The cold body of a shotgun pressed to my ribs, as was the warm bodies of the men around me. In the van, it was crowded with fear and silence. My elbows brushed other faceless men I worked with but would never know.
And to me, that was the saddest part. That every soul here had a story, a family, a mind and imagination of their own. And all of them would die being commanded at the will of a heartless stranger.
Technically, I got a choice (at least that is what the officials claim) but everyone knows what would have happen. It would begin with a sleek black car driving down the dusty street to my house at the cool shade of midnight (an obvious sign in my side of town) and they would take us away. The neighbours would pointedly ignore it for when a car comes at midnight, there wasn’t so much as a twitching curtain or meowing cat.
I won’t say it wasn’t a choice but it was blackmail; the other option was a death wish on my mother and little sister.
Out of my pocket I pulled a small toy in the shape of a girl – a gift from dear little Annie that she insisted I took. It was small, worn and all that we could afford but it was beautiful and handmade by my mother and it was all I had in this battlefield. I caressed it for a moment before putting it in the inside pocket of my jacket, against my chest.
The van stopped with a chug and with a mechanical and uniform march, the van emptied quickly.
Outside wasn’t half as dark as inside because fire had broken out above the houses. The street was muffled shouts and flames. The snow was blood-stained and muddy. The whole scene was painted in black, red and gold.
But don’t mistake me; it was in no way beautiful.
Comrades everywhere were breaking into houses, searching for the hated Jews. And I stood in the middle of the street, as frozen as the snow (but I suspect more terrified) while a few of the most amiable of men in my rank were beating and bloodying a woman with a gold star embroidered on her tattered shirt.
A firm hand grasped my shoulder and I thawed to see the beaten face of the general. “Come along, junior,” he spoke in a voice that was probably supposed to be jovial but was utterly ghastly.
I followed him into one of the cracked and heartbroken houses with a crushing apprehension: I’d seen other soldiers kill Jews which painful at best and frankly unbearable at worst but if I didn’t, who knew what danger my family would be in.
In the cool living room it was a vacant mess. Faint light through the pale curtains fell on the only things in the room: the petrified faces of two parents and their daughter. The golden stars on their simple clothes seemed to glow in the near darkness; their fear was shattering and making me choke, especially when I saw that the little girl held a doll so much like the one in my pocket. They knew that I was sent here for their death.
“Disgusting Jews,” the general spat, his eyes fiery with hatred. He stood beside the doorway and pulled up his gun. The mother watched with terror as the gun fixed on her daughter and threw herself protectively in front of the child just in time for a bullet to lodge in her chest.
Blood bloomed like spring blossoms and the daughter screamed. “Mummy!” she wept, clutching the dying woman who laid a hand lovingly on the girl’s face. The father knelt down next to the girls and clutched them both for reassurance.
“Angela,” whispered the man in desperation. Crystal tears sparkled on his face.
I watched her last moments. I knew nothing of her other than her name and death. And I did nothing.
The man looked up and laid the corpse down. The glittering tears in his face should have burned from the glare he gave the general.
“You bastard!” He started advancing but only another bullet and he stopped.
The general turned to me. His expression would have better suited finishing a masterpiece after months of work than committing a double murder. He then did nothing but make his expectation of me obvious. He wanted me to shoot the little girl. He wanted her blood to stain my hands. Hell, he looked like he was proudly passing on an enjoyable sport, not the responsibility of a beautiful and innocent life.
I was considering how well I could get on if I ran away (and the prospects weren’t good), but then I saw the doll in the little girl’s arms and I remembered the one from Annie in my pocket and the promise it held: to keep my family safe as best as I could.
The little girl would die anyway, at least this way my family wouldn’t die.
With tears I hoped the general didn’t see I lifted the gun.
I closed my eyes.
I aimed.
I pulled the trigger.
In that moment all I knew was screaming, horror and the monstrous, selfish being I had become.
In that moment I felt overpowering hate.
Hate for the Führer, hate for the general, hate for myself.
I was a murderer.
And still if I had the chance to change my actions in that moment, I wouldn’t have done anything differently.
Author's Note:
If you like this, go read @Crazy_Dreamer's Legacy of Altdorf because it's really good and creepy.
