It was Morocco, or was it Egypt. On the radio that morning, the news told us that the war was as good as over. We were unsure whether or not to abandon our uniforms. I have a swarthy appearance and had often noticed a covert sneer directed at me when I walked around the village in uniform. Perhaps, I thought, they think I am a citizen who has joined the Germans, a quisling. But I am German. So when I went into the bar that night I wore shapeless workman's clothes and I put myself into a corner of the bar far away from patrons standing near the radio and discussing the news. There was one table there and two men, Germans, were sitting at it and staring at their beer. I didn't know them from the corps. Perhaps they had come over from Syria and not reported yet. They seemed not to feel any fear of the Turks — or were they Algerians, I forget, one or the other. Now that I think of it, they probably did not speak Egyptian, or Algerian, whatever, so maybe they didn't know the news.

Ahkmed was a familiar face there, a man from the village, who now and then helped the proprietor, now and then sat and drank alone, now and then talked with others, Germans too, it didn't matter to him.

This night he stood near the door and the light from a nearby fire in the street turned him into a shadow. He had a way of leaning backward and forward as he stood, seeking a rhythm that only he was listening to. But he was also in the way of others, and when two men came in together they pushed him aside without meaning to and he stumbled into the table where the Germans were sitting. When they looked up, he greeted them and asked if he could join them, but not in German, though he knew some German. They paid no attention to him and he sat down a little way away from them at the table.

"Are you happy now?" he asked.

They looked at him, both of them, and then at each other. Then at him, to see if he would talk again.

He asked again, but in German, "Are you happy now?"

One of them reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol.

The other one said, "Yah," and the first one fired a bullet into Ahkmed's chest.

"Gott," said the other.

The bullet made a hole in his shirt and he began to bleed out of it but he did not move. He did not fall forward or rear back or go to his side. He sat as he had sat. The German held his pistol aimed at him still and watched. Then he looked about the room. Some of us had seen what happened, others had heard the shot, others did not notice, or took no notice, because in fact the war was over but it was not over yet here perhaps.

Ahkmed's blood ran slowly down his shirt and some had been splashed onto the table. Then it seemed to have stopped. A bit of the pistol smoke was now pervading the air and everyone was beginning to understand something had happened.

"Happy?" one of the Germans asked.

They got up together and one of them bent over to sip more from his glass. Then they both walked toward the door. It was not clear to me what should happen next. Two men appeared at the door, looking in to see what had made the noise. The Germans tried to pass them but could not, even though the one was still carrying his pistol and it was still smoking a little. He waved it a bit and blew on it and then stuffed it back into his jacket. The two men stepped back to let them out and when the Germans stepped out, several men followed them. As they went they told the two men from outside what happened and all of them turned to the right where the Germans had gone.

Ahkmed was still sitting where he had been shot. His eyes were open but he was not seeing out of them. He was done with seeing. His blood had stopped running. That's what we thought.

The men who had gone out came back in. Now I knew them. They were tankers and once they gave me a ride back from the front. The one who shot Ahkmed was crying, his face was streaked where the tears diluted the dust. I knew both of them. The shooter was a nice man. His wife and three children — two boys and a girl — had died in the bombing of Berlin a month ago. The two had been stopped by two military police and brought back. They looked at Ahkmed and saw he was dead.

"You must pay for your drinks," they were told by the military police. They didn't want the patrons to think about justice. "The war is over." The one with the pistol did not move but the other one took out a purse and took some money out of it. It was marks he had. He put all he had on the table. Then the officers, to give themselves time to think, made the two Germans sit at the table with Ahkmed. Ahkmed breathed a slow breath then, but still did not move otherwise. Now the two Germans were unable to control themselves. The one whimpered softly once or twice, and tears ran down the face of the one who had not fired the shot. The officers looked closely at Ahkmed, uncertain if he had really breathed again or if a post-mortem spasm had filled his lungs. The one who seemed to be in charge moved to Ahkmed and put a hand on his shoulder. "So, now you are all right?"

Ahkmed said nothing and did nothing. The war news continued coming from the radio.

The leader whispered into the shooter's ear something, and the man took off his jacket and his holster with the pistol in it and a packet of letters bound with a rubber band. He put them all in front of Ahkmed. The other man too took off his jacket and emptied his pockets. For awhile, the two soldiers sat in silence looking sometimes at the table and sometimes at Ahkmed. The military police stood beside them looking at the air. I think they were waiting to see if he would fall over. But he sat before them upright. Maybe he was thinking what to say next. They were afraid.

At last, one of the police touched one of the men on the shoulder and motioned to get up and leave. All four gathered together and backed out of the bar and into the night.

