course they were. Why wouldn’t they be? What was happening?
“Very good, Grenadier Wernher. Gemeiner Kunkel?”
Otto wasn’t sure why everything was so formal, but he decided to play along. He came up to Ingersleben in attention.
“Gemeiner Kunkel, release these men.”
“Sir?”
“Do you not understand German? You know I hate to repeat myself.”
“Of course, sir, it’s just—”
Ingersleben’s mood became consoling as he put his hand on Otto’s shoulder. The gesture was meant to be comforting; it was anything but.
“Gemeiner, I understand you are shocked and stunned by recent developments. But I need you and the rest of the men to follow orders as quickly as possible so that we can all make it out alive.”
“Where are the other men?”
Ingersleben and Wernher exchanged a look, like a mother and father deciding how to break the news that they were getting a divorce. For Lafenz’s part, he just continued to stare at Otto, like a dog eager for his master to let him loose. It was Ingersleben who answered.
“The men are all dead.”
“They’re dead! What do you mean?” Otto hadn’t realized that he had stepped back from Ingersleben before it was too late. He hoped it wasn’t an insult. He didn’t want to die, either, but human reaction was so automatic.
“All of them but us,” Wernher said, sounding almost annoyed. “Everyone you see here is who’s left. Us four and them,” Wernher said, motioning behind his shoulder.
“The wire cutters,” Ingerlseben said, this time walking back closer to Otto. “Where are they?”
Otto motioned wordlessly to one of the many boxes they had stacked up.
“Over there? Good. Lafenz! Go retrieve the wire cutter.” There was a pause. “Lafenz!” It took a while for the young blonde boy to realize that he was being called. He finally did come out from behind his murderous gaze.
Lafenz began walking over to the crates when Ingersleben stopped him again.
“Lafenz!” he said. “Leave your gun here. You don’t need it anymore.”
With a second's reluctance, Lafenz handed over the submachine gun into Ingersleben’s open hand. Even Ingersleben must’ve felt uncomfortable, having the young killer around, so ready to shoot.
“Come,” Ingersleben said to Otto, motioning to his tent. “We need to talk.”
❧
“What’s happening? I demand to be told this instant!”
Ingersleben heard Otto’s words, but motioned for him to sit and quiet down, as if the sound was hurting him. He shushed him as he pulled out a fresh bottle of whiskey. Otto had thought that the Unteroffizier had given out every last drop to the men after Haas’s execution, but he wrong.
Otto did take his seat, on the crate across from Ingersleben, but he didn’t take the drink poured out to him in the coffee cup—not at first, at least. But after Ingersleben’s hand insisted a second time, Otto couldn’t refuse, and he grabbed the cup and took the smallest of sips. Even though he'd come into the tent with strong words, it was all a facade. Something in him told him that he needed to show strength. He just wasn’t too sure if he'd overplayed his hand.
The tent’s flap was open to let light in. Gone was the lantern, and everything seemed more tidy inside, as if they really were about to move. Otto wished that they could’ve closed the tent; the cold air and snowflakes were hitting the back of his neck. But there was also something very reassuring about being able to see outside, even if he had to turn around. It felt as if they weren’t going to kill him. Then that’s when he realized—maybe that’s exactly what they wanted him to feel.
“There’s been a change of plan.”
“And what’s that?” There was no hiding how nervous he was, and he didn’t want to hide it anyway. Explosions and gunshots had interrupted the gray, cold morning, and now he was being asked to free the prisoners. The same request that had just condemned a man to death.
“You know—”
“Very good, Grenadier Wernher. Gemeiner Kunkel?”
Otto wasn’t sure why everything was so formal, but he decided to play along. He came up to Ingersleben in attention.
“Gemeiner Kunkel, release these men.”
“Sir?”
“Do you not understand German? You know I hate to repeat myself.”
“Of course, sir, it’s just—”
Ingersleben’s mood became consoling as he put his hand on Otto’s shoulder. The gesture was meant to be comforting; it was anything but.
“Gemeiner, I understand you are shocked and stunned by recent developments. But I need you and the rest of the men to follow orders as quickly as possible so that we can all make it out alive.”
“Where are the other men?”
Ingersleben and Wernher exchanged a look, like a mother and father deciding how to break the news that they were getting a divorce. For Lafenz’s part, he just continued to stare at Otto, like a dog eager for his master to let him loose. It was Ingersleben who answered.
“The men are all dead.”
“They’re dead! What do you mean?” Otto hadn’t realized that he had stepped back from Ingersleben before it was too late. He hoped it wasn’t an insult. He didn’t want to die, either, but human reaction was so automatic.
“All of them but us,” Wernher said, sounding almost annoyed. “Everyone you see here is who’s left. Us four and them,” Wernher said, motioning behind his shoulder.
“The wire cutters,” Ingerlseben said, this time walking back closer to Otto. “Where are they?”
Otto motioned wordlessly to one of the many boxes they had stacked up.
“Over there? Good. Lafenz! Go retrieve the wire cutter.” There was a pause. “Lafenz!” It took a while for the young blonde boy to realize that he was being called. He finally did come out from behind his murderous gaze.
Lafenz began walking over to the crates when Ingersleben stopped him again.
“Lafenz!” he said. “Leave your gun here. You don’t need it anymore.”
With a second's reluctance, Lafenz handed over the submachine gun into Ingersleben’s open hand. Even Ingersleben must’ve felt uncomfortable, having the young killer around, so ready to shoot.
“Come,” Ingersleben said to Otto, motioning to his tent. “We need to talk.”
❧
“What’s happening? I demand to be told this instant!”
Ingersleben heard Otto’s words, but motioned for him to sit and quiet down, as if the sound was hurting him. He shushed him as he pulled out a fresh bottle of whiskey. Otto had thought that the Unteroffizier had given out every last drop to the men after Haas’s execution, but he wrong.
Otto did take his seat, on the crate across from Ingersleben, but he didn’t take the drink poured out to him in the coffee cup—not at first, at least. But after Ingersleben’s hand insisted a second time, Otto couldn’t refuse, and he grabbed the cup and took the smallest of sips. Even though he'd come into the tent with strong words, it was all a facade. Something in him told him that he needed to show strength. He just wasn’t too sure if he'd overplayed his hand.
The tent’s flap was open to let light in. Gone was the lantern, and everything seemed more tidy inside, as if they really were about to move. Otto wished that they could’ve closed the tent; the cold air and snowflakes were hitting the back of his neck. But there was also something very reassuring about being able to see outside, even if he had to turn around. It felt as if they weren’t going to kill him. Then that’s when he realized—maybe that’s exactly what they wanted him to feel.
“There’s been a change of plan.”
“And what’s that?” There was no hiding how nervous he was, and he didn’t want to hide it anyway. Explosions and gunshots had interrupted the gray, cold morning, and now he was being asked to free the prisoners. The same request that had just condemned a man to death.
“You know—”
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