Run My Darlings, Run
Chapter 12
The moon peeped out from behind the clouds, snatching a glimpse around, before hastily retreating back into cover. The air around me was freezing, and I wished for the warmth of our cottage, and one of Mama’s hot stews.
My stomach rumbled in protest at such thoughts. I had eaten nothing but the berries three days ago, or was it four? I had lost track of time. Minutes seemed like hours as I crouched on the hard, cold ground. I had been watching the camp all afternoon, keeping a wary eye out for soldiers. The fence surrounding it was high and barbed; “No chance climbing over that,” I muttered. Everyone inside the fence was too far away to see their features clearly, especially now with the moon behind clouds.
My stomach rumbled once again, and I searched my pockets for a few crumbs or something. My fingers touched something cold and hard. I curled my hand around the objects and withdrew my hand, to find it filled with berries. Cold, hard, frozen berries. Not much, but it would at least calm my aching stomach. It was hard work eating the berries. They were tough, and tasteless, and being frozen didn’t help at all.
It had been easy finding the camp. Papa had once taught me how to track, when I was only seven. He showed me the imprint of a deer’s hooves, the swish that a squirrel’s tail left behind, and the heavy paw-prints of a bear. We would track the animal, until we caught a glimpse of it through the trees, or drinking at the lake. We would watch it for some time, but never kill it or trap it. Papa would never have allowed it. He never stopped wondering at the astonishing grace and beauty of animals.
“Killing an animal is a great crime Hans,” he would say. “Most people find killing people a crime, but they never recognise the crime of hunting an animal for sport, or for its fur.” Papa had been wrong about one thing though. People don’t find killing people a crime. They kill us Jews without batting an eyelid. It’s not a crime to them at all. But when we kill one of them, there’s a big uproar throughout Germany. Like the time they smashed all of the Jewish shops.
They had marched down the main street, barring the way of any shoppers, forbidding them to go into Jewish stores. They smashed the windows of all the shops belonging to Jews. Then they painted yellow stars on the walls. They stole anything worth keeping, and mocked and insulted the shop keepers. One man, furious over his shop had grabbed a broken brick. He ran at a soldier, knocked him to the ground and kept hitting him repeatedly on the head with the brick, even long after he was dead. Everyone in the street stared and stared at him, until finally, the soldiers came to their senses. They marched over to him, struck him across the back with their rifles and hauled him off. We never saw him again.
I had heard on the train rumours of the Nazis new torture methods. They had gas chambers, they had mass graves, they had it all. I trembled to think what they were doing to Mama, Papa, and Liesel. Would they round them up like sheep and herd them into the gas chambers where they would slowly suffocate, or would they just shoot them, one by one in the forest and leave them for the bears or the wolves? I turned pale at the thoughts that kept creeping into my head. I had to get them out.
My stomach rumbled in protest at such thoughts. I had eaten nothing but the berries three days ago, or was it four? I had lost track of time. Minutes seemed like hours as I crouched on the hard, cold ground. I had been watching the camp all afternoon, keeping a wary eye out for soldiers. The fence surrounding it was high and barbed; “No chance climbing over that,” I muttered. Everyone inside the fence was too far away to see their features clearly, especially now with the moon behind clouds.
My stomach rumbled once again, and I searched my pockets for a few crumbs or something. My fingers touched something cold and hard. I curled my hand around the objects and withdrew my hand, to find it filled with berries. Cold, hard, frozen berries. Not much, but it would at least calm my aching stomach. It was hard work eating the berries. They were tough, and tasteless, and being frozen didn’t help at all.
It had been easy finding the camp. Papa had once taught me how to track, when I was only seven. He showed me the imprint of a deer’s hooves, the swish that a squirrel’s tail left behind, and the heavy paw-prints of a bear. We would track the animal, until we caught a glimpse of it through the trees, or drinking at the lake. We would watch it for some time, but never kill it or trap it. Papa would never have allowed it. He never stopped wondering at the astonishing grace and beauty of animals.
“Killing an animal is a great crime Hans,” he would say. “Most people find killing people a crime, but they never recognise the crime of hunting an animal for sport, or for its fur.” Papa had been wrong about one thing though. People don’t find killing people a crime. They kill us Jews without batting an eyelid. It’s not a crime to them at all. But when we kill one of them, there’s a big uproar throughout Germany. Like the time they smashed all of the Jewish shops.
They had marched down the main street, barring the way of any shoppers, forbidding them to go into Jewish stores. They smashed the windows of all the shops belonging to Jews. Then they painted yellow stars on the walls. They stole anything worth keeping, and mocked and insulted the shop keepers. One man, furious over his shop had grabbed a broken brick. He ran at a soldier, knocked him to the ground and kept hitting him repeatedly on the head with the brick, even long after he was dead. Everyone in the street stared and stared at him, until finally, the soldiers came to their senses. They marched over to him, struck him across the back with their rifles and hauled him off. We never saw him again.
I had heard on the train rumours of the Nazis new torture methods. They had gas chambers, they had mass graves, they had it all. I trembled to think what they were doing to Mama, Papa, and Liesel. Would they round them up like sheep and herd them into the gas chambers where they would slowly suffocate, or would they just shoot them, one by one in the forest and leave them for the bears or the wolves? I turned pale at the thoughts that kept creeping into my head. I had to get them out.