|
About:
|
Now the soldier was upon them.
"I’ll come again as soon as they’ll let me. I promise. They have to let me see you again. I’ll beg them to show you mercy, my love. You’ll see, everything will be all right!"
He let her go, his fingers catching a last fleeting sensation of smooth skin. The soldier had taken her by the shoulder and was leading her rapidly back down the gloomy corridor. Josef struggled to catch a last glimpse and saw that she too was looking back. Then she was gone.
A moment later he heard the clang of a heavy iron door and as its echo died away he stepped back from the bars. As he did so he realized that he was grasping the brass box tightly in his right hand. He dropped it into one of his pockets where it hit something with a metallic note. Investigating he found, apart from the empty matchbox, a fifty Reichspfennig coin. He examined it closely; 1935, the year he had joined the S.S. Eleven years ago.
He could remember shaking Himmler’s clammy, bony hand, putting on his smart gray uniform with its black rank patches for the first time, and the respect that it had earned him and the fear that it had produced in people. How his world had changed since then! He turned away from the bars and saw the letter on the floor. It had a gray footprint on it – his own.
He picked it up and tried dusting it off without success, vaguely remembering having once read that in India it was considered very bad luck to place writing or a book on the floor and ever worse to put your foot on it. He set the letter down on the bed, sat next to it and stared out through the bars.
He had been awake for two hours he estimated so his guards would soon be bringing breakfast. He didn’t have much time. Suddenly an image entered his mind. It was of himself and a child, a little boy looking up at him with bright, pleading eyes. It could have been the face of a thousand children, a face that he used to see on the ramp, an anonymous and desolate face, beyond sorrow, beyond suffering, beyond fear, beyond hope. A face that he sent to the left, left, left, left, left, left, left, always and forever left unto oblivion.
But somehow he knew this child’s face. It was Sophie’s face and his own face – the face of their son. Then the little boy’s expression changed, from one of entreaty to a look of bitter accusation. He shuddered and took the brass box out of his pocket. He opened it and looked at the little coil of Sophie’s hair. He smiled and carefully took it out placing it on the letter. Next and with some difficulty, he tore the purple lining out of the box. There beneath it, held firmly in place, were two tiny black glass tubes. With the nail of an index finger he carefully pried them out and cradled them in his palm. He then replaced the torn velvet and the coil of Sophie’s hair and put the box back into his pocket. He opened his palm. The little glass cylinders were no thicker than the lead of an artist’s pencil and as he looked at their black luster he felt strangely comforted. A moment later he heard the muffled crash of a heavy iron door from somewhere. It was a common sound in this place but this time it sounded a warning. He placed both of the little tubes in his mouth as though they were aspirin. His mouth began to fill with saliva and then hesitation gripped him. His mind went blank. What was he to do? Then he heard the distant voice of a child call – Papa. And he bit down hard on both the cylinders.
The glass broke easily but he felt nothing, then he swallowed. A tremendous burning sensation instantly overwhelmed his senses. So great was its intensity that he fell back hitting his head on the wall behind the bed. As the tide of pain in his throat and chest rose rapidly he tried to open his mouth but only succeeded in biting his tongue, or so it seemed. Then he thought he could feel his hands and knees trembling and a great weakness in his legs, followed by a strange warmth. Next he felt his joints move of their own accord then tighten like a vice. This was followed by visions of distorted faces belonging to men with blue eyes dressed in dark green. These men, he couldn’t tell how many of them there were, now yelled at him with unintelligible words, pulling his clothes and shaking his shoulders. At last he tried to tell them to leave him alone but they were gone, vanished as suddenly as they had appeared and with them the great burning was gone also.
Now, dimly, as if by the first rays of dawn, he saw a tree and recognized it. It was followed by another, different but also familiar. Then the faint outlines of a garden appeared. He was confused, but then it came, mildly at first but quickly growing richer - the scent of lavender and with it understanding.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Private Grant and Private Jones looked down at the twisted body of their prisoner. Twenty minutes earlier they had brought his breakfast only to find him shaking, convulsing and bleeding from the mouth. Not having any medical training, they at first suspected epilepsy but upon checking the man’s pulse and finding it very weak they ruled this out. Now he was dead. They pried his mouth open but could see nothing for all the blood from the severe wound on his tongue. Then they thought to search the body and upon discovering the brass box, the fate of their charge became clear.
"Shit, the goddam son of a bitch has taken something," said Grant, fingering the torn velvet inside the box and causing the only other contents to fall unnoticed to the floor.
"Yup, it sure as hell seems that way."
"What are we going to tell the Major? The shit’s gonna hit the fan when he finds out about this."
"How the hell should I know what we’re going to tell him?"
"But where did he get it from? He was thoroughly searched when they brought him in weeks ago."
"Wait a minute. It must have been that broad. Yeah, his girlfriend, she was here a little while ago. I brought her in."
"Wasn’t she searched at the gate?"
"Yeah, but they must have missed this."
"Who’s on duty down there today anyway?"
"Robinson and Lowensteen."
"Well let them take the rap for this."
Silently they stared at the half opened eyes, at the spots of blood that speckled the old shirt, like fallen poppy petals. Jones again searched for a pulse, then the two attempted to straighten out the contorted limbs. Failing, they stood back.
"Has he crapped his pants?"
"No, only pissed ‘em. I’ve heard it happens. It’s a side affect of the cyanide or whatever the hell it is they use"
"Well, you can bet that if the Russkies had caught him he would have been fried a long time ago. Have you seen his file?"
"Yeah."
Jones then picked up the coin, inspected it briefly and pocketed it. Meanwhile Grant was squinting at the letter, running his eyes over the feeble, spidery hand in which it was written.
"What does it say?"
"Mein geliebter sohn…" offered Grant.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It’s Kraut."
"I know it’s Kraut goddammit but what does it mean?"
"My beloved son, I think it’s a letter from his mother."
Jones shook his head then spat on the floor,
"Even this goddam Nazi asshole was some old lady’s son."
"Forget it. Let’s get him cleaned up before the Major gets here."
Grant threw the letter onto the dusty floor where it landed on top of a tiny coil of gold.
This story was taken from one these sites, check them out to find more sex stories:
|
