THE GREEN KING (part 8)
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The Photographer
from Salzburg
Then
only, did he feel the pain: at the back of his head, but that was a dull pain,
and in several places on his shoulders, his forearms, and his abdomen,
everywhere the quicklime had bit. He realized he couldn’t move at all, except for his head and his left
hand. The rest of his body was caught in the tangle of naked corpses. Lying
right across him, and having greatly protected him, was Zaccharius, the
fourteen-year-old Lithuanian whom the Obersturmbannfuhrer had taken from the
Grossrosen camp to join his harem of boys.
He
moved his neck. Bits of earth and
Zaccharius’s arm slipped, just enough for him to see the sun. He didn’t
hear the soldier approach. Then he saw him, with his back turned and retching.
His thinking was not clear enough yet to see a connection between this man in a
foreign uniform, retching, and the sudden desertion, the previous day, if it
was the previous day, of the Mauthausen camp by the Obersturmbannfuhrer and his
special team. It did not occur to him that the soldier might be an American. He
simply sensed that he newcomer belonged to a foreign world. And for this reason
only, the thought it best not to speak German. He chose, among the other
languages he knew, French. He spoke, and the man answered- in fact, continued
the recitation of the poem Reb had begun automatically, and it happened as if
it were a prearranged signal, a key phrase to be exchanged between two men who
had never seen one another until close to the grave, knelt down, put out his
hand, and touched Reb’s left hand. He said something incomprehensible, then, in
French: ‘Are you hurt?’.
‘Yes,’ said Reb.
He
could see the soldier’s face clearly now. The man was very young, blond, with
wide-open blue eyes. Silver bars shone his collar. He didn’t seem to be
carrying a weapon. He asked: ‘Are you French?’.
TO BE CONTINUED
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I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
I LOVE YOU…
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