Krasnacht: Twilight of the Gods

Soaked in Blood

Allan

Paris, French Communal Republic

July 17th, 1952

The war was finally over.

All this time, we thought the Germans would steamroll Paris again, but no. We managed to secure our fronts and bit back, how I wonder the way my father looks when he realised that the German tiger had finally collapsed.

I was a boy delivering newspapers into the streets of Paris, amazing architecture, fancy music, fancy restaurants and the sweet smell of fresh pastry. I was 13 by the time the war started, and by 1941 I had to say goodbye to my father, as he was conscripted into the army and sent off to fight the Belgians. He wasn't the best dad, he would usually come home drunk and lash out his anger onto me and my sister. My sister was four years older than I was, and two months before my dad was conscripted, she earned enough money and ran away. I wonder how she got it, considering that many places in Paris weren't taking in anyone because the Germans were nearby. I want to see her again.

In the winter of 1944, my grandpa gave me his old pistol from the first Weltkrieg, and told me that if I were to get into trouble, I would use it. I don't want to kill anyone though, why would I need it if I already have my fists to defend myself? That was until one day, I was out in the forest with three of my friends. We got drunk, super drunk. We forgot that the war was still going on, but it was so far from us, we didn't even care. That was until we heard French and German planes going at it above us, we watched in awe as we saw two French planes get shot down and a German plane crashing into a wing of another. We watched the German come crashing down not too far from where we were, but the sound was loud that it shook all of us. Then I remembered, my grandpa's gun, whoever this German could be, if they even are German, they could seriously put us in danger.

I pulled out the pistol and walked towards the crash site, smoke was in the path and as we took each step closer, we could feel the heat increasing. I heard one of my friends say that there is no possible way the pilot could've survived this. As we finally made it to the crashed plane, the pilot seat was vacant. We looked around and thought to ourselves that the pilot must've ejected or gotten away unharmed. We were about to head back to our campsite until my friend spotted an injured pilot on the ground, not too far from us.

It was a German.

He was about the age of 22-27, short blonde hair, blue eyes, no beard, and looked like a successful businessman, but no. This German was a pilot, in war, forced to kill people in war. He looked at us in an odd look, mixed with fear and anger. He noticed my gun, and I could tell he was going to beg for his life. But what was I meant to do? We were kids from the ages of 17-18, there's no way I would kill someone at this age. By all means, yes, he was a German. Yes, I should kill him because he is. But would I even feel remorse?

"Bitte." is what he said. He kept on repeating it, one of my friends; who secretly learned German, said that he's begging for his life and you not to shoot him. My other friend was quite pessimistic, said that he will run away and get us killed when he comes back with a bigger force. I didn't know what to do, but I didn't want to die. I thought to myself as he kept on repeating those words, bitte, bitte, bitte.

I aimed the pistol at him, and his begging got louder, mixed with the sound of his cries. For the guilt that I felt as I aimed it at him, it was overcoming my ability to pull the trigger, but out of the propaganda telling us that Germans were an evil to Europe and the world and that they must be stopped. Without even knowing, I pulled the trigger.

I had my eyes shut, and as I heard the shot ring, the begging stopped. I opened my eyes. The man was still on the ground. Mouth and eyes wide open, limp corpse. I shot him in the neck, he was twitching and making sounds. I looked at my friend, then the other, and then back to him. What have I done? I thought to myself. Someone is dead because of me. Out of fear, I tried to save him, I held where the wound was from, trying to prevent blood from oosing out. My friend picked up my gun, and told me that I did a rookie shot, he pushed me out of the way, and shot the German dead in the head. I tried to stop him, but I couldn't. He overpowered me, and if I were to get in the way, he would report me as a traitor to my land.

I was covered in the blood of a German. I couldn't blink because whenever I do, the image of the dead man appears. We headed back to the campsite and agreed that it was too dangerous for us to sleep in the forest where a dead man lies. We headed home, not even a single word came out of our mouths when we arrived home.

My friends slept on the floor as I slept on my bed. Still covered in blood, scared to get up and wash myself because my parents would notice, I stayed up the entire night.

My god. I killed a German. Holy fuck. I killed a German. Holy shit. I killed a German.