Hidden Away by J. W. Kilhey Read Free Book Online

Many of us can speak German now. Even those who couldn’t can understand what they’re saying. There is a universal language of pain and suffering.
Firing starts. My lieutenant doesn’t stop it. I see him pushing Germans back toward the train. I feel like I should be doing something, but I stand here for a moment longer. Someone screaming, “No, no! I am—” in a German tongue causes me to swivel around. The man is dead before I finish turning.
As I see the striped skeletons moving, all those bodies on the ground are actually people. It dawns on me that these people were made to suffer in the worst ways before they were killed or left to die. No human could do this to another person.
These soldiers are not human. They are not even animals. They are monsters. Demons.
    I take aim. The smooth feel of the trigger beneath my finger calms my racing heart. I can make a difference. I pop one off. Then another. Then another.
    And then there he is. On his knees. Hands laced behind his head. His pale blue eyes searching mine for something. Pity. Mercy. Kindness. Compassion.
    But I have none. Entering this place has stripped me of my humanity and the only thing left is the primal urge to see these men bleed.
    I take aim. My finger squeezes. He says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” in a voice I can barely hear. Something about the way he says it unfreezes my brain. I begin to think I shouldn’t kill him.
    But my mind is too slow. My finger has already squeezed the trigger and the bullet flies out, hitting him with a thud in the middle of his forehead. Explosion of brain and blood, hair and flesh.
I stand with my weapon, looking at his body. It is slumped over those dead behind him.
    Then I move. Standing over him, I am struck with a chill that numbs my whole body. His blue eyes are open, staring at me. There’s a question upon his lips, but he’ll never ask it.
    I squat down next to the soldier and rip open the jacket and shirt he is wearing. Buttons fly at me like bullets. There, on his chest is a triangle. Suddenly, a hand wraps around my forearm.
His eyes are fixed on me. He still does not speak. Fingers on my arm burn cold.
    I sit up quickly, gagging. The bathroom seems a far distance tonight, and I can only make it to the sink before I vomit.
    After cleaning up, I wrap myself in a warm wool blanket and drink coffee on my porch. Then I realize coffee won’t still my nerves. I take a shot of the whiskey Charles gave me on my last birthday, and I light cigarette after cigarette.
    My friend telephones me in the late morning. I tell him I am fine and will be on campus today, as promised.
    The whiskey is burned out of my system after a hot shower and a cold walk to my truck. I’m distracted during class, and at the library with Charles. We are supposed to be working independently on our projects, but my eyes keep a constant study of the entry way, and his keep a constant study of me.
    After we’ve sat there for at least an hour, Charles finally opens his mouth and asks, “How do you know he’s a Nazi?”
I don’t look at my friend. “You’ve seen him.” “Yes, I have, and he doesn’t have ‘NAZI’ tattooed on his forehead, John.”
    Slowly, I turn to him. “I’m sorry, were you in Germany half a decade ago? Did you have hundreds of German soldiers in the sight of your rifle? Did you—”
    “Enough,” he says quietly. “You know I didn’t, and I know you have no way of telling if that man is Nazi or not.”
“All I have to do is look at him. Liza said—”
    “John, not everyone was a soldier in the war. Perhaps his family was killed in a bombing. Maybe he—”
    I turn my attention to the door as it opens. The janitor’s head is down, eyes focused on the tiles in front of his feet. His hands are thrust inside his pockets. I stand quickly and make the whole table shake as my thighs hit the edge.
    Charles grabs my hand, but I wrench free to follow the Nazi to the same place he went before. He sits