38
Concealing myself behind a thick-trunked, gnarly-barked oak, I watched as the two Germans approached Dad and Pop and Henry. The rain fell in sheets now running down my forehead and into my eyes. Another splinter of lightning split the sky and the ground shook with an angry slap of thunder.
Standing over my loved ones, the washed out beam of the flashlight shifting from Pop to Dad to Henry, the Germans were close enough that I could now tell who was who. Roth wiped water from his face and waved his Luger toward Dad. “der Hund für seine Familie zu sehen.” The dog will come looking for his family. “Töten, bevor er ankommt.” Kill them before he gets here. “Mitt Ausnahme der alten.” Except the old one.
Roth turned and walked away as Omar stepped forward and raised his gun, pointing it at Dad. I could barely make out the expression on his face: wide, hollow eyes, thin lips turned up in a creepy smile (that coyote grin), like he was trying in vain to conceal his excitement over administering his perverted form of mercy. Freeing another tortured soul.
He licked his lips, and his hand trembled ever so slightly.
Adrenaline surged from my adrenal glands and flooded my arteries. I leapt from the clearing, waving the Luger in my right hand wildly, and landed directly across from Omar.
“No!” I shouted, and raised the barrel of the gun so it was aimed at his face.
Omar stepped back and dropped the flashlight. Clearly, my impulsive appearance had taken him by surprise. His jaw went slack and the gun in his hand jerked up to meet my stare.
Rain splashed off the Luger and made the metal slippery in my hand. I brought my left hand up and took the gun in a double grip. “I’ll kill you before you can hurt them again. I’ll kill you! Ich werde dich töten!”
My finger quivered on the trigger. I wanted to pull it so badly, squeeze off the shot that would end Omar’s life and send him on his way to hell.
To my right, Omar’s left, Roth appeared. For an instant, I pulled my eyes from Omar and saw the smirk beneath Roth’s beard then fixed them on Omar again. We were standing no more than ten feet apart, guns leveled on each other, in a standoff.
For a moment, an instant as fleeting as a comet streaking across a barren sky, I saw what looked like a shadow of fear in his dark eyes.
Roth said, “Ich fange an, die Sie bewundern, kleiner Hund.” I’m starting to admire you, little dog.
Somehow, the fact that I was gaining his admiration did nothing for me. I did not want to shake his hand and thank him or share a juicy sauerbraten meal with him. I wanted to squeeze the trigger, feel the gun jump in my hand, and watch that smug smile disappear forever.
“Sie Omar Töten?” Will you kill Omar?
I said nothing. Water pooled in my eyes, blurred my vision. I wondered why Roth had yet to raise his gun. Two Nazis against one bookworm were odds heavily stacked in their favor.
“Ich interessiere mich, hund,”—I’m interested, dog—“zu sehen, was Sie tun werden.”–to see what you will do. Then to Omar, “Nicht Schießen..” Don’t shoot.
Omar’s eyelids fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird before he shot a quick glance in Roth’s direction.
Roth glared at me and narrowed his eyes. Water ran off his beard in thick tendrils. He nodded toward Omar. “Erschieß ihn.” Shoot him. “Töte ihn.” Kill him.
My pulse beat like a bass drum in my ears, throbbed in my carotids. The Luger wavered in my hands. Every muscle fiber in my body, every nerve ending, every brain cell was ready to pull the trigger. I squeezed hard enough to depress the fat pad of my index finger, but could go no farther.
“Tun Sie es!” Roth screamed. Do it!
But I couldn’t. Ice water had filled my veins and paralyzed my muscles, anesthetized them against the nerve endings that sent the signal to open fire.
Omar held steady, his right arm in front of him, locked at the elbow, Luger still pointed at my forehead. The fear was no longer in his eyes. A roguish grin played across his face. “Gehen Sie vor, amerikanischer held, töte mich,” he said. Go ahead, American hero, kill me.
He knew I didn’t have it in me. Roth knew it too. Something told me these two had seen their share of death and the false bravery that so often led to it.
Another flash of lightning, the crackle of electricity in the air, the boom of thunder. Nearby, another tree cracked, splintered, toppled to the ground. Omar didn’t flinch.
