You face the boy standing across from you. He is wearing pants that had once been brown and his dark navy jacket hangs off his frame in a way that reminds you of white sheets draped over ancient chandeliers. The boy is not wearing any shoes, unusual for November in Germany. He is about your age, just on the younger side of nineteen and his cropped brown hair is a few shades darker than your own. He slouches, the way all boys do, while regarding your upper right ear with his steady brown gaze.
“Anlegen!”
You stand at attention and the boy jerks as if struck. You know he is afraid. His fists clench and you can see the slight fluttering of his nostrils as he breathes. His thin line of a mouth slashes across his pale, bloodless face doing little to brighten the canvas. Your eyes are drawn to a freckle on his lower left jaw and for an odd moment you want to touch it, just to see what he would do.
“Zielen!”
He straightens and you are hit by the prominence of the beak-like nose jutting from his face. His eyebrows shuffle downwards and he meets your stare for the first time. The muzzle of your standard issue rifle dips and you are startled to realize that you were mistaken. He is not, in fact, afraid. No, he watches you with eyes too old to be his own and you are overwhelmed by the acceptance in his gaze. He knows something you do not. He looks almost satisfied that the contract between the two of you will ultimately benefit him in the long run. You do not need to be him to know that your expression is laced with incredulity.
“Feuer!”
Your bullet pierces the felt yellow star sewn proudly upon his breast and his haunting brown eyes become tattooed forever on your soul.
Author's note: As a Jew, I've always focused on the Jewish experience of the Holocaust. Although no less important, many non-Jewish stories of victims of the Nazi regime have fallen through the cracks of history. This writing was part of my exploration into those stories.
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