The Wheat at 6:15

The wheat, oh my god, the golden wheat. Her hands went through it like a mother’s hand through the hair of their child. She was too young at 17, but the wheat at 6:15.

She looked back at the two soldiers who watched her, followed her, and smiled. She wore a red handkerchief, a black vest, and a white dress that was the norm in this foreign land. They walked through the wheat too, with rifles and smiles, down a slight slope she was at the bottom of as the sun grazed the mound and shone on her as if the sky had chosen her. The men did not know. They advanced like all good soldiers do, in grey overcoats and dark helmets. Her name was Alizée, they had heard when her mother asked for a pail of water. A pail for the soldiers. It went deep into the earth, and when it came back, the water, like a mighty sea in a wooden bowl, shone with the reflection of her eyes when she looked toward the sun, surrounded by golden harvest that swayed easily before the approaching shadow. The soldiers were never in front of the dark, which spread faster than they could. Their names were Henrich and Mohler.

“Das ist genug Wasser, Fräulein,” said Henrich .

Their rifles slowly fell, but not a single smile.

“Was macht eine so schöne Frau wie du, die Eimer im goldenen Weizen holt?”

“My German is no good.”

“That is ok, Frau,” said Mohler. “I can translate for all of us. He asked, ‘What is a beautiful woman like you, fetching pails in the golden wheat?’”

She grabbed her dress and paid back the compliment with a slight, but modest dip and smile.

“I was sent by my mother to grab you water.”

Mohler looked at Henrich and repeated, “Meine Mutter hat mich geschickt, um dir Wasser zu holen.”

Henrich cast a shadow with his rifle. Alizée did not flinch, and as a matter of fact, she exposed more of her neck by raising her chin before them, and it was no accident, but an act of defiance. It was as if she were telling Henrich, “Shoot me here.” This was not lost on him.

“Glaubt sie diese großen Gesten?”

“Frau?” asked Mohler. “Are you not afraid of Herr Henrich?”

“Nein.”

“Haben Sie Schweine-Inzucht, Mohler?”

Where the sun had not yet set, two pops that had something to do with the new holes in Henrich and Mohler’s heads. Everything blew beautifully. Her hand returned to the harvest, and, in time, to an American named Thomas and another named Anthony. They waited, the three of them. This was not her first pail. Speaking between his finger and trigger, Anthony asked, “Is this where Van Gogh painted?”

“Oui.”

“Have you ever left here?”

“Non.”

“Don’t.”

“And you? Where are you from?”

Thomas and Anthony bled. Anthony had a cut on his hand that needed medical attention, and Thomas had a slash across the side of his skull that dripped occasionally. Anthony was from New York and told Alizée this. Told her he had seen many Van Gogh’s on field trips and admired them greatly. Thomas wanted a smoke, but it was still too dangerous. He was from Chicago and could not think of paintings. He saw the beauty around him but missed a greater one, his family. It was all he saw, and all he thought about when he aimed. They hid in the golden pasture until it got cold. Alizée asked if she could go home, and they decided she could. She kissed them both on the cheek and left. They were not as clean-shaven as the Germans. The Americans were married. Their eyes never strayed from the top of the hill. Their rifles were up against their shoulders, aiming. When Alizée reached the top, their hearts broke when she was killed. Shot by five guns. It was a starry night, and they blamed themselves. They could hear her mother cry until another rifle was fired. They remained where they were and could hear men walk through fields of wheat.

“Da drüben,” they whispered.

Crows had come for Henrich and Mohler.

There was no cloud in the sky, and it was as if Anthony and Thomas waited on the sands at the bottom of a well-lit ocean. The approaching soldiers had just submerged and treaded slowly to the ground. They were surrounded by corral and clams, pearls and a universe that had no ending.

Anthony and Thomas’s rifles were heavy, but you would not know it. They held 11 pounds for hours, keeping one eye closed and one eye open.

“Ich rieche die amerikanische Ratte.”

The boys, the men, waited. They did what they were trained to do.

The wheat, the wheat.

A tear rolled down their cheeks. Climate or family, it made no difference. The warmth came from the soil below. They could not tell you the sky was beautiful.

“Wo zum Teufel sind sie?”

What Anthony and Thomas had been hoping for had finally presented itself: the eyes of men who had had time off, the eyes of Germans who had been drinking the night before. The glare of a hangover. They fired, and the Germans unloaded until each was dead, shot through the head. They waited for the smoke to clear and then moved, collecting German dog tags:

Otto Betz

Horst Gundt

Walter Model

Carl Weinrother

Fritz Todt

The tags were given to Alizée’s family, including her mother, Madeleine. They never found out or asked what their last name was because they were tired, and it took time to collect the dog tags and find the house. The Vieux understood this, and they never asked questions. They cried and kissed the boys, who also cried. They apologised and wished they could have done more. Anthony and Thomas presented themselves with dignity and honor, and instead of sleeping, they helped bury the dead. They were given coffee in the morning and kissed goodbye.