Roth lifted his gun and pointed it at Henry. “Wenn Sie nicht Omar zu töten,”—if you don’t kill Omar—“werde ich deinen Bruder zu töten”–I will kill your brother.
The decision was made for me then. One life for another. Omar’s for Henry’s. But still I faltered, frozen with inaction. I pictured the bullet impacting Omar’s face, his head rocking back, feet lifting from the ground as the force of the slug knocked him backwards. All I had to do was pull the trigger a fraction more. I could squeeze off one shot, dispose of Omar, then swing the gun to my right and squeeze off another shot at Roth, hopefully, before he realized what was happening and got off a shot of his own.
Again, I glanced at Roth. The look of pleasure on his face told me he was enjoying our little game but felt no satisfaction in brightening an otherwise dull evening.
Roth bent at the waist and pressed the barrel of the Luger against Henry’s skull, just above his ear. When he spoke, his voice was deep and throaty. “Omar oder deinen Bruder,”–Omar or your brother—“Es ist deine Entscheidung”–the choice is yours.
I shifted my weight, massaged the grip of the gun, blinked away rain that blurred my vision.
In one flurry of motion, Roth stood up, reared back his boot, and kicked Henry in the back. “Schießen Sie ihn jetzt!” he roared.
Henry recoiled and grunted.
At the sight of Roth’s boot landing on Henry’s back and the resultant pain it had caused, anger flared through me like a gas fire. Reflexively, I squeezed the trigger.
Omar flinched.
The gun clicked.
Omar was still on his feet, still pointing his Luger at me.
I squeezed again, and again the gun clicked.
Roth began laughing.
Squeeze. Click. Squeeze. Click.
Then Omar laughed.
It took me five, maybe six attempts before I realized the Luger in my hand was empty. Mueller must have spent all the rounds during our tussle. The woods began to spin around me, like when I used to lay on the park merry-go-round and watch the trees dance in circles as Aaron spun Henry and me until centrifugal force pooled the blood in our heads. I lowered the gun to my side and let it slip to the ground. I never heard it land. This was it. This was how it was going to end. All Peter’s talk about trusting meant nothing. I had failed. I had lived up to my dad’s expectations—I was a disappointment.
And yet, from somewhere deep in my conscience Peter’s voice surfaced: No matter what. Trust. Okay?
“I trust,” I said out loud. I tilted my head back, letting the rain splash off my face. Oddly, it felt cool and warm at the same time. “I trust God!”
Roth and Omar were still laughing.
Looking Omar in the eyes, I said it in German: “Ich vertraue Gott.”
Omar lost his smile, raised the Luger to meet my stare, and shifted his weight forward.
“Halt!” Roth said, raising a hand. “Lassen Sie uns zuerst etwas Spaß mit dem kleinen Hund.” Let’s first have some fun with the little dog.
39
I’ve never been one ashamed to admit when I’m afraid. Dad and Henry have that problem and sometimes Aaron. Maybe it’s my domesticated bend or an inherent lack of testosterone or just an extra dose of humility rationed out to me while still in my mother’s womb, a gift from her side of the family, but admitting I’m wrong or frightened or unskilled to perform a certain task has never been a chore for me. So when the big leader of the Nazi foursome-turned-twosome said he wanted to have some fun with me, I had no problem admitting, at least to myself and God, that I was scared. Scared like a cornered ra
bbit staring down the barrel of a .12 gauge shotgun with nowhere to run.
Looking at Roth’s face, finding no pity or mercy in his darker than night eyes, no friendliness in his lizard-like grin, no patience in the flare of his nostrils, I silently prayed that God would grant me an extra measure of trust, that I would be able to add my name to the list of saints who had held hands with death and lived to see another sunrise.
Omar lowered his gun and slid it into his belt along his right flank. Roth stepped forward and pierced me with his acid eyes. He was at least two inches taller than me and the breadth of his shoulders swallowed me whole. The two seemed unfazed by the deluge that fell from the sky. I wiped at my eyes, clearing rivers of water from them.
Roth’s reptilian smile broadened. “So dass Sie Gott zu vertrauen, sind Sie?” So you trust God, do you?
