He finished blousing his trousers in his tall jack boots. He adjusted the last few items on his uniform, looking somewhat the way an SS-Obersturmführer was supposed to. His temples were gray now, no longer the Party approved shade of blonde. His once chiseled face was now aged with stress. Deep lines sliced into his skin, and crows feet danced around the edges of his eyes. He was 28, yet looked 50, and felt 70. The gray of his uniform, once so dashing, now seemed to merely reflect the bland, care-worn apathy and numbness that seemed to permeate him.
Behind him, the young woman sat on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly getting dressed. She looked at him briefly, caught his eye in the mirror. She turned away quickly, but not before her eyes briefly came to life and shone with the hatred she had for him and his kind. He stepped over to her in a few long, quick strides, and raised his hand. She began to cry, and cringed in anticipation of the blow. It would simply be the latest in a long line of them, yet she cried every time. He stood over her, and this time was reminded of the girls in the picture, which led to thoughts of the past, of his family, of who and what he used to be.
He took out the picture from his pocket, and looked at it. As he examined the picture for the umpteenth time, his brow became furrowed with thought, his eyes not even seeing the picture as introspection took over. He felt the anger return then, directed at everything and nothing. Grabbing his cap and sidearm, he quickly left the apartment and climbed down the stairs, completely forgetting that the girl existed, lost in his new purpose.
The street felt lifeless and empty to him, knowing that they had once been so much more lively and bustling, packed with people of all types going about their little lives. Now there was just the occasional group of soldiers striding purposefully to and fro, sometimes marching in formation. Occasionally one of the locals could be spotted, shuffling along in a hurry, trying hard not to be seen or noticed, especially if they were young and pretty, like the girl he had just left upstairs. He strode over to a Daimler-Benz staff car and turned it on, proceeding to drive out of the city, taking sips from the flask of Schnapps he had come to rely on more and more.
The street felt lifeless and empty to him, knowing that they had once been so much more lively and bustling, packed with people of all types going about their little lives. Now there was just the occasional group of soldiers striding purposefully to and fro, sometimes marching in formation. Occasionally one of the locals could be spotted, shuffling along in a hurry, trying hard not to be seen or noticed, especially if they were young and pretty, like the girl he had just left upstairs. He strode over to a Daimler-Benz staff car and turned it on, proceeding to drive out of the city, taking sips from the flask of Schnapps he had come to rely on more and more.
It was noon when he reached his destination, a clearing in the forest outside of the city. Standing before the mound where they had dumped the bodies, he stared blankly at nothing, collecting his thoughts. There were birds singing, oblivious to man's upheavals and worries.
He reached into his pocket and took out the picture again. Emotion washed through him once more as he went over it yet again. The look of contentment in the handsome little family, so much like his own. There were three lovely daughters, appearing to be in their teens. He himself had only two sisters, and imagined what a third would have been like. His eyes then narrowed on the boy in the picture, a young lad of perhaps nine or ten. The boy was standing in the front, holding a toy train, just as the man himself used to.
He reached into his pocket and took out the picture again. Emotion washed through him once more as he went over it yet again. The look of contentment in the handsome little family, so much like his own. There were three lovely daughters, appearing to be in their teens. He himself had only two sisters, and imagined what a third would have been like. His eyes then narrowed on the boy in the picture, a young lad of perhaps nine or ten. The boy was standing in the front, holding a toy train, just as the man himself used to.
When he had been a boy, he had loved trains. He would watch them come and go at the tracks near his family's house. The conductors would see him on the fence, and would blow the horn for him while he squealed in joy. Those times were so long ago now, a bygone era of zest and life.
There was no returning to innocence. He could not go back now, and knew that though he still breathed air, and blood still pumped through his veins, he was a casualty of this war. He had been swept up in it, and now the destroyer was destroyed, yet only belatedly realizing it.
He noticed that there were birds singing, oblivious to man's upheavals and worries. There hadn't been any birds on that day when they'd shot this batch, when he had claimed this picture from the clenched hands of the boy's naked corpse. He reflected on that day, and how it had ended him. Everything he had been raised to believe was evil, was what he now saw himself as. He had lost his mental defense, his power to numb himself to his crimes and simply not think about it too much. There was no longer any room to pretend that he was doing right, building a shining future, the promised racial utopia.
He sighed as he glanced from the picture to the mound of dirt, his face tensing with emotion. The birds continued singing, ignoring him as he pulled out his Luger P-08. Placing the barrel under his chin, he thought of the time before all this, when he'd still been truly alive.
The noise frightened the birds, and it was some time before they resumed their singing.
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