Young Writers Society

CastlesInTheSky wrote:Please read Part 1 first or it will be slightly spoilt for you.

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The haunting tune, those same three notes, rang through the cold air. Olaf covered his ears, still clasping the button tightly between his fingers. Far across the camp, men in striped clothing emerged, ten in all, from different bunkers, marching slowly and deliberately, staring off into the distance. They stopped in the middle of the square, before a large statue of our leader. They stood side by side, as though they'd rehearsed it many times before.

From a chain gate five men in uniforms like Father's approached, holding rifles at their sides. They halted before the men, about twenty feet away, lining up in a row.

The ten men watched the guards. Some with wide eyes that darted back and forth, their bodies shaking. Six were Jews, their yellow stars standing out clearly amongst the white snow and striped clothing. The man I watched, a Jew around Father's age, stood still, his eyes shut.

A small smile, peaceful and serene, crept across his lips. The men in uniform shot him through the head. The ten men fell beneath the fire. When the gunfire fell silent, they lay in the snow stained red with their blood, their yellow stars bright, their dead eyes turned up towards the sky.

The violin continued to play.

A single man lay moving, clutching his throat where the bullet had pierced it. A guard slowly crossed to where the man lay, carefully stepping around the bodies. He drew his Luger from its holster and casually wiped the barrel with his sleeve. Then he shot the man twice through the chest. The man's breaths stopped and his hands fell.

Olaf was screaming, beating his hands against his head. I stood still and watched them die. Watched the uniformed men drag them into the building. The smell of death rose with the smoke. A hand fell upon my shoulder. I turned. My father stood before me.

I broke from his grasp and sprinted through the snow. I could hear him calling my name. He didn't follow. I ran until the cold air choked me. The small camp was far off in the distance, a pin point with smoke drifting from it and into the sky.

I sat in the freezing snow, my head bowed, struggling to breath. A soft shadow stretched across the ground. I glanced ahead. A single tree arose from the snow covered earth. Bare of all leaves and thin, the tree rocked with the wind. It was beautiful.

The only tree neither burned nor cut, a weakling shivering in the cold. Alone. Alone in the world but possessing an unknown strength to survive. I crawled to the tree and huddled beneath it, my back against its thin trunk. I buried my face in my hands and began to cry.

*

Mother wants me to wash. They force me to now. Wash with soap. I can't stand it. I walk the path near the fence every afternoon, hoping to find the boy. But there's never a sign of him. He's gone. My jacket vanished as well. I hope he took it. I hope he's warm and safe.

But I'm scared. The smoke still rises from the chimney every night, with the smell of death among it. The fires have to die eventually. How much must we burn? I tell myself it can't last forever, but everyday more shipments of buttons and soap are shipped out. So many buttons. Do we really need that many?