by Lee Strauss
THE PILLAR of smoke rising on the horizon could only mean one thing: a farm, which meant food.
Emil Radle limped across the sloping field that was brittle and dry from lack of rain and irrigation. He lost his footing twice, falling, grabbing at his leg, his mouth opening in a wide teeth-baring groan. The first time he beat the pain, pulling himself back onto his feet, hunger pushing him on. The second time he gave into the primal urge to scream and cry, until sleep threatened to take him again. The warm sun beat down, heavy, his mind lapsing into a drug-like state.
Somewhere in his subconscious, he knew he couldn't stay there; if he did he would die. He pulled himself up again, shaky and quivering. Finally, a house came into view. Out of breath, he slipped through the narrow opening of a stiff iron gate and knocked on the door.
It opened and a thin, elderly man with an unshaven face looked him up and down. “Not another one,” he muttered.
“Please, do you have a piece of bread? Anything?”
The man frowned. “How old are you, boy?”
“Sixteen.” Emil wondered what he must look like to the man. He hadn’t bathed or had a change of clothes in weeks. He knew his hair was too long. He shifted his weight nervously, rubbing his bad knee.
The man noticed. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“Injured on the front.”
The man sighed. “I don’t have anything left. Someone knocks on my door every hour looking to eat.”
As if on cue, Emil's stomach growled. “Please, I beg you. I’m starving.”
The man’s shoulders slumped. His face was drawn, fatigued, and his eyes were watery, as if he were about to cry.
“Wait here.” He pointed to a rickety chair on the patio, and Emil let his weary body drop into it. The man returned with a coffee cup and handed it to Emil. “I have a cow out back. She doesn’t give much. It’s all I have.”
Emil slurped it up. It was like a drop in a very large bucket, but it would keep him going for a while.
“Where are you headed?” the man said.
“Passau.”
The man whistled. “That’s a long way from here. At least two hundred kilometers.”
“Yes,” Emil said, handing the cup back. “But it’s my home. I have to find my family.”
“All the trains are out,” the man said. “The roads are too damaged in most places for automobiles.”
“I know. I’m walking.”
“That will take you weeks.” The man glanced at Emil's bad leg and sighed again. “At least you are young. I wish you the best.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The man offered his hand, pulling Emil to his feet. Emil said goodbye then turned to the road. Step, limp, step, limp, he headed south.
Behind him, Nuremberg lay in ruins, a beaten down giant.
