Otto Hartmann drew stiffly on his cigarette. It tasted good, like bitter little kisses. He found himself thinking of Hilda. He could not help himself. Her cascade of red curls, the long, wistful days in the meadow, kissing and laughing together in the long grass. And the pumpernickel. Oh God, the pumpernickel.
Otto had always been a people person and that, he reflected upon with some irony, was his ultimate undoing.
“You want the blindfold?” said Captain Brukner, in a shrill, haughty tone not unlike a disdainful vole.
“No. I want to see.”
“Really? Finally some courage from you Otto huh? You face your death like a man at least.”
“Hmm. No, changed my mind. Give me the blindfold,” Said Otto, seeking to deny his former cohort the symmetry his comment implied.
“Very well. A coward to the last. How fitting.”
Brukner beckoned a subordinate who scurried towards Otto immediately, a worn and dirty length of cotton rag in his hand.
“No, I have changed my mind again. I do not want the blindfold. I do not fear death. It is merely a release from this…this madness. And these clothes. These terrible grey clothes.”
“You toy with me Otto. I will allow you this sport, as it will be your last.”
“I wrote a poem about your wife you know,” said Otto. “Her thighs are ridiculous.”
Brukner’s face stiffened then fell, turning grey with fury.
“You dare? You dare mention my Angel? You?”
“She’s like a fucking gargoyle Hans. A total dog. She’s so fat her parents raised her as twins.”
Bruckner’s fist clenched and released, a sneer returning to his lips.
“I will give you one last chance to save your life Otto. Where is the book?”
“You think I believe you will let me live now? That is beyond even you Hans.”
“Your honour then. Surely that is worth saving? Where is the book?”
“The book is safe.”
“Where is it?” spat Brukner, his composure waning once more.
“Safe.” Said Otto.
“One task. One task you were given and you failed even at that. I wash my hands of you.”
Brukner turned stiffly and marched away, hesitating for a second before striding mechanically on, like a staccato dancer, caught up in a ballet of tears.
The squadron raised their rifles.
“Nehmenziel!” called the sergeant. “Feuer!”
Sparks flew from the firing pins as the hammers fell. And Otto Hartmann’s life flashed before his eyes.
