The Left-Handed God by I. J. Parker Page B

haunted, sometimes to the point of madness, by what he had become.
    He was haunted more by what he had done.
    Another parson sat beside him one afternoon, a thin black figure haloed by the golden light of the afternoon sun in the window, and said, “I am told that your father was also a servant of the Lord. You must find great comfort in that.”
    Franz turned away his head. After a moment, the parson sighed, patted his arm, and left.
    They had raised his rank to second lieutenant‌—‌a small and meaningless gesture, since he was unfit for duty. In that at least, Franz found comfort.
    Some aspects of his condition gradually improved, while others deteriorated. The pain lessened, and he got stronger until he could sit up, and look out of the window at the slowly greening trees. He sat for hours doing that. Lieutenant Killian brought him books. When Franz refused them, he offered to read to him. Franz refused that also, and Killian sighed and decided to pen a short letter to Franz’s mother.
    He asked, “Shall I tell them that you feel better?”
    Franz looked back at the trees and nodded.
    “Shall I say that you miss them and hope to see them soon?”
    Franz did not answer that.
    Killian said, “I think I shall. They will expect it, you know. You don’t want to hurt them, do you?”
    Franz shook his head.
    “Good. I shall say that you are thinking of them fondly and counting the days.”
    One day Franz sorted through his possessions in a small trunk. Somehow, these had been dispatched after him, or with him‌—‌he could not be certain because he had had no desire to look at them before. There was not much. His uniform‌—‌the one he had not worn into battle, a small case containing his razor, comb, soap, and scissors, his decoration, the papers certifying his new rank, a few letters from his mother or Augusta that had escaped his destruction, and one letter that did not belong to him. This letter was fairly thick and stained with a brownish spot on one corner. Franz turned it in his hands and was mystified. It was addressed to someone called Friedrich von Loe, but there was neither a city nor a street. Surely whoever had packed his things had made a mistake. Eventually he put the letter with the others and relocked the trunk.
    To Franz’s irritation, the kind Lieutenant Killian came regularly and wrote what he thought a loving son should tell his family, and when he was done, he would read the letter to Franz and look at him with pity and friendship, thinking, no doubt:
    There but for God’s Grace, go I!
    If Franz had ever had divine grace, he had certainly lost it. As his physical health improved, he was forced to confront who he was, and what his father, a saintly and gentle man, would think of him now. His self-disgust caused him to lash out with angry snarls at anyone who came near him at such times. Not even Lieutenant Killian was spared.
    Then, one day Franz remembered the wounded captain. The next day, he asked Lieutenant Killian if he knew a Captain von Loe.
    Killian, not used to being spoken to by Franz, was immediately eager to be of use. No, he did not know the name. Could he write it? Franz did. Had von Loe been at Freiberg? Franz nodded.
    “W-w-ounded. N-not s-s-sure if a-a-…” Franz choked.
    “You want me to find out if he survived?”
    Franz nodded.
    Killian left happily. He had finally established communication with his difficult patient. He asked everyone among the military staff in Mannheim and then mailed letters to Vienna and Munich. The answers were disappointing. Captain von Loe had indeed died at Freiberg.
    Franz was saddened by it. The young captain’s voice been strong and his request fervent. His death left him with a letter to deliver. “H-his f-father? wh-where?” he asked Killian.
    But this time Killian’s search brought forth no answer. No one by the name was known in or near Mannheim. Franz pondered this for a few days and eventually decided that he must be mistaken