"Older men declare war. But it is the youth that must fight and die."-Herbert Hoover
First Lieutenant Klaus Richter stood near the window, looking out at what was left of Berlin. The glass was gone, blown out weeks ago. Through the empty frame, he could see the street below, once majestic buildings now reduced to rubble. Across the road, a dead horse was rotting. He wondered how it got there. Who had owned it? Smoke rose from fires blocks away. The sky was grey and heavy.
Beside him, a few other officers stood in silence. There were five of them now. There had been twelve this morning.
The building had been some kind of government office before. Now it was just walls that held them captive. The Red Army had set up a command post on the first floor. Richter could hear them down there, boots on the stairs, voices shouting orders in Russian. The language was harsh, full of words he didn't understand.
Major Steinmetz sat on a wooden chair with his head in his hands. He was older, maybe fifty, grey at the temples. His uniform was torn and filthy. Next to him, Lieutenant Vogel paced back and forth over and over. His hands shook slightly.
Captain Brandt leaned against the wall, eyes closed. He'd stopped talking hours ago. And young Fischer stood by the door, listening. Fischer was barely twenty-two. He still had hope in his eyes. Still thought someone might come rescue them.
But Richter and the others knew better. The fatherland has fallen.
He turned back to the window. A Soviet truck rumbled past below, filled with soldiers. They were singing something. He couldn't make out the words; he thought it sounded like a victory song.
For them, it was a victory. For Germany, everything was over.
Berlin had fallen. The Third Reich was finished. The Führer was dead. They heard he had shot himself in a bunker somewhere, though no one knew for sure. It didn't matter anymore. The Red Army had taken the city street by street, building by building. The fighting was mostly over. Now there was just occupation. And of course, revenge.
Richter touched the Iron Cross pinned to his uniform. His fingers traced the metal, worn smooth from years of wear. His father had worn one, too, from the Great War. At twenty-six years old, he was too young to die like this. Too young to have seen so much.
The door opened.
Two Soviet soldiers entered, rifles pointing at them as if they still had the strength to fight back. Behind them came an officer, a captain, judging by his insignia. He was young, maybe thirty, with a stern face and cold eyes. He said something in Russian and pointed at Major Steinmetz.
Steinmetz looked up slowly. His face had gone pale.
"No," he whispered. "Please, I have a family. I have children."
The Soviet captain spoke again, the same order but sharper this time. The two soldiers grabbed Steinmetz by the arms and hauled him to his feet. He didn't resist much. He just let them drag him toward the door, his boots scraping on the floor.
"Wait," Steinmetz said, his voice breaking. "I can give you information. Names. Locations. I can help you."
The Soviet captain didn't seem to care.
The door closed behind them.
Richter listened to the footsteps on the stairs, going down.
Minutes passed. Five. Maybe ten.
Then the shots came. A volley of them, flat and distant. Five or six rifles firing at once.
The room was quiet again.
Vogel stopped pacing. His hands were shaking worse now, clasped together like he was praying. Fischer had gone white. Brandt opened his eyes and stared at nothing.
"Anyone of us could be next," Vogel said quietly.
"Should have fled when we had the chance," Richter said.
"Where to?" Vogel asked. "The Americans aren't far away. The Soviets were everywhere."
"Anywhere," Richter said. "Anywhere but here."
Brandt nodded slowly, staring out the window. "Yeah. Should have fled like the others."
Richter turned back to the window. The street was empty now. Just rubble and smoke and the dead horse. The truck was long gone. He wondered if Steinmetz's body was lying down there somewhere, thrown on a pile with the others.
He'd known Steinmetz for two years. They both served together in France before the retreat. Steinmetz had three daughters. He'd shown Richter photographs once, three little girls with blonde hair. He'd talked about them constantly. How he'd take them to the mountains after the war. How they'd go swimming in the lakes.
Now, Steinmetz was dead in a Berlin street.
The door opened again.
This time, they pointed at Vogel.
"No," Vogel said immediately as two soldiers tried to drag him. "I can walk you filthy communist pigs." His protests went unheard as they proceeded to drag him away just like they did to Steinmetz before.
Vogel fought, kicking and twisting, but they were stronger. They dragged him toward the door.
"Cowards! You, Red vermin!"
The door slammed shut. His voice faded down the stairs, still hurling insults at his would-be executioners.
Fischer was crying now. Silent tears running down his face. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
Brandt still hadn't moved. Just stared at the wall like he'd already accepted his fate.
Richter stood at the window and waited.
The shots came quicker this time. Vogel hadn't made them wait.
Only three left now.
"They'll kill us all," Fischer whispered. "One by one. They'll kill us all."
Richter didn't answer. There was nothing to say. Fischer was right.
He thought about running. The window was empty, no glass. He could jump, maybe. It was only two floors up. He'd break a leg, probably, but he might survive the fall. And then what? Run through the streets dodging the Red Army patrols? Hide in the ruins, hoping to be unseen? The Soviets were everywhere. He wouldn't make it past a block.
And even if he did, where would he go?
