It is the dead of winter, the dead of night, and
the walking dead.
Someone whispers that we are headed for Germany.
But many know that we are being herded to our deaths.
I don’t know how some of the men are able to keep going.
But then I catch sight of their eyes and see they are
anxious to get to Death’s house.
He is more merciful than the wolves.
Whenever a man falls to the ground,
the wolves yell for him to
get up.
But Death has him pinned down on the ground and
the man cannot move.
The wolves think he is refusing,
but Death’s commands outweigh
anything the wolves say or do.
And then the man lets go
of the balloon that is his life
and it floats away from him.
But it’s not enough to be dead.
The wolves jab at the fallen with the butts of their rifles
or the toes of their boots.
If the dead man remains still,
the wolves move on.
I am not satisfied with either option.
So I fall.
There are so many things that could go wrong
with my plan.
I am in shock.
I’m sure I’m not breathing.
They stab me with a bayonet.
I feel it, but I don’t even bleed.
Weariness and fear paralyze me.
I don’t move.
They kick me.
I still don’t move.
Convinced.
The wolves move on.
I am left for dead.
I am afraid to move.
I wait. And wait.
And wait some more.
I get up.
Everyone is gone.
I’m alone.
The sun is shining as I sniff for food like a dog.
And I remember something my mother says—
Hope is a thing with feathers—
I see a farmer.
The farmer sees me.
My striped uniform is my identity tag.
The farmer turns me over to the police.
His eyes never meet mine.
He doesn’t want the trouble that comes with helping me.
The death march has passed, so I let myself hope
that I’ll be let go.
I think I’m safe.
And then I hear the familiar shuffle of despair.
I turn to see Nazi guards marching by with other prisoners.
They put me in the line.
I march.
Will myself to stay on my feet.
Watch as the thing with feathers
flies away.