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I have spent most of the day working on what will soon become Volume 9 of ‘’Tales from the Rabbi’s Desk’‘ - all are (or will be) available from a certain South American river and also as e-Books. They deal in a modified manner with the things one hears or sees or experiences…… Amongst the stories that needed a little editing and polishing was this one, which I have decided to share now as a ‘Taster’.
9.12 IN THE FOREST
Where do the Dead go? Nobody really knows although each religion has several theories, all of them waiting to be put to the practical test by their respective believers. But there is another, related question: Where do the Dead go when they do NOT go? Where do they stay, and how?
This tale is from a friend who practices Shamanism and who feels that she can make contact with the Dead, talk to them and help them on their way if, for whatever reason, they have got stuck, have remained blocked somewhere along the way, the way to…. Whatever and wherever. She has several stories. You may believe them if you wish, or you may not. You are free to decide. I have decided to believe them. And I believe this account.
It is a mistake to believe that soldiers die in Wars. Wars are big historical events reflecting a breakdown in relations between countries, whether neighbouring or otherwise, there are enormous political and economic consequences and strategic aims and considerations and alliances and betrayals and wars begin when at least one side wants it to and they end when both sides are so exhausted that they are prepared to admit that victory is not realistic. Or sometimes not even then.
But soldiers do not die in such wars or campaigns; they die in battles or skirmishes or on patrols or in an ambush, they die when a shell falls or a sniper’s bullet hits, they die defending or attacking a hill, a bridge over a canal, a road junction, a trench, an insignificant village – relatively small-scale actions, geographically limited, and afterwards you can ask yourself (if you live) why on earth this insignificant hill or ford or bridge was worth so much in human life and pain, and in twenty years’ time maybe you can drive over the rebuilt bridge and through the rebuilt village and through the fields and woods where all has grown back and you will have no idea whatsoever of what happened here, for all the physical, visible scars have been healed.
But those who died had usually no idea whatsoever of the progress of the main campaign or what schemes ‘’those up top’‘ were planning in their headquarters. Soldiers do not know really of Armies or Divisions, they know of Platoons and Companies and yes, they can be taught to be proud of some ancient regimental history with a banner and a badge on their uniforms, but actually it is their mates who matter, their NCOs and not the Generals. Their perspective is limited to what is truly important if you want to live or not to die. The rest is for war historians sitting in warm, dry, comfortable and above all safe archives later. You follow orders as far as you can and you eat when you can and you sleep when you can and you use the latrine when you can and then sometimes you have to improvise and use your common sense instead, your survival instinct, when the orders no longer make sense. If they ever did.
The tale is that my friend was asked to track down a family member. One who had died long before she was born; He had been conscripted as a teenager and given a uniform and sent to the Front and he never came back. But there was a vague feeling that he was not at peace. What could this feeling mean?
These days the power of the internet enables even amateur historians to track down the progress of various campaigns and the units that were involved and with some work - for people at that time had far more important things to do than keep accurate detailed records - she could eventually find out that his unit had effectively been wiped out during the long retreat at a certain forest in what is now Belarus, White Russia. To get there was an adventure of flights and trains and taxis through heavy forests and along rutted roads and through half-abandoned villages but eventually, to the driver’s own surprise, they reached a spot on the map and stopped. It looked, frankly, identical to every other clearing for the past fifty kilometres, but one has to start somewhere. So she walked around, sensed the air, performed a couple of brief ceremonies which are, it seems, so far as I understand it, intended not to summon the Dead but to let them know that you are there and listening. You do not Summon the Dead, not unless you are a complete fool. After all, you do not know how many there will be and what mood they will be in, you are not in direct relationship, you are not their master and they are not your servants, you are polite, you say Hello and Please and Thank You and Good Bye. What would you do if both the Killer and the Killed came to your call at the same time? What would you do if, having been summoned, they refused to be dismissed and leave again? So it is better simply to indicate that you are prepared to listen, and then to wait to see who wants to respond.
