The butt of his gun pressed against my back pushed me forward. It was not the actual rifle that led me forward but the notion that inside that barrel lay a bullet ready to pierce my skin ending my life and my God I didn’t want to die. So I walked slowly forward.
The trees covered in snow from the blizzard the night before, even on their sides, the snow adhered to the bark. My footsteps into the hardened white blanket made a crunch that was so crisp it raised the hair on the back of my neck. I knew he was stepping into my imprints, keeping his feet from freezing, while mine were now numb, that bastard. Lord help me. My cheeks must have been some sight, crying so hard earlier, and now that moisture was frozen. I wanted to drop to my knees and pray for God to help me. Or was God even there? For would he have let me and my family be in this position? Would he have let the Jews in Europe be subject to this massacre? I was not a practicing Jew, nor was my family. My parents were raised Jewish in the mountains of Austria, but my parents raised us Christian. It was my blood that made these men in green trench coats and red banners will silly shaped lines wrapped around their arms, hate us. And all they wanted to do was smear my blood everywhere with their guns. Ironic. Some Nazi fearing villager must have given us up in order to save themselves. And then he said it.
Stop. Get on your knees.
A shot of pure terror rushed through my body, like jumping into a freezing cold body of water, amidst a hot hot summer day. I couldn’t fall, I couldn’t give in and just die, but more so I felt powerless.
I can’t, I told him.
He kicked me in the back of my kneecap. My knees caved in and I just fell, not into a perfect kneeling position but flat on my face. I couldn’t even feel the unforgivingly cold snow on my face. All I felt was fear. I wasn’t ashamed of it either, I just didn’t want to die. Throughout my life I’ve heard those tales, of the brave heros that fought for their lives, doing whatever it took to live or save those they loved. My poor family waiting for their doom after me. My sister, my mother, my brothers, my father, why had they chosen me first? That’s all I could think of? Why couldn’t they have killed another member of my family first? God ,what is wrong with me?
Lying on the crunchy snow, without the twitch of a muscle, I felt something hard under my hand. I decided to move my finger, ever so slightly, just to make out the exactness of what it was. It was a rock. The thought breached my brain, should I attempt to fight for my life like those heroes in those tales? I didn’t know if I could. I was trembling, freezing, half my body was physically unknown to me. Did I even have the mechanical ability to attempt to save the life that meant most to me, my own?
Get up, on your knees, he yelled.
Was he nervous too? Had he ever done this before? Maybe he was being forced to kill me. Maybe it was his life or mine. My God save me now, save us both.
I had to turn, I had to look him in the face. Make eye contact for the first time. I wondered if he had black eyes, the eyes of the Devil. Would he be menacing? I turned.
He looked like a boy, not much older than I, the most shocking realization was that he looked like a human being. The rock was still under my hand. He stared down at me. He was sad. His rifle was leaning off his arm, pointed down towards the snow. His body was relaxed, his face was terrified, just like me. This was the time to strike. But I was so scared. Then I thought of my poor family, let their suffering fill my veins with pumping blood, let their lives lay in my hands, and with my hands I grabbed that rock, unfastening from the earth and snow, lifting it high above my head, letting its weight assist me stand. I quickly got to my feet, before he could move a muscle, and then I smashed the rock into his face as hard as I could, knocking him to the ground. Now he was in the snow, and I was standing above him, rock in hand. Face in the snow, he turned back to look at me. His face was smashed in, blood and snow, the color contrast only making the sight more gruesome. With little thought I grabbed his rifle, pointed it down at his heart and pulled the trigger. But nothing happened. I didn’t know how to operate a gun. God give me the knowledge. I shook the gun violently, then saw a switch. I flipped it. Looked back down at my captive Nazi, who began to make movement to stand.
The shot rang through the forest. It made me jump back, I wasn’t ready for the jolt the rifle shot through my arms. I dropped the gun quickly and fell back to the snow once again. It held me. The same snow that was just a few moments ago, my grave, now was my cradle. I balled up...and I cried.
