Hoffman only stopped because he fell over the thick root of an ancient oak. He wanted to get up, to be back on his feet. He had to go on with his exhaustive run. In that moment though, he welcomed the rest. The cold, soft, ground comforted him. Hoffman didn’t realize how hot he gotten running, how exhausted he was.
He gasped so deeply all he could hear was his breath and pulsing heart. They were so loud he feared he could be heard from miles away. After a while, his breathing slowed down, his heart had settled, and he listened. He listened for the screams, the shouting but there was nothing, not even the sound of the soldiers, murderers, shooting. They’d been at it nonstop that morning. The guns must have been louder, especially the machine guns, but it was the screams that had exploded in his ears. At least, thank God, at least he couldn’t hear that anymore.
But he could feel it. He didn’t think he would ever not feel it.
Then there was laughter. Was there really laughing? He wasn’t sure. It wouldn’t be possible, surely. Who could laugh over that pit, over the bodies, writhing, clawing? They were mostly naked, he saw that. Pale like they were ghosts already. Ugly naked bodies, grey except for the blood. And the children. They had some clothes. It wasn’t an act of mercy or decency. It was a practical matter. It was best to force the adults to strip naked. He heard them talking about that.
“They can’t fight naked. They’re not gladiators!” The officer who spoke enjoyed his joke. “Gladiators! Good one,” said a man with a rifle slung over his shoulder offered, “They’ve got no shoes. They couldn’t run even if they dared to.” The laughs from the others were uncomfortable. The officer paid no attention. He kicked a deep pile of clothes beside him and barked out useless orders simply to hear himself. More people were driven to the edge of the rapidly filling pit. They were too humiliated, too frightened to do more than stand as ordered. Some held onto others too weak to stand alone; too scared not to cling to some humanity. Or hugging the children. A shriveled old man, ancient, his beard so ragged it looked as if it had been burnt off, was holding the hand of a child and that child was holding the hand of another. Neither could have been older than five, six maybe, tops. They were too young to be his children. Where were their parents?
He saw the old man, at least he had undergarments on, lean to them and say something. Then he pointed to the sky and the children looked up. Hoffman could only imagine. He followed their gaze. There was a bird flying. Over this death, this horror, a bird was simply flying free. Was that what they watched? Above was a cloud in a lovely blue sky. Hoffman thought the cloud might look like an angel. To children it might be an angel. He hoped so.
It blew away in a light breeze, a cooling breeze. Then more shooting erupted. He could no longer see the old man and those children.
A new group was shoved to the edge. Women this time, only women. A few were young, Hoffman’s age. They might have been attractive, he thought. One had blond hair, quite Aryan, but here maybe Polish. She looked around, frightened yes, but wondering. That’s what he thought, she’s wondering, wondering. Naked though she was she could be attractive, alluring, but not like this. A soldier to his right pointed. “A waste that one, huh?” Hoffman said nothing. The women around her were ugly; older, some fat, some wrinkled as old prunes. They covered themselves in shame, embarrassed to be so exposed.
One stared directly at Hoffman. She shook her head gently, not in anger, but in recognition. A nod. Her head moved in acceptance, disappointment, and knowledge. It was but a moment. Then they fell forward as the smoke swirled where they had just stood.
That’s when he started running.
Hoffman felt as if the bullets were aiming right at him. He was in good shape, fast despite his heavy boots. As far as he ran he heard the shooting, the shouts, as if was all just behind him. Ahead stood a truck, a military truck, where two soldiers were unloading boxes. One stared at Hoffman strangely and yelled out “hey!” Hoffman didn’t stop. The soldier shook his head. After Hoffman passed, he asked his mate, “Did you see that? Should I get him?” The other shrugged his shoulders, tired from all the lifting. “Why bother? He’s probably got the runs or something.” He scoffed at his own words, appreciating the brief break the interlude provided and then got back to unloading crates.
Hoffman didn’t stop. He ran over the dusty track the trucks had taken, that the people had been forced down. Clothes, bags, and suitcases were strewn about as if the road was just an elongated rubbish bin. He nearly tripped over a shoe, one shoe. He had to jump over a doll swaddled in a blanket, its face so real she seemed alive. Even as he recognized it he wondered if he would have picked it up if it had been a real, a living baby. A thousand ideas went through his mind, but he didn’t think he would have stopped. It would be enough to get away from the horror.
He slowed as he passed a few isolated farms. He was looking for signs of life. Perhaps some bread he could buy. If it hadn’t been for scrawny chickens pecking in the mud and fresh dung he would have thought them abandoned. But the wells were working, and he needed a drink. He didn’t need permission; the way he looked, the way he was dressed, they’d avoid him like the plague. Some peasants had stood outside earlier, watching the parade march by from behind bowing fences. He’d noticed that. But once a few shots were fired into the throng, to keep them moving, the farmers had quickly run off. Into their homes maybe. Or, like him now, to the woods. The woods might not be safer. But there you didn’t have to see things.
He had to slow even more, to catch his breath. And to think; now what? Hoffman hadn’t planned to run. No one else had run. No one, not one of his friends, had complained or moaned or cringed or talked of anything that he could remember. Certainly, no one had followed. And if they had, to what end? They’d be as lost and alone, as fearful of what might lie ahead as to what lay behind. No one had run before, not like him. Would anyone notice? There might be a count. They liked that. They liked the precision of numbers. Jotting down details. Yes, there’d be a count.
