The Ones That Fell

Epilogue

1967.

That was the year that was read on the calendar in his office room. An office room where the air became dry because of the heater that was running frantically so the cold wouldn't take over. A man was pulling out stacks of files from his shelves and placing them into cardboard boxes. He looked out of the window and saw a vehicle parked outside. He knew it was waiting for him. So he started to pull the files out faster.

As he was raising the pace of his packing, a file fell off from the large stack that was in his arms and papers fluttered out from it and eventually they landed onto the carpet. He cursed under his breath and placed the stack into the box, then bent down to pick up the papers and the file.

He turned over the papers out of consciousness and read the date that the report was written up.

1945.

He read inside his mind and pushed up his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. He tried to think of someone that this report could have been of, but there were too many he had to persecute that year and a couple years after that. The war had done a lot to him, to his family, and to his friends. He lost many of them under the hands of the relentless and heartless.

How could man have the ability to commit all of this crime? He tapped his cigarette into the ashtray and disposed it when he stood up, then started placing the papers back into the manila file. The photo attached to the corner of the report stood out to him. The face was extremely familiar to him, and he squinted as he tried to make out who it was. His eyes lingered to the name that was printed in the name field of the report, then to the reason that he was being persecuted, then to the rest of his information.

It was of the man that had saved him. Who had spared him but he couldn't save him. He wasn't allowed to save him. Why would he save someone who was a criminal? He read the outcome of this man's trial.

Execution.

His read the details that were scribbled under the statement.

Executed on February 7th, 1946 by five men of the firing squad.

The man studied the emotionless visage that was in black in white on the small photograph. He slowly closed the file then scrambled to his shelf and took down a box. He opened it, and it revealed a neatly folded uniform that was missing a shoulder-board. The green-gray tunic was stained with some dried blood, the medals were still pinned to the pockets, and the collar tabs were still there. The visor cap, placed atop the folded tunic, also had the infamous skull symbol.

Many years had passed ever since he encountered such a complicated man, someone who he could have lost his life to but was released.

Someone knocked at the door to his office room and he told them to come in. A small, young man entered.

"Mr. Gwozdek, are you finished with your packing?" the young man asked.

"Yes," the man, Mr. Gwozdek, answered. "You can carry those boxes out." Mr. Gwozdek pointed at the boxes stacked near the door. "Hopefully the new office will have more space than this one."The young man shook his head and started to haul a couple boxes out.

Once Mr. Gwozdek was left alone in his office again, he took in a heavy breath and sighed. He closed the box of an SS officer's possessions and placed the file into the cardboard box that was on his desk. The shelves were now empty and his desk was blank.

Mr. Gwozdek went toward the door and carried a couple boxes, but before he exited, he imagined that the SS officer was sitting on his desk chair. Maybe he was there but Mr. Gwozdek couldn't see him.

Once everything was cleared out and the office room was now empty, everything was now quiet. However, the heater still ran and the snow still fell from out the window. The atmosphere of the small office room filled with a feeling of abandonment and melancholy. The room wasn't entirely cleared, as Mr. Gwozdek had forgotten to pick up a small folded paper that was still left under the desk when the papers fell out.

It was a letter, written about a couple decades ago. It was supposed to be sent to a house somewhere in Austria, but it was never brought to its destination.