other prisoners. “Fucking Russian pigs…!”

“Jesus, dad…”

Tom Haggis grabs one of the soldiers by the neck, screaming like a madman, but another one hits him in the head with the butt of his rifle. Red drops of blood stain the snow. His forehead ripped open, he lays on the ground, unconscious. One of the soldiers sighs, and takes out a handgun. He shoots him twice, in the chest. The others watch this, expressionless. Graham isn’t crying anymore, the captain still smokes his cigarette. Crawford is shaking, Fred just says:

“Alright, then. Let’s fucking do this,” and one of the soldiers pushes him towards the pit, yells something in Russian, Fred groans: “I’m walking, alright? I’m fucking walking. Think you’re a real man, huh? Must feel good shooting people who can’t defend themselves, don’t it? You know what you are? You’re all fucking scum. You’ll all burn in hell, you motherless bastards.”

Bobby looks over his shoulder one last time, wipes off his tears and walks out the door. The doctor is outside, waiting. He doesn’t need to ask, he just runs inside and Bobby stays in the living room, looking out the window. It’s already dark.

“Do it, you gutless fucking—”

The shooting is surprisingly clean and Henry stares, hopeless, feels the frozen wetness sticking to his cheeks. Fred’s body falls directly into the pit, along with the other dead prisoners. The captain is up next. He doesn’t say anything, he just walks towards the edge of the pit and smiles. Tosses the cigarette aside. Henry feels one of the soldiers grabbing a hold of his arm and pulling him up, you stand, come on, his accent is funny. Another shot and captain Sweeney is dead. Crawford next; Henry doesn’t laugh when he notices the wet mark on his groin.

Another shot. Blood floating in the air for less than a second, like fireworks. Then, a soundless thud. The soldier pushes him forward.

“Wait, wait, wait, just wait a second, please,” he cries and feels pathetic. Most of them don’t understand what he’s saying, the one that does just looks at him, a kid examining a dirty room that he needs to tidy up. “Come on, please, there’s no need for you to do this, you don’t have to do this… Wait a second!”

He can hear his father talking inside, softer now. He is pleading, but not to the doctor. [Mom will ask me what did he say, tell me what he said, what were his last words and I’ll have to invent some shit up and never ever tell her about the Russians and the war and whatever the hell that was]

Then the screaming stops.

Henry nods a couple of times, bites his lips. He catches a glimpse of Graham, waiting for his turn. He wishes he could’ve been the last one instead of him, and shudders when he feels the barrel of the gun against his head. He can see, in the pit, more than a dozen bodies piled up. The newest (Fred, the captain, Crawford) are being undressed by two other Russian soldiers, arguing over which one of them gets to keep the boots, the necklaces, the coats. Henry feels disgust and the doctor walks out of the room and Bobby knows his father is dead before he says anything and now Henry hears a gun being shot and sees a light and then nothing at all and hears a woman screaming and feels something pushing him out, feels hands, huge hands holding him.

Bobby doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t want to go inside the room again. Somewhere else, thousands of miles away, a child is born.

“It’s a boy,” a voice says. And then Henry forgets everything, and cries for the very first time.