Once inside, he spotted the hiding place Wisch had spoken of immediately although he cast no more that a cursory glance in that direction as his eyes adjusted slowly to the alternating segments of darkness and light as beams of sunlight stabbed downward in sharp, clearly defined ‘pillars’. Most of the farm equipment inside the barn — an old plough, a threshing machine of primitive design and a few other pieces — seemed to be in disrepair or disuse. No one to use them, he supposed, since the father was dead. He forced that sentiment from his mind.
Regardless of the atrocity committed here, he thought sternly, trying to be logical, it should be remembered this family was Resistance — they were spying on the airbase! My airbase! But the rationalisation instantly disgusted him: it sounded like something that might come from SS animals like Stahl and Barkmann rather than a man of honour and dignity.
A guttural, angry sound — almost a growl — was born and died in a second at the bottom of his throat. He was becoming frustrated by the conflict created between his old loyalties and the new one that was struggling to the fore, still unnamed, unrecognised and waiting to be fully realised. Although he was a master at tactical planning and military operations, Ritter despised complexity in the goings-on of day-to-day life — one of the reasons the military had so attracted him as a young man. Life in its essence, he believed, should be kept as simple as possible. Yet people — and life itself, sometimes — continually ‘conspired’ to prevent that and add complexity. That was something Ritter couldn’t tolerate and that SS bastard, Stahl, had just made his life exactly that. It was another not-insignificant reason for Ritter to despise him, and the lieutenant-colonel suddenly felt very silly sneaking about in this barn.
“I know you’re here…Antoine…” He stated finally in clear, slow French, needing to search his mind for the name the boy had given. He directed the words directly at the place of hiding, nothing but soft gentleness in a voice that showed none of the apprehension or indecision he felt. “I understand you’re scared and want to hide, but I’ve very little time. I know what’s happened and want to help you if I can.”
He didn’t talk ‘down’ to the child as he’d often observed other adults doing. His own experience of children was limited –his wife, Maria had given birth to just one child in their six years of marriage so far, and their son — Werner Josef — hadn’t lived beyond the age of twelve months. There’d been no evidence of why the boy had actually died, but infant mortality being what it was in the first half of the 20th Century, their doctor had simply diagnosed the cause as ‘Crib Death’; something that was exceedingly common and something that in more modern times would become known by the more medical but no less sinister or terrible title of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
Ritter generally found it impossible to make the coy, childish and silly speech of others when relating to children. He believed, and to some extent had been proven right by his own experience relating to the offspring of others, that if one spoke to a child of reasonable age slowly, softly and clearly they’d often understand exactly what you were talking about…as long as they wanted to understand to begin with.
“My unit must go away this afternoon and I’ve only a short time to help you…” For a few moments he thought there’d be no answer, and he momentarily feared that perhaps Wisch had been mistaken or had played him for a fool. Then he heard the voice. It was soft — so soft he might almost have missed it but for the hate and venom it contained.
“You killed them…!” The acid, French tones cut Ritter in a way he’d never before experienced. “You’re all Nazis! You hurt them — you killed them…!”
“You know that’s not true — I wasn’t there!” There was even the hint of defensiveness in Ritter’s tone as he spoke, so greatly did the child’s words sting him.
“You were there! I saw you! You were there last night with the other Germans!”
“I came too late to stop them. If you saw me, then you saw me hit the other one for what he did.” The German officer suddenly found himself defending his own actions — indeed his own heritage — in a way he’d never before been forced to by anyone at any other time in his life. To receive such vilification from a child no more than five years old was sobering and a matter for some concern.
“He killed my mother…my sister! Kill him!”
“I couldn’t — believe me, I wanted to but I couldn’t…” Ritter pleaded desperately. How could he explain such moral issues to a child who’d suffered so terribly, particularly when he wasn’t entirely convinced himself? “I wasn’t allowed to–”
“You’re a monster like them!” Antoine screamed back defiantly, and there was an explosion of noise as he burst from the hiding place and tried to bolt past Ritter. The pilot was too quick even for the lightning speed of a child to elude at such close range, and one of his strong arms had encircled the boy’s waist in a second, preventing any escape. Antoine immediately began thrashing and screaming in Ritter’s arms, attempting to rain blows on the captor that held him from behind. Some of those blows struck home and although none of them hurt particularly, he was sufficiently unbalanced to send them both crashing to the hay-strewn, earthen floor. All the same, Ritter never once lost his grip.
“You’re all right, Herr Oberstleutnant?” Wisch’s call came from just beyond the doors. The young NCO was concerned by the commotion.
“Yes I’m all right, damn you!” Ritter bellowed wildly back, still struggling with the boy as they both sat splay-legged on the ground, one in front of the other. “Piss off!” The intensity of the matter at hand precluded any other phrase that might’ve so concisely summed up his intent.
“Let me go!” Antoine screamed hysterically, fighting all the while against the officer’s iron grip. “They’ll kill me too! Let me go!”
“They won’t kill you!” Ritter spoke over the boy’s cries. “They won’t kill you, or harm you in any way — I’ll see to that.” Whether it was the steely sound of the pilot’s voice at that point or whether the boy just ran out of strength was impossible to tell, but the struggling definitely began to subside.
“I saw…!” He wailed, his voice returning to a normal volume. “They made me see…! I saw…!” And the entirety of what the boy meant suddenly struck home.
“Mein Gott…” Ritter moaned softly, reverting to German in his horror. “God in Heaven…!” He cradled the boy gently now as Antoine began to cry, turning to bury his face in Ritter’s shoulder. “Dear God in Heaven.” He could only repeat the phrase once more, devoid of anything useful he might say that could possibly respond to that shocking revelation.
‘…You’re just like them…!’ The boy had screamed in accusation because he’d not killed Stahl. ‘…You’re just like them…!’ As the pain and disgust washed across him, the boy sobbed against his chest and Ritter found he couldn’t stop the tears either. In that moment, he believed the boy was right.