Araucania Region, Chile - September, 1946
There was one week between the end of Paul Eitzen's basic training and the start of the NCO course, during which Paul remained in the now-empty barracks. Without its crowd of conscript-recruits, the training camp felt particularly empty and lifeless, with little to do. The two other recruits who, like Paul, had been selected for NCO training had used their leave time to rush home for visits to their family, leaving Paul alone.
On the second day, the old German drill sergeant noted Paul as he swept up the mess hall, a make-work task he'd assigned himself to keep busy. "What are you doing, Eitzen?"
"Cleaning the mess hall, Sergeant Gerber!" Paul replied.
"I can see that. I mean, what are you still doing in camp? Why haven't you taken leave to see your family?"
"I have no family, sir," Paul said, explaining his situation. The old sergeant frowned. "I understand. Come to dinner tonight. Let me give you the address. Eighteen hundred hours."
Sitting down that night at the dinner table, Paul decided he'd never felt more awkward. In his own home, the old Prussian sergeant was mild-mannered and convivial, never uttering a swear word or shouting an insult. Gerber's wife, Frantziska, was an ethnic Basque and an excellent cook, being aided in the kitchen by their youngest daughter, Catalina.
"Papa must like you," Catalina said to Paul as she carried food from the kitchen. "He doesn't usually invite recruits over to dinner!"
Sergeant Gerber frowned and said nothing, but turned up the radio. Paul, uncertain of what to say, also remained silent and thought about Rose Niesen, the fiancee he'd buried next to the church in the old Bolivian commune. Had it really been two years?
Catalina was leaving soon for the University of Concepción, with plans to become a schoolteacher, like her mother and one of her elder sisters - of which, Paul learned, there were four. Frantziska Gerber piped up. "And they're all married! Now we just need to find a nice boy for Catalina." The daughter blushed.
After dinner, Paul joined Sergeant Gerber in the rocking chairs on the porch, listening to El Sonido on the radio. "Did I hear you were a Mennonite?" he abruptly asked, switching to German.
"A bad one, I guess," Paul said. "If I was a good one, I wouldn't have joined the Army."
"Pacifist, ja?"
"I used to be. I... am not sure I believe that any more, or even if I actually ever believed it at all. Maybe I just thought that way because of how I was raised... it just leaves good people at the mercy of those more violent than themselves. I think there should be a better middle way. What do you think, sir?"
Gerber chuckled. "You ask an old soldier this question? But I have thought about it. I think you are right." He remained quiet for a few minutes. "It requires a moral nation to produce a moral army."
"Do you think that is possible?"
Gerber waved towards the distant military barracks visible from his porch. "If I didn't, then I shouldn't be training all these boys, should I?"