Life Unworthy

Part 5

Ival stood paralyzed at the base of the ladder extending up to the sleeping loft. He had jumped when a powerful fist hammered on the old wood of his door, shaking loose small puffs of dust but now he couldn't move. Someone shouted in heavily accented Polish to open the door, and Ival trembled, then like a puppet pulled by strings stumbled to the door and just before opening it, jerked his head around for one final look at the loft and the source of his doom.

As he swung the door open, Ival remembered his youth, as a noble of some sort had come to the door. He recalled his fathers downcast eyes, obedient actions, and humble tones. This is how you deal with authority, he remembered thinking as a child. Filling the doorway was a blond German officer wearing a uniform he'd not seen before. It was not the slate gray of the German military, but was jet black, with a design new to Ival. Behind him was an old German army truck, with a small group of men climbing out of the back.

With an absolute assumption of authority and power, the German roared in the same tone and accent as he had outside the door:

"You, farmer, have you seen any strangers in the area? Anything unusual?" The officer's grey-blue eyes were dead, as if Ival was no different from the chair behind him. Insignificant.

Other than you? thought Ival, but swallowing hard as he concentrated on the stomach of the officer.

"Strangers, sir?" Ival mumbled, trying not to stammer or seem guilty, "why would anyone come to my little farm?"

"Stand aside!" he was commanded, and without waiting the soldiers shoved past him, turning his body back away from the door. Ival felt the room turn darker, as his death moved closer, a tomb closing in around him as all light seemed to fade away. They will find him, they will take me to that camp, and I will die as one of those wretched skeletons. I will see you soon, Misa. He turned without thinking to stare at the loft as the soldiers moved into the room, searching roughly. They loomed over him, five men filling the room, younger, stronger, and larger than Ival. Taller than the gypsy king, thought Ival. He seemed so big but he really wasn't much taller than I was. He with his back straight and prepared to face his fate, crossing himself and swallowing hard as one of the men climbed into the loft.

Oberleutnant Sigfried Koenig of the SS watched as the guards detailed to him from Auschwitz I searched the shabby little one-room cabin. The table was clear, the bed was rumpled but empty. Sloth, waking up so late in the day, small wonder the Poles were so easily defeated Koenig thought. The little wretch at least understood his place, cowering before the might of the third Reich. He commanded a soldier to search the root cellar and noted one of them tucking a rough jar of liquor under his coat. Later, he would reprimand the idiot and destroy the stuff; probably make a man go blind.

As the officer stepped out of the building, Ival dared peek around the room. The soldier in the loft had stabbed his bedding with a bayonet, but was coming back down. There was nowhere to hide up there among the sooty rafters. Was the gypsy king a ghost? Ival felt the chill in his gut clench tighter. Outside went a soldier and he heard the root cellar open with a bang. One of the soldiers broke some of his crockery and Ival winced at the loss. They were taking his food and wine as well, no surprise there. The officer had left the little home; apparently he didn't care what happened inside.

Finally, the soldiers stepped out of the building one by one, the last sneering at Ival, a wordless promise that they were far from done with him. Ival looked up toward the heavens to thank Saint Stanislas when he saw, up in the rafters, in the darkness above the door a figure clinging to the ceiling like a spider. A half-naked, hairy figure with black eyes staring down at him, not as a warning, not begging him to stay silent. Like a predator looking at prey, a wolf staring at a lamb. Unconcerned, but waiting out of sight to strike. His feet were on the edge of a small projection on the inside of where the front porch met the front wall, his back against the peaked ceiling, hands against the surface with fingers spread and clawlike. His eyes were shiny black, but still Ival could see them in the dusty gloom. Ival blasphemed, for the first time in his life, and one of the soldiers looked back and laughed.

As they drove away, Ival heard a soft sound behind him.

"Now I am refreshed. Is time to hunt."

Ival spun around and backed against the door. The stranger was on the loft, and momentarily Ival wondered how he'd managed to get there so quickly without the creaking sounds of the ladder. He watched as the stranger pulled on Ival's spare tunic and leapt down lightly to the floor, landing on the balls of his feet. Ival shrunk against the door as the stranger walked straight at him, seeming to grow in the room, casting a huge shadow behind him. I was wrong before. He's bigger than the soldiers.

"Not you, little man. I hunt them."

With a huge laugh, the stranger lifted Ival aside like a child then set him down, and flung the door open. Taking a deep breath with closed eyes, he stooped beast-like and uttered almost a growl, then was off, running along the road the truck had taken; running faster than Ival had seen a man run before.

Ival sat on the slightest edge of his chair, not looking, and slumped to the floor, shaking so hard his teeth chattered. Would either one be back?

                                                                                  Which was worse?