Read Online The True Story of Hansel and Gretel by Louise Murphy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Murphy
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any gun they could get now. Their own supplies were dwindling. They even had to use the guns of the despised subhumans. He stepped behind a tree and waited for the soldier to be called, to be summoned back to the road.
The soldier smoked and then there was a sound in the trees beyond them, the distinct crack of a twig, sharp and brief, then silence. The soldier threw down his cigarette and moved forward in a crouch. He held the pepecha in front and moved slowly.
The Mechanik’s breath was fast in his throat. The children. One of them had stepped on a branch or rolled over on it. They were lying there in the leaves. Her blond hair like a scarf on the mud. His tiny face, so thin now, turned up curiously, looking for—
The ground was covered with wet snow, and the leaves were soggy. The Mechanik moved silently and not a leaf rustled. His feet were sinking in the damp soil and snow with no sound. An owl called nearby and the soldier jumped but did not turn. He stared into the forest, looking, waiting to kill again.
The German soldier suddenly sighed. It almost stopped the Mechanik. It was such a human thing, this soft, sad exhalation of air. The sound of a tired and homesick man who might be a normal man, sighing in his loneliness.
The Mechanik was so close he could smell the soap that the German had bathed with—the smell of oil from stolen Polish sausages and a whiff of the vodka he drank with his lunch to keep off the damp and cold.
A dark shadow, all bone and sinew, his clothes flapping around him as he leapt, the Mechanik jumped on the back of the German, closing his hands on the man’s throat.
The soldier fell forward, taken by surprise and thrown off balance, and the hands of the Mechanik closed on his windpipe in a vise.
There was no choice. The Mechanik could only hold on, closing off any shout or cry of alarm with his hands, using the bony length of his body to hold down the man. Pressing in with his fingers as the soldier flopped under him, and thrashed, rose on all fours like a horse under the weight of the Mechanik until he grew dizzy and fell limply, convulsing a last time and lying still.
The Mechanik was afraid to loosen his hold, and he lay on top of the German with his hands clenched on the well-shaved throat until he thought he could go to sleep lying there.
His mind kept telling him that it was over, and finally he released his fingers. They were stiff from the effort, and he groaned. There wasn’t time. The others would come looking for the soldier. The children.
“Children? Children?” he whispered.
They were too frightened to come out. They knew better than to come to someone who called. They were smart children. Jewish names would never draw them out.
Remembering their stepmother’s idea, he called again.
“Hansel? Gretel?”
But there was nothing. Leaves and brush and more trees stretching endlessly. He had to get away from the dead soldier.
“It won’t help them if I get killed,” he whispered. “If I’m caught they might torture me. I might tell.”
His mind rationalized as he stood staring back toward where the road was. He had to run, but he had to take what he could first. He moved back to the body of the soldier and jerked and dragged at the coat of the German until he got it off. The pants were good too. Woolen and thick. And the boots made him smile. Real boots. No holes at all. Well polished. He undressed the soldier and dragged the pants on, slipped into the coat which was too large and still held the warmth of the German’s body, and after a second of hesitation, took the boots in one hand and the gun in the other.
He was breathing hard. There would be no motorcycle. He’d never be able to take it now. But he could take the gun. A pepecha and the cartridge belt was a prize. And the boots. Good boots saved your life in the winter.
The German lay on his back, legs naked, tongue stuck out between engorged lips, face darkening. The Mechanik lay down the gun and
The soldier smoked and then there was a sound in the trees beyond them, the distinct crack of a twig, sharp and brief, then silence. The soldier threw down his cigarette and moved forward in a crouch. He held the pepecha in front and moved slowly.
The Mechanik’s breath was fast in his throat. The children. One of them had stepped on a branch or rolled over on it. They were lying there in the leaves. Her blond hair like a scarf on the mud. His tiny face, so thin now, turned up curiously, looking for—
The ground was covered with wet snow, and the leaves were soggy. The Mechanik moved silently and not a leaf rustled. His feet were sinking in the damp soil and snow with no sound. An owl called nearby and the soldier jumped but did not turn. He stared into the forest, looking, waiting to kill again.
The German soldier suddenly sighed. It almost stopped the Mechanik. It was such a human thing, this soft, sad exhalation of air. The sound of a tired and homesick man who might be a normal man, sighing in his loneliness.
The Mechanik was so close he could smell the soap that the German had bathed with—the smell of oil from stolen Polish sausages and a whiff of the vodka he drank with his lunch to keep off the damp and cold.
A dark shadow, all bone and sinew, his clothes flapping around him as he leapt, the Mechanik jumped on the back of the German, closing his hands on the man’s throat.
The soldier fell forward, taken by surprise and thrown off balance, and the hands of the Mechanik closed on his windpipe in a vise.
There was no choice. The Mechanik could only hold on, closing off any shout or cry of alarm with his hands, using the bony length of his body to hold down the man. Pressing in with his fingers as the soldier flopped under him, and thrashed, rose on all fours like a horse under the weight of the Mechanik until he grew dizzy and fell limply, convulsing a last time and lying still.
The Mechanik was afraid to loosen his hold, and he lay on top of the German with his hands clenched on the well-shaved throat until he thought he could go to sleep lying there.
His mind kept telling him that it was over, and finally he released his fingers. They were stiff from the effort, and he groaned. There wasn’t time. The others would come looking for the soldier. The children.
“Children? Children?” he whispered.
They were too frightened to come out. They knew better than to come to someone who called. They were smart children. Jewish names would never draw them out.
Remembering their stepmother’s idea, he called again.
“Hansel? Gretel?”
But there was nothing. Leaves and brush and more trees stretching endlessly. He had to get away from the dead soldier.
“It won’t help them if I get killed,” he whispered. “If I’m caught they might torture me. I might tell.”
His mind rationalized as he stood staring back toward where the road was. He had to run, but he had to take what he could first. He moved back to the body of the soldier and jerked and dragged at the coat of the German until he got it off. The pants were good too. Woolen and thick. And the boots made him smile. Real boots. No holes at all. Well polished. He undressed the soldier and dragged the pants on, slipped into the coat which was too large and still held the warmth of the German’s body, and after a second of hesitation, took the boots in one hand and the gun in the other.
He was breathing hard. There would be no motorcycle. He’d never be able to take it now. But he could take the gun. A pepecha and the cartridge belt was a prize. And the boots. Good boots saved your life in the winter.
The German lay on his back, legs naked, tongue stuck out between engorged lips, face darkening. The Mechanik lay down the gun and
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