His parents were gone. Killed in the bombing last month. The house where he'd grown up was rubble. His brother was dead too, killed in North Africa three years ago. Buried in the desert under a wooden cross, if he was lucky.
Everyone he'd ever cared about was gone, except for his wife.
Greta. Oh dear Greta.
His heart filled with emotion as he thought of her. He wanted to cry out loud, but couldn't. Must be strong, he said to himself.
She was still alive, as far as he knew. Still in their apartment on the edge of Berlin. He wanted to send her away in March, told her to flee west toward the Americans, but she stubbornly refused. Said she wouldn't leave without him.
God, he hoped she'd left anyway. Hoped she'd forget about him and run. The Soviets were brutal with German women. Pigs. He'd heard the stories. Everyone had heard the stories.
If she were still in Berlin…
He pushed the thought away. He couldn't think about that. Not now. No.
The door opened once again.
They took Brandt next.
Brandt didn't fight, cry, or yell. He simply stood up, gave Richter a nod, and walked out on his own, shoulders straight, head held high. As if he were marching in a parade. The Soviet soldiers followed him, almost surprised.
Fischer was shaking so hard his teeth chattered. He looked at Richter with wide, desperate eyes.
"What do we do?" he whispered. "Lieutenant, what do we do?"
"Nothing," Richter said. "There's nothing left to do."
"We have to run. We have to fight-" said Fischer, shaking now.
"Fight with what? Our hands?" said Richter.
Fischer looked down at his empty hands. His lips trembled.
The sound of the shots came.
And then there were two.
Richter wondered if he'd go next or if they'd save him for last. Wondered if it even mattered.
He'd always wanted to be a soldier his whole life. Just like his father and his grandfather before him. Unlike them, he won't get to have his own children and grandchildren. The line ends with him. Nonetheless, he was proud he'd served. Proud he'd done his duty to the fatherland.
He'd joined the Wehrmacht when he was nineteen. It was in 1938. Back then, Richter believed in the ultimate German victory. He believed in duty and honor and all the things his father and grandfather had taught him. He'd always been a good soldier. Followed orders without question. Fought as well as he could. Been promoted.
For what?
So he could stand in a crumbling old government building, waiting to be shot? The thought bothered him.
The door opened again.
They pointed at Fischer.
The boy whimpered. He dropped to his knees and started sobbing, hands covering his face. The Soviet captain said something harsh. One of the soldiers grabbed Fischer by the collar and dragged him toward the door. He didn't resist. Couldn't. Just cried and let himself be pulled.
The door closed.
Richter was alone.
He stood at the window once again and looked out at Berlin.
He touched his Iron Cross again. Thought about his grandfather. His father. His brother. The Richter men, they'd all served. All fought for what they believed.
All for nothing?
The shots came.
Richter closed his eyes.
The door opened.
He turned to face the Soviet captain. The man looked tired. Bored, almost. Like this was just another task to complete before dinner.
The captain said something in Russian and gestured toward the door.
This was it. He wasn't going to beg or even curse at them. He was going to die. And he will face the execution like a man. Just like Captain Brandt did. Like his father would have done.
He stood up, his legs shaking a bit, and he stared down the soviet captain in the eye until the man looked away. The Soviet soldiers flanked him, rifles ready. One of them jabbed him in the back with the barrel. Not hard. Just a push. Richter started to move.
They went down the stairs. The building was mostly empty now. Just Soviet soldiers everywhere, sitting on the steps, smoking cigarettes, playing cards, drinking, and talking in Russian. Some of them looked up as Richter passed. Most didn't bother. One soldier sat on the stairs, playing a slow tune on a mouth organ, a melody Richter could swear he knew, though he couldn't remember from where.
Outside, the air was cool. The cool breeze felt pleasant, being cooped up in that room for many hours.
They walked him across the street to a wall. A brick wall, part of an old building that had been bombed. The bricks were blackened and pitted. There were marks on the wall, bullet holes and dark stains that ought to be blood.
Richter's stomach tightened.
This was where they'd shot the others.
Dozens of bodies lay in a heap to the side. Steinmetz, Vogel, Brandt, and Fischer must be there too. But he didn't dare look. The Soviet captain said something. The soldiers pushed Richter against the wall.
This was the end. So be it. He was ready.
The Soviet captain walked away, back toward the building. The firing squad formed a line. Six men, six rifles. They stood about ten feet away. Close enough that they wouldn't miss.
Richter stood with his back against the crumbling wall. He could feel his heart pounding. His hands were shaking, but he forced them still.
The Richter men knew how to die.
He looked up towards the heavens. The sky was still grey.
He thought of Greta. Her face. Her smile. The way she looked in the morning, sunlight through the window, her long blonde hair tangled from sleep. I'm sorry, he mumbled on and on as if it were his final prayer.
The Soviet captain called out an order in Russian and the soldiers raised their rifles.
Richter looked at them. Six barrels. Six men who didn't know him, didn't hate him, were just following orders. Just like he had followed orders countless times.
He took a breath. His last breath, maybe. The air tasted like ash.
He thought of his grandfather. His father. His brother. Greta.
He closed his eyes.
"Fire."