Quite a few responded, that was one of the sad and scary things. So many young men had died for this bit of forest which was not even theirs anyway and which would in any case soon be lost to the Others, those who claimed that it was indeed theirs or at least their country’s; this is an abstract concept, but people are prepared to die not just to defend their families, their wives and children, their homes, but to die for a bit of coloured cloth if you tie it to a pole. For over half a century or more they had been here, still, having not come to terms with what had happened to them. Time is a dimension only for those of us who are mortal and once you have put this behind you, whether voluntarily or not, it ceases to have any meaning. Maybe they re-lived their last moments over and over again, maybe they drifted into memories of childhood or loved ones, maybe they were just in a form of suspended inanimation.
Some were aware – somehow – that they were not in the right place, that they were meant to be somewhere else, and they came forward and grasped eagerly at the opportunity to join in a ceremony, to listen as words were said, to take their leave and move onward to the Gate and pass through it to their destiny. But not all. Some were unable or unwilling to let go of what they were. Her family member was one of these. He and his comrades had received orders to stay here and to fight, these were the last words he had heard and they resounded still in him. ‘’The War is over’‘, she told him. ‘’Long ago. We lost. There is nothing more you can do. You can let go now, move on.’‘ But no, a soldier is trained never to let go, to fight to the end and – often it seems – also beyond the end. Long, long beyond the end. The end which is, for him, no end at all.
There is little one can do to convince someone who is unable or unwilling to be convinced, this applies to the living and it applies to the dead and it applies, seemingly, also to those in between. The war as such had meant nothing to him anyway, just the fighting where he was. Peace and Rest were awaiting him but he could not this see through the trees, he could not hear this through the noise of the skirmish that still raged around him, the roar of the engines of armoured vehicles churning the mud, the whining of the bullets, the thump of the shells, the screams of his comrades, whistles blowing, orders being shouted, his Spiess directing men to the left, to the right, the trees cracking and toppling, at times like this a young soldier is afraid, so afraid that he loses touch with his own senses, his own instincts, and so when his body dies very suddenly he is already somewhere else, in another ethereal dimension…. Training tells, he would only go through the Gate when his Spiess, his Platoon Sergeant, ordered him to do so…… He would not run away, he would not desert, he would not abandon his comrades…..
Eventually she had to accept that she could not convince him, not help him. Others, yes, were grateful for this wholly unexpected opportunity. Who would ever think a Shaman might turn up in this clearing in the dark endless forest? So the journey had not been for nothing.
He is one of millions who will never have an own and a known grave but she filled a jam jar with some soil from this haunted place to bury next to family back home, as had been requested. A part of him, at least, could be said to have come back. The rest? Who knows? All over Europe, all over the world there are unmarked graves of those who died defending a bridge or a hill or a field or a forest while the generals leant over their map tables and the politicians polished their victory speeches – the less that victory seemed likely, the more the speeches needed polishing until they shone so brightly that the listeners were blinded by the gleam and could not hear or see the reality. Whatever Reality is…..
In that forest in Belarus are the remains, still, of his Platoon, his Company, his comrades. They died for a promise that was broken and will never be repaired. They died but – they have not yet realised that they have died, they have not yet come to terms with what has happened to them. The forest must be filled with them still, Wehrmacht and Red Army and maybe Romanian or Hungarian soldiers as well. They cannot allow themselves to let go. Even when urged to by a relative who has come from the future they never lived to see. I can think of other forests too, closer to Berlin, near Caputh, near Halbe, near Seelow.....
It is not really important to me whether you believe this tale, what is important to me is that I believe it.
Where would I go, where will I go?
The song ‘’The Teddy Bear’s Picnic’‘ begins with the lines:
If you go down to the Woods today, you’d better go in disguise,
If you go down to the Woods today, you’re in for a Big Surprise!
If YOU go down to the Woods today, or even tomorrow: Say ‘’Hello’‘. Just that. Just in case someone is still there, listening.
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