Ah, but would anyone care? They might use it as an excuse to blame others, to kill more. “That one got away so you have to pay” was the logic. What was the ratio he’d heard about? One soldier, 20 hostages. Something like that. Would anyone other than he bear responsibility for his getting away, if he got away? Would they bother hunting him? Were they at it even now? He looked behind but saw no one, heard no one. He was just one lost in the midst of so many.
Hoffman picked himself up from the ground, holding to the thick bark of the oak tree whose root had tripped him. Oddly, he took comfort holding the tree, hugging it, taking in deep breaths, slower now. Better. Much better. He heard nothing but some birds chirping. The only thing he saw was a squirrel, a red squirrel, eating something on a branch above him. They weren’t disturbed. How strange that birds and squirrels were going on, living their lives in peace, oblivious to the world of superior creatures. I’d like to be a squirrel, he thought. I’d like to live high in a tree, jumping from branch to branch. He managed a smile.
There was a faint path ahead of him, well off the road, away from the farms. It went deeper into the woods. Maybe it was a deer trail, but that was a guess. Hoffman was a town boy. The only trees he knew were mostly in parks. The only wild animals he knew were in zoos. Or uniforms.
He brushed away the duff from the forest floor. His heart was beating almost normally. His mind was trying to work out a plan. He could go back. It was possible. Maybe with the action over they wouldn’t punish him, or maybe not even care their bloodlust now sated. Or maybe he wasn’t so alone. There were rumors, talk, of others who’d run. They were living, who knows where, in the woods somehow. Yes, hated by everyone, and living like cavemen. But living at least. He was young, strong. He’d been in a scout troop and knew a thing or two that might help, that they could use. His father was a doctor. Hadn’t he wrapped bandages, learned first aid, at the start of the war? Yes, he could be useful. He’d be welcomed.
That path widened a bit as it went deeper. He noticed there were no signs of deer, no hoof prints or dropping. After a while, the ground was damp, and he thought he could make footprints. Then a can. It had been crushed to extract all its contents but otherwise was new. It was a ration can, just one, but enough to get him excited. There were people here. They’d taken this can, stolen it, and were living in the forest. He went further down the path, slower now; one had to be cautious because you never knew. But the can was a good sign. A lot of cans, a lot of military ration cans, would mean one thing. A single one, alone, could signal something else.
And then he saw a treasure. It was the remains of a cigarette. If it was two centimeters it was a lot. The thing had been rolled from decent paper, German paper. He could imagine it almost burned the lips of its original owner it was so short. Hoffman kept it anyway. He added it to the crumpled packet of Ecksteins, standard issue rations, in his pocket. Didn’t people now hold even these residuals, recovering bits of tobacco to roll into a new cigarette? He had to be smart about such things. He could collect the crumbs from the cigarettes in that packet, collect enough to roll another. That might be worthy of a trade. For food. For something. There was a war on, after all, even if he managed to escape it.
Cigarettes were currency. Everyone traded. Cigarettes were universal and the people, the peasants, the Jews, all of them, couldn’t use Reichsmarks. That was strictly verboten. Some people had jewelry a while back, maybe hid it, but most of that was gone. Most, not all. He unbuttoned his pocket to feel around. Yes, they were still there, a gold wedding band. And a gold coin. It was Austrian with the image of the Emperor Franz Josef on it.
That old woman had pushed them into his hand. She’d tripped when a soldier had shoved her forward. She reached out with her arms to gain balance and grabbed his arm. And Hofffman held her up. The woman looked up at him, a look of fear and thanks on her wan face. He pulled his arm away once she was steady. When he did, their hands met for a moment and that’s when she put the ring and coin in his. It was the briefest of time, two seconds. She might have tried to say something, but he couldn’t be sure. He said nothing too. There was nothing to say before she was pushed along.
No one noticed. No one paid attention in the chaos. He watched her go before moving back to the edge of the throng of doomed people.
What he could do with the gold. Food, yes. A bribe? Perhaps. What was gold like this worth these days? A coin, the ducat, would buy a lot. A cow even. He had to laugh. How could he keep a cow in the forest? He might bribe a farmer, promising the coin if he could get more food. Or he could cut it. He had his knife with him. And the ring? A bag of oats? He didn’t know but it was a good dilemma.
For a scant second, he wondered if others, now lying in the pit, also had such things. The soldiers would have rifled through their belongings no doubt, finding things. He could go back, later, and maybe find more. Would he dare go back? Was it worth the chance?
Hoffman turned to look back where he’d come from, debating, when he heard the click-clack of a rifle’s bolt. Three young men, dressed like disheveled peasants, were on the path. One was barefoot. Only one was armed with an Polish army rifle. They were as alarmed at seeing him as he was seeing them. He held his arms up slowly, attempted a smile, and offered up “Freund.” The man in front shook his head. He spoke, his voice quavering, “nit a freund tsu mir.”
Then he fired.
The three young men whispered to each other in Yiddish as they quickly went through Hoffman’s clothes. The barefoot one took his socks and boots. Another extracted the gold, the ring, and the pack of cigarettes from his tunic. “What do we do with this?” he asked holding it up.
“A Gerfrieter’s jacket, eh?” he said. “We can’t waste it.” With Hoffman’s knife he proceeded to cut out the SS insignia gleaming from the collar.