Death of a liberator
It was the 21st of July, 1994. Germany was a good place for Valentine. In fact, it was a good place for anyone. The 24 year old was sitting up in his bed, holding a book. It was his favourite. It was an old, battered book, but it was his favourite none the less. Although he was a slow reader, he had gone from corner to blurb 15 times. This weathered and well-used book was ‘Mein Kampf’, written by Germany’s great leader, Adolf Hitler. His great views had restored Germany to its former glory, and each non-Aryan citizen was treated with full respect. Whilst the tree of economy bloomed, the descendants of English soldiers and German warriors ate its fruits together. The young, blonde haired man was finishing off chapter six, when the book was suddenly snatched of him by an invisible pair of hands. His body suddenly leapt into a graceful display of spasms. Then he lay still. He opened his eyes. He was lying on a single scruffy mattress – not a warm and welcoming bed, a dirty and distressed mattress. He was against the wall of a white tiled room riddled with dirt and the stench of urine. The scene was somewhat different to the layout of the other room. Along with the smell, reality hit him as hard as Stalin’s iron fist. Every night he would have the same dream. A dream of hope and prosperity. A dream of a better Germany. And every morning he would wake up here, the stench of urine slapping him in the face whilst Nazi Germany held him by the throat.
He looked up. In front of him was Rustig, a tall brown haired man with a finely cut, yet bushy, handlebar moustache. Being the only one in his regiment to have grown a moustache, the man took every moment to show it off, which Valentine thought was extremely immature. He also thought the man looked a bit like Stalin, but he didn’t mention it.
As the soldier struggled to sit up straight, he felt Rustig’s clammy breath on his face. It was not the welcoming and warm sensation he had felt in his dream. The sharp contrast in temperature between the room and the man’s breath made Valentine shiver. ‘What the hell does this man want?’ Valentine allowed the question to bounce around the realms of his head until his eyes settled on the clock on the wall opposite – 12:30. ‘And at this time?’
“What?” said Valentine, whilst he exercised his jaw and swept the sand man’s dust to the floor. “We’ve got to go to the courtyard – Colonel’s orders.”
“Which Colonel?” Valentine asked.
“Does it matter? Just get dressed” Rustig said, growing impatient. Latching on to this, Valentine scrambled up and shoved on his boots.
In 1942, Valentine and his regiment had been posted to protect the Bendler Block, Germany’s Navy Office. Since 1935 when he had first seen it, Valentine wondered how a building could be so ugly. Even in the darkness of the night, the silhouette looked over every one; the window’s forming the sick twisted grin on Hitler’s face. And no matter where you went in Germany, Hitler would always find you. That’s why Valentine hadn’t run away. Hitler will always find you. He managed six million Jews - one more disobedient soldier wouldn’t be to much trouble. That’s why the only place Valentine could go to was a better Germany.
The Bendler Block’s courtyard was about 50 metres long and wide, and had three exits, one on each side. In the morning you could catch a glimpse of the sun on the west horizon, towards England, towards equality and liberty. But then, before midday, it would be shoot down, and you could watch it plummet down and down, until it was obstructed from sight by the sadistic smile of the Bendler Block. But it being 12:30 and night, Valentine correctly presumed that the sun wouldn’t be out yet, and followed Rustig across the court yard. Halfway across the courtyard, there was an orderly gathering of people, a parade of military uniforms. Valentine instantly recognized Colonel Frisker who was standing next to General Watts. Behind them where two younger men who looked like aides. His eyes were suddenly caught by a men quite a few metres away. He stood tall and proud. The many medals he wore probably had the power resurrect the sun, but what struck Valentine about the man was his expression he wore so proudly like his medals. He showed signs of defeat, but he shone with rays of bravery. He showed power, but also equality. It was peculiar to see his face in the crowd of weakling and suck-ups that formed Hitler’s personal Petting Zoo.
And there, between the port belly of Frisker, and the stubble of this strange man lay five guns. Three guns were being loaded by three soldiers; the other two were carefully laid against the wall, like handicapped soldiers, inactive without the shouts of their sergeants.
Valentine looked across at Rustig, who, with the single nod of a head, confirmed his thoughts, and fears. He and Rustig were the Sergeants, and they had to execute the orders. But who? And that was when Valentine remembered who the finely dressed man was. He was the man who, 13 hours ago, had tried to kill Hitler. His name was Colonel von Stauffenburg, and he with a few other co-plotters had nearly killed Hitler with a bomb. However, as the radio said, the plot had failed. It had failed, so Colonel Stauffenburg was standing here, right in front of him. In front of him was the man he had to kill.
As General Frisker aide tied a strip of black fabric around the Colonel’s head, the line of men trailed over to a space in the centre of the courtyard. Valentine thought about how the man was going to die. He would not die with his country, in a great war. He would not die with his family, lying on his death bed whilst relatives comforted him. He would die her, in the earliest, darkest, coldest hours of the morning, looking at his shoes through the darkness of a veil and a world, whilst strangers pointed guns at him.
Valentine had never killed a man in cold blood, and never wanted to, but he could not run away from – he was going to do what he had to do. “Klar!” Valentine looked down his rifle sight and at the man before him. He looked at him, stared at him, and thought about him. About what he had done for his country. What he could have done for his country. He should be rewarded with medals, not bullets. But here he was in front of Valentine, waiting for his prize.
“Doel!” Valentine steadied his aim with his rifle’s sight. The German was glad of the black strip over the Colonel’s eyes, although he could still feel them work away as they drilled though his eyes.
“Brand!” As the words were shouted, time seemed to slow down. He could see to his left and his right, his fellow soldiers were already following the command, four index fingers pulling backwards on four triggers. Those four fingers signed the Colonel’s Death Certificate. “Es lirbe unser heileges Deutschland” shouted the Colonel over the racket of guns. “Yes” thought Valentine “Long live our Holy Germany” He closed his eyes, pulled his trigger, and listened to the death of a liberator. Death was on the balcony when it happened – he saw it all. He came down swiftly, and took the soul up, up to heaven.
“Good job Men.” Colonel Frisker said as he congratulated the five soldiers. But Valentine felt nothing like a man. He felt like a child, an idiot, a animal – but not a man. If this was Germany’s man, he didn’t want to be a man. He wanted live prosperous, innocent and naive, for ever young. More over, he wanted to live a better life in a better Germany. But he could not live for ever, and he could not live in a better Germany. Not yet. Change would come, but not soon. Somebody had to do something – and Valentine would. He would make change with what he was given – speech, will power, a sense of justice – and his life. If Valentine could not live in a better Germany, Valentine would not live at all.
Jack Hodges
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