The people lined up before me all had similar expressions written across their faces. They weren't wondering where they were going next like the rest of the line. They were trying to figure out why a woman was lying dead in the middle of the road.
My comrades were no longer nearby as they were still raiding other houses, which left me to tend to the woman's remains.
It had been no more than ten minutes since she was shot down. No one checked her pulse to make sure she was gone, because no one had cared enough to do so.
The weight from my feet finally lifted since Sven told me to kill the woman. I took the ten steps over to the body, wanting to close my eyes and become blind to the reality of this woman's fate.
The woman was on the smaller side, thin and frail—possibly from hunger. Her skin appeared young as I studied her up close, but the loose strands of her hair covering her face made her look aged. She might have been in her late thirties or early forties. My gaze fell upon the bottom hem of her apron, where I spotted two embroidered names. "Jakob and Amelia."
I placed my fingers against the side of her neck, checking for a pulse, but her skin was already cold, and there was no sign of life. I glanced around the street for signs of the other soldiers, but there was still only a line of Jews. I was the person on guard to keep the people in line, but they were not of my concern at that moment.
I scooped my arms beneath the woman's body and cradled her into my chest, standing back up with her. I didn't want to see the looks on the faces from the people watching me, so I held my focus on the woman's complacent face—the face that was no longer suffering, but rather, at peace. The line of Jews parted for me as I walked toward them, cutting through toward the woman's house. The door was still open, and the food was still untouched on the table. I made my way through the small living area, finding a bedroom decorated with floral linen and gold-plated frames with captured black & white stills. I spotted a rag on the vanity table in the corner and snagged it with my fingers.
I settled the woman down on her bed, pulling the linens away as I did so. While holding her head up, I covered the pillow-case with the rag, then rested her head on top. I don't know why I was so concerned about ruining the linen with blood stains, but there was a part of me that prayed Amelia would see her home again someday, and though her mother most likely wouldn't be there then, I didn't want to leave her blood behind as a reminder. My thoughts were unclear, and my actions weren't justified, but it was the only way I could move on from that moment. It was the best I could do for the woman—for Amelia.
Once I placed the bed linens over the woman's chest, I was able to breathe a little more. I wondered if I was considered a murderer just for the reason that I watched this woman lose her life.
I lifted one of the framed photos from her nightstand and studied it for a moment, admiring a smiling girl with short dark hair that was parted to one side and held together with a bow. Her small grin showed mischief, but also sweetness. Her eyes showed the life of a carefree girl, one who was ready to conquer the world. The photo couldn't have been too old, maybe a few years at most. I believe the girl was Amelia. She may have been fourteen or fifteen in the photo. It was hard to assume she would never resume that gleeful, young look again.
Once the frame was set back on the nightstand, I said a silent prayer over the woman's body, wishing for eternal peace. The lump in my throat grew as I walked away, feeling as though a shadow of death was following in my creaking footsteps. I passed a bedroom with a bureau on its side, and I stepped inside to set it upright.
The next bedroom had clothes scattered outside of a makeshift closet. I assumed someone was hiding behind the draped curtains, concealing the storage space.
I swept the scattered clothes back into the closet and pulled the drapes shut. The bed was made up of white linens, pulled tightly around the sides except for the bottom right corner that was furled into a pile at the edge. I tugged the corner, allowing it to hang neatly once again. As I turned for the door, I found a stack of paintings by the doorway.
I knew I should have no longer been inside of that house, but my curiosity was piqued, and my heart was hurting. I felt the need to learn all I could about the family—the family that was torn apart forever.
Each painting was a display of flowers, red and yellow, mostly. The artist had a lot of talent. I assumed who the artist was by the fact that the room had dolls perched on the bureau. This bedroom must have been Amelia's, and these paintings were by a girl who would have made an incredible artist. Instead, she was on her way to confinement.
I closed the green door to the house as I left, feeling the burning stares against my back. When I turned to face the line of Jewish people who were still waiting for their next direction, their gazes fell, making sure to avoid eye contact. I was a monster to them, just as we were taught they were to us Germans.
There was no other choice but to walk alongside the line to find the other soldiers. They were likely at the train, preparing for departure, but I knew it would take some time to load all the people.
My heart hurt with each step I took past the Jewish people. They were terrified of me. They were terrified of everything. No one moved a muscle as I passed. They were scared to blink, except for one little girl. She had big brown eyes, a small pug nose, and rosy cheeks. She was watching me with question. I don't know if my presence scared or distracted her, but she dropped her cloth doll. It fell off the curb, but her mother gripped her fingers tightly against the girl's shoulder, keeping her from retrieving the doll. The girl's lip quivered, and my chest ached.
I stopped walking, leaned over, and lifted the doll for the little girl, handing it back. "There you go, sweetheart," I said, forcing a smile that would make her less afraid. I shouldn't have been making her less afraid. I was only teaching her to trust a man dressed as I was, and that was the last thing she should have been doing.
"Thank you," she offered in a squeaky voice.
Her father pulled the little girl away, hiding her to his side.
When I saw the train in the distance, I considered boarding, calling myself a Jew to endure the punishment my kind was dispensing. In fact, I did try to board the train, but another soldier caught me by the back of the jacket and called me a jokester.
There was nothing funny about shoving hundreds of people into a freight cart without circulating air.
I rode on a buggy beside the train, listening to the other men poke fun at what they had seen over the previous few hours. I had thoughts of jumping from the buggy with hopes of sparing myself from the darker kind of hell I was heading toward, but I was pinned between several others.
The ride seemed to drag on forever, and though I did my best not to look at the slow-moving train, I couldn't help but look and wonder what the scene looked like inside. We had trouble closing the metal doors as it was like stuffing sausages into a casing.
I'm not sure if I was imagining the sounds, but I could swear there were suffocating screams and cries pouring out of the cracks between the metal slats.
I was beginning to feel dead inside—like a ghoul using the body I once used to feel alive, to then, only betray me while portraying a life that was no longer one of my own.
Three weeks after that dreadful day, I was assigned guard duty at Theresienstadt, a ghetto for the displaced Jews. The ghettos were a place to contain our so-called enemy, making it easier for Hitler to decide their future.
We were told to provide the bare essentials, use whom we could for work, and the others would meet their fate as the universe intended. My hope was that there was enough work for all the Jews, leaving none of them behind. However, I knew very well that there were elderly and sick Jews among the groups we were bringing in daily.
When our buggy came to a halt outside of the ghetto, my stomach buckled. I felt sick each time we withdrew the crowds from the trains. The smells, screams, the horror written in the eyes of our prisoners—it was too much.
