Sergeant Weigert, who drove the truck, was an unrelenting talker. Despite Von Duesen’s gruff one-word answers, Weigert droned on and on. Even when Karl did not answer him at all, he was not deterred. Within a few kilometers, Karl swore he knew the man’s entire life history. How Weigert was born in Dresden, but grew up in Düsseldorf. His father was an engineer and his mother had died when he was sixteen. He dropped out of college to join the army and on and on and on.

Von Duesen had no interest in any of his yammering. He was looking for the right spot to implement his plan. So far nothing had proved suitable. But he knew the territory well from rounding up Juden. Soon, they would arrive at a place that would work perfectly. This truck would be better used for hunting than transporting, he thought to himself.

Though he appeared calm and collected on the outside, inside he still seethed at the treatment he’d received from General Steuben. Yes, he had lost his prisoners. His men had gunned down the woman and child. But it was a single unfortunate mistake. He and his squad had captured more Jews than any other in the entire regiment. He was a genius at sniffing out their hiding places and imprisoning them. But all that had been undone by one single error.

On they drove, the sergeant yammering away. Von Duesen was not sure whether Weigert even realized that his passenger had stopped participating in the conversation. Karl occupied himself by looking out the windshield at the passing countryside, waiting for the right spot to appear.

Finally, after several more kilometers, he saw it. The road bisected two large wheat fields and was lined by irrigation ditches on either side. There were no houses or villages around for kilometers.

“Halten,” he ordered.

“Mein major?”

“Halten Sie,” Von Duesen repeated.

“Mein major, our orders—”

“I was given new orders before we left,” he said. He pulled several sheets of folded paper from inside the coat pocket of his uniform. In reality, they were not official documents of any kind—but the sergeant did not know that.

“Ja, mein major,” he said. With a shrug he applied the brakes and the large truck came to a lumbering stop in the middle of the road.

“Now what, mein major?”

“Go to the rear of the truck, open the tailgate, and order the Juden out. Have them line up in front of the ditch.”

“Major?” Weigert was clearly confused by his request.

“Do it. Schnell, schnell.”

Sensing something in his superior’s voice, Weigert hurriedly opened the door and scrambled out. A few seconds later, Von Duesen heard the sergeant bark an order in Ukrainian. Even though it was a large truck, he felt it bounce as the Jews climbed out. He took a deep breath. Now was the time. Sergeant Weigert’s machine gun lay on the seat next to him. He grabbed it, along with two extra clips of ammunition, and exited the vehicle.

In the darkness he could see the silhouettes of the prisoners milling about in the middle of the road. Weigert was trying to herd them in front of the irrigation canal, but they ignored him.

“All of you, line up in front of the ditch,” Von Duesen commanded in his loudest, most serious tone. He did not speak Ukrainian, and had to repeat himself twice, but eventually they quietly did as he ordered.

These Jews had no fight left in them. For months they had been hunted, beaten, tortured, starved, and imprisoned. Now they were resigned to their fates. Von Duesen stalked to the middle of the line.

“Turn and face the field,” he shouted. What could they do, but comply?

A few of the prisoners began to pray. When all of them had turned, Von Duesen racked the slide on the machine gun and pulled the trigger. The gun jumped in his hands as bullets leapt from the barrel. The noise was deafening.

Lead ripped into the bodies before him. The children went down first, tumbling into the ditch. A few of the younger women tried to run, but they did not get far. When one of the old men tried to turn as if to fight, the bullets knocked him backward, and he fell screaming into the trench.

Von Duesen walked to the edge and peered in at the bodies. A few of them still moved. He inserted a fresh clip into the gun and fired at the bodies again. When the clip emptied and the bullets were gone and the night was silent again, finally it was done. He had not relished the task, but he needed the truck to find that old woman and save his career. This was the only way.

He turned to find Sergeant Weigert staring at him in disbelief.

“Mein Gott, Herr Major,” he said. “Was haben Sie getan?” What have you done?

Von Duesen looked directly into the sergeant’s eyes. He wanted to make sure the man understood him.

“I have done, Sergeant, what needed to be done.” He turned toward the truck. “Come,” he said. “We have a long drive ahead of us.”