This had taken only a few minutes and we had not yet begun to feel ashamed. What it was, we did not know if this was war or peace. Dead men had been so common, and we were glad to be alive, so seeing Ahkmed like this was in a way not unexpected. And we were proud of his courage, if he was alive, in staring them down. But now, what were we to feel? Was it murder now? Were we guilty of cowardice?

Ahkmed remained in his chair. The money and clothing were piled in front of him. He seemed not to be looking or breathing. His eyes were open. If he saw anything, it was the bar, which he was facing.

We all looked from one to the other, wondering what to do. Then the owner came out to the table and asked softly, "Ahkmed, are you dead? Are you alive?" Then he went back behind the bar and poured a drink and brought it to the table. Another man at the bar came over and said, "Ahkmed, let me buy this drink." Then another said, "Yes. Let me buy you one too," and he put a bill on the table near Ahkmed's hand. And then one by one, everyone bought him a drink, so a pile of money gathered on the table in front of Ahkmed. We were very ashamed, though we weren't sure why. If he was dead, we didn't kill him. If he was alive, why should we feel shame. But the room was full of it, as if a tank was idling outside and its fumes were sidling in.

After a time, with still no motion from Ahkmed, the owner told someone to go find the doctor. The table where Ahkmed sat was one of four in the tavern. Three against the wall opposite the bar, and his, sort of in the middle of the room and closest to the bar. It was the table everyone wanted.

I see now that all the fear I had rooted out of me during the war had suddenly bloomed again in my heart. If the war was over, I didn't want to die. Not on the day the war ended. And so, even if I had been quick enough and strong enough to stop the tank driver, I probably would have stood and watched as I did. I didn't want to risk my life anymore.

When the doctor arrived, he stood in the door, looking to see a body on the floor. The ownder nodded his head towards Ahkmed and the doctor went over there and looked him in the eye.

"Ahkmed?" he asked. He bent over and listened to his chest for a moment and then he stood up and said to the owner, "Get someone to help me get him out of here."

There were two men from the village at the bar and the owner nodded to them. The doctor showed them how to carry him. One backed towards the chair and bent down to lift the front chair legs. The doctor separated Ahkmed's legs so the man could reach. The other man lifted the back of the chair, and they began to take him out. He was sitting in the chair as he had always been. They knocked over two other chairs on the way. At the door, a crowd had gathered and the doctor had to push people aside to make way. There were children among the crowd but no women.

"Did you see that?" shouted the owner. "Did you see Ahkmed sit there and not feel that bullet?"

We all agreed it had been a great feat. It was as if the war being over, bullets could no longer kill us. We all looked at the two drinks sitting before Ahkmed's chair.

"Everyone gets a grappa," said the owner. "For Ahkmed."

"For Ahkmed," we all shouted. Suddenly we were happy, our shame put aside, our joy at being at peace, at being victors, made us love him with a fierce power.

"One for Ahkmed," we all shouted at once. We loved him so much.

So he had the three drinks before him and a wealth of money and a discarded German uniform. He had never been richer.

But then we were silent. It is hard to know what to say when you have been present at a death. Silence seems better. It's better than saying something wrong.

The owner was calmer than the rest of us and he managed to say, "Ahkmed!" once or twice, hoping to make the bar resume its life. Then many of us nodded our head once at him and once at Ahkmed's table, and several more drinks gathered beside the coat and letters and money. We drank till dawn and the drinking loosened our hearts and tongues. The grappa for Ahkmed continued to grow. We embraced each other often. We could not hear the radio anymore.

When I came back the next night, the grappa was still there, but the jacket had been hung on a nail behind the bar. The letters were in one pocket and the cash in another. I was there for several more weeks and the grappa slowly evaporated and finally the owner took the glasses away. But the table never was sat at while I was there. I decided to desert and the owner let me sleep on the floor behind the bar. In his lost-box I found several wallets and driver's licenses and identity papers and I was able to rename myself and get work on a fishing boat going across the sea.

I am quite old now and a widower. My two girls and one boy have grown and moved away. Perhaps I have grandchildren. I left that village to find a place that had not been so damaged by war and after living in several countries, I ended up here. I had first gone to a hospital in Italy that was half-ruined and offered to help rebuild it. I soon began driving the ambulance there and that was my career. I moved towards the north and the west. I drove ambulance in each country I visited. I lifted thousands of patients on stretchers into my ambulance, some sick, some dying. And each time the legs of the stretcher rattled up as we slid it into the ambulance, I remembered Ahkmed and his coat and his letters and his money and his grappa. I can still see him passing out of the bar on his chair. I don't think he came back.

The End