Warsaw by Richard Foreman Read Free Book Online Page B

knee cap - almost severing his leg. Annoyed with his miss the huntsman
nevertheless regained his composure and felled his next target. The following
two targets were similarly clinically dispatched, one of which held his hands
behind his head whilst running as if they might provide protection against any
bullets. But one target remained and for a moment or two the searchlight
frantically darted about like a giant fire-fly in the inky blackness. Blanking
everything else out the final prisoner, one who had thought about his strategy
beforehand, had made his way to the edge of the street, running on the
pavement. He had surprised his opponents by his pace. Tuning his ear to the
desperate footsteps and hoarse panting the Private soon found his last
troublesome ‘duck’ and fastened the beam onto the fast-moving silhouette. The
man, a father of three and watchmaker by trade, continued to run but, as the
light illuminated his path his heart and face automatically began to tremble
and his legs nearly gave way from under him. Kleist swore underneath his breath
as he snatched and missed with his first shot. Gritting his teeth, narrowing
his eye, the Lieutenant could only wing his prey with his second shot. A hot,
cruel pain thudded into the prisoner's right shoulder. Disorientated and deaf,
from the bullet's hail ringing in his lobes and the warm flesh covering the
side of his head, the prisoner nevertheless made it to the end of the street.
He finally collapsed, wheezing and half-crying.
    The frustrated, snarling Lieutenant pulled his trigger again
but he felt but a click instead of the report of the rifle jamming into his
shoulder. Spitting out a curse he removed his Luger pistol from its holster and
immediately began to aim and fire at the slippery Jew. Such was the prisoner's
distance, or the officer's loss of focus, the rounds fell just shy of the
wounded target. Cursing again the indignant Christian Kleist removed himself
from the truck and purposefully began to march down the street. With almost
perfect insouciance he silenced the man groaning and writhing on the ground who
had been shot in the leg, shooting him in the face. The wary Privates
approached not nor spoke to their superior officer. The only figure to meet his
heated gaze was that of his quarry. Resigned to his fate, perhaps even thankful
that it was now all going to be over, the bloodied mensch spared not a thought
for his own fate but used his last minute or so to pray for his family. The
Lieutenant tempered his fury towards himself by heaping it upon the insolent
parasite that cowered and crouched by his feet. Even in death though the
prisoner managed to grate upon the fervent Nazi's being by spoiling his freshly
polished soft leather boots.
    While the Privates smoked and shared some news the solitary
Jew left in the truck was ordered to load up the seven corpses which were left
strewn, bloody and contorted, along the street. When the terrified, exhausted
prisoner completed the task he was ordered to board the truck again - and then he
was shot in the back of the head.
     
    Duritz heard the cluster of shots from his bed. Sometimes
they barely registered with him. Like the other residents of the streets around
where Kleist hunted the policeman had learned to, consciously or not, blot out
the scenes. Yet there were also those in the ghetto, holy fools or otherwise,
who would weep and pray for every shot which rang out in the darkness. Duritz
had once or twice wept in the past - partly because he could not pray.
     
    Thomas Abendroth and his Platoon had billeted themselves
into a floor of a municipal building which overlooked a corner of the Jewish
ghetto. While most of his comrades slept the Corporal, careful not to wake
anyone, retreated into a room the unit kept spare for anyone who brought a woman
back or wanted to relieve himself - or, in the case of Thomas Abendroth now,
just desired some peace and privacy. A cool breeze whistled through the window
and