I said nothing. Fear paralyzed my vocal muscles. Whatever courage I had found only moments before when I’d declared my trust in God had vanished.
“Beantworten!” Answer!
Veins bulged in Roth’s neck and water sprayed off his lips and added to the wetness on my face.
I nodded. I did trust God, but fear ruled the moment.
Fear and trust are funny things. One can trust in his heart, really trust that God is sovereign and able to do miraculous things through every day men and women in the direst situations, but reason and logic demand that the mind experience fear, fear of pain, of loss, of death.
My heart told me to trust, wanted to trust, did trust, but my mind screamed in fear, shook and quivered in fright. I wanted to live, to see another sunrise, to breath un-drenched air and wear dry clothes again. I wanted to survive this ordeal, knowing that the survival of my loved ones was dependent on my own survival. If I died, they died; I had no doubt about that.
But to survive I’d have to cooperate, let the Germans have their fun. And I’d have to trust that God would shine the sun’s warm rays upon me once again.
In a motion too quick to illicit a protective flinch, Roth brought his knee up and landed it in my groin with such force that I momentarily blacked out. When the wet world around me came into focus again, I was on my side, in a fetal position, enduring unrelenting waves of nausea and doubting that, should I survive, I would ever father children of my own.
Roth and Omar stood over me, laughing. The circus act had begun, and I was the star attraction.
“Hol ihn ab,” Roth said. Pick him up.
Omar’s hands landed on my back and seized me by the jacket. He lifted me like one would a strong-willed child throwing a tantrum on the floor and set me on my feet. He was stronger than he looked. My legs could barely support my weight, and I couldn’t stand erect, such was the nausea that was still resonating in my groin and abdomen.
With Omar still gripping the back of my jacket, holding me upright, Roth leaned his face just inches from my own. “Sie möchten eine andere schlägt?” He was asking me if I wanted another spanking.
I didn’t. His spankings were woefully deficient in compassion and love.
Not one to lie, I shook my head side to side and squeaked out a weak, “Nein.”
Roth backed away, and I braced myself for the command to drop my pants. He didn’t seem like the type to be easily deterred.
Instead he ordered Omar to let me go.
Omar, formerly Coyote, my compassionate, freedom-loving host from the cottage in the clearing who was so gleeful about helping me pack my bags and embark on my journey to the afterlife, released his grip on my jacket and patted my back, as if we were long-time friends and he was assuring me everything would be just dandy at the end of the day.
In a low, steely voice, absent of any humor or good-tidings, Roth said to me, “Sie möchten eine andere schlägt.” Get on your hands and knees.
Frozen by the absurdity of the request, I did nothing but lower my gaze to the ground, finding a spot two feet in front of my boots on which to focus. Water poured off my eyelashes as if they were awnings tenting the fear that welled in my eyes.
Again, and in a voice colder and more evil than I’d ever heard, a voice that would be perfectly comfortable rolling off the forked tongue of Satan himself, Roth ordered me on my hands and knees and this time added, “Wie der Hund Sie.” Like the dog you are.
And again, I did nothing. I dared not make eye contact with Roth but could feel the anger, the rage, emanating from him like the radiators back in our farmhouse in the dead of winter. Except winter was in his soul and the heat it emitted was the heat of hate.
In my peripheral vision I saw Roth step away from me and head toward Dad and Pop and Henry. As if on cue, Omar grabbed my chin, squeezing my cheeks so hard it hurt, and swung my head toward Roth.
From behind his back, Roth pulled out his trench knife, grabbed a handful of Dad’s hair, yanked his head back, and pressed the knife against his neck. He held it there for a second before looking at me.
“Tun Sie es jetzt oder er stirbt.” Do it now or he dies.
Above us, the clouds lit up like fireworks and thunder boomed so explosively I jumped.
Pressure built in my throat and behind my eyes. I didn’t want to watch as Roth slit Dad’s throat, draining the carotids. I wanted to survive. I wanted Dad to survive. Slowly, fighting back the nausea that still roiled in my abdomen, I lowered myself to my knees then to my hands. Water ran over my head and face and streamed off my nose and chin. I thought of the pillbox and the odd inscription: Gott mit uns. A reminder that I was not alone in this. God Himself had suffered much more than this humiliation.
I shut my eyes and braced myself for the worst, not knowing what to expect but certain we weren’t going to engage in a friendly game of leapfrog.
Before I could say a prayer, something solid and forceful struck my behind and knocked me off my hands and knees. Pain shot up my back like someone had jammed a hot poker up the spinal canal. I landed face-first and broke the fall with my chest. Tears fell from my eyes, mingling with the rain that coursed down my cheeks, already washing away the mud that had caked the side of my head and face.
Roth then took hold of my hair and lifted my head from the ground. “Jetzt werden Sie wie ein Hund sterben.” Now you will die like a dog. He then forcefully thrust my face into the ground. I heard more than felt my nose break and warm blood cover my upper lip, mouth, and chin.
Omar lifted me to my feet again. The pressure in my face felt like my head was stuffed with cotton. Unable to breathe from my nose due to the rapid swelling and displaced nasal bone, I tried to breathe out of my mouth but sputtered water more than drew in air.
I lifted my head skyward and let the cool rain wash the blood away. Lightning illuminated the sky again as a white hot branch of electricity reached from the clouds and broke a nearby tree. Sparks flew, the tree buckled, held, then finally succumbed to the force of gravity.
“Ein einen Seil,” Roth said. Get another rope.
They were going to hang and beat me like they did Peter. Panic surged along my neural pathways, and I almost blacked out. I’d watched them beat Peter and wanted no part of that particular circus act. But when Omar wrapped his hand around the back of my neck and pushed me forward I knew it was my turn to take center ring.
Like a demon that had broken free from his bondage in Tartaros, soaked to the skin, hair and beard dripping water, Roth worked the rope into a knot. Then, instead of slipping it around my wrists, which I had been expecting, he looped it around my neck and formed a noose.
They were going to hang me, but not like Peter. Without the sudden drop to snap my neck and make death come quickly, I would slowly suffocate, a slow death not desired by anyone, even the most sadistic and suicidal maniac.
Roth ordered Omar to throw the rope over a sturdy, but low-hanging branch directly above us.
When the slack had been taken out of the rope, Roth pressed his mouth against my ear and said, “Wo ist Gott jetzt?” Where is God now?
Then, given the order by Roth, Omar pulled on his end of the r
ope and lifted my feet off the ground. The rope tightened around my neck, and I struggled to bring in one breath of air. Water ran into my mouth and gagged me. Panic gripped me like a python and paralyzed my diaphragm. I clawed at the rope with my hands but it was no use. With the full weight of my body dangling from it, the rope was pressed so firmly against my neck I couldn’t get my fingers under it. Still I struggled for air. In the distance, as if they were a football field away, I heard Roth laugh and Omar say in English, “Do not fight, boy. Let it happen. Freedom is near. You are close.”
Blackness closed in around me. I was fading, my brain shutting down due to the lack of oxygen reaching it.
Then I heard it, heard it like it was right next to me, speaking in my ear, speaking to my heart: a voice.
Trust Me.
The darkness crept closer, death encircling me. My throat was on fire, my chest heaved, my head felt like it would burst under the intense pressure. And still the blackness loomed, beckoning for my life, my soul.
Trust Me.
Somewhere in the far distance lightning flashed, thunder clapped. I heard the splintering of wood and was suddenly weightless. Moments passed while I felt suspended in water, floating in a warm liquid, drowning without a struggle.
My feet hit something hard and my body collapsed to the wet ground. I opened my eyes and found Peter’s body, still dangling from the end of his rope, glowing like a million watt light bulb.
And then darkness ruled and I succumbed to its lure.
40
Light swirled, ebbed and flowed, an ocean of effulgence crashing on some distant shore, insulating the beach like a blanket then pulling away, leaving darkness. Hollow, impenetrable darkness. The kind of darkness that has a personality, as if it were a living, breathing, thinking creature. But a soulless creature, one bent on malfeasance and mischief, destruction and devil-work.
Fear Mountain Page 19
