into his palm. He knelt, set the soft suitcase onto the asphalt. Rays of sunlight glistened on the torn edge of the strap he had ripped loose when he couldn’t figure out the lock.
The sergeant took a step closer, nudged the expensive leather case with the toe of his boot. “What have you got there?” He rested a hand on his Luger, with his other brought his cigarette to his lips for another drag. “This is a pretty fancy suitcase for a farmer to carry, isn’t it?”
Fredrik’s gigantic hands separated the top of the satchel. The shadow inside hid the jewelry from view. The sergeant craned forward, squinted. His curiosity was palpable. When he caught sight of the slick surface of the gems, he hiccuped, then let out a stream of rancid smoke. Behind him, the young soldier took a step forward, too. The sergeant’s shoulders stiffened. Slowly, deliberately, he unsnapped his holster, slid his sinewy index finger behind the pistol’s trigger guard.
Oskar was having trouble catching his breath. His vision had blurred. Panic gripped his stomach. He knew his father well enough to know that he wouldn’t surrender the suitcase to the Germans. When he started running, his flight caught everyone off guard. He had reason enough, but it wasn’t apremeditated decision to flee. His head was light, his legs started to move. He dropped the cashmere coat, pumped his fists, darted as fast as he could toward the trees.
A second passed. Oskar’s footsteps resounded with a wet squish. Then the sergeant drew his pistol. He didn’t issue a warning. He simply grabbed the toggle to cock the hammer and load a bullet into the chamber, straightened his arm. As much effort as Oskar was expending, he wasn’t moving fast. His feet were slipping, the landscape was roiling. The small forest loomed in front of him. He saw a raven land on a twig then jump into the air and soar. A fern caught the sun like an emerald. A dead branch reached toward him like a blackened hand.
The German had the back of the boy’s head fixed in his aim, blocked by the black, triangular edge of the front sight, when Fredrik took hold of his wrist. The sergeant’s finger squeezed the trigger, but the round plugged the soil at Oskar’s feet. Mud splattered Oskar’s legs, the recoil vibrated up Fredrik’s arm. His son kept running. The farmhand’s fingers clamped the German’s forearm, buried themselves into his muscle and sinew, and crushed his bones as easily as if he were sinking his fingers into a block of butter.
The young soldier watched from the corner of his eye as Fredrik snatched the pistol from the sergeant and swung his boot into the sergeant’s shins. The leg splintered with a loud crack, the tall German dropped to his knees. His cigarette tumbled from his lips, hit the pavement with a shower of sparks. In the same motion, Fredrik let go of the sergeant’s arm, ratcheted back the hammer, fired a bullet point-blank into the sergeant’s head. With the crack of the shot, the smell of gunpowder permeated the cold morning. Blood peppered the young soldier. He barely had time to look directly at Fredrik before the gun was cocked again and a second bullethad found its way into his forehead. The force of the projectile sent him sprawling backward. His skull shattered against the asphalt. Then, except for the idle of the truck, it was quiet again. The two dead soldiers rested side by side in an unmoving heap. The sergeant’s cigarette rolled to the edge of the road, where it lay smoldering, sending a weak finger of smoke into the still air.
“What the —” Axel spun around.
Fredrik was still moving. He took a clumsy step, knocked the suitcase flying, scrambled toward the cab of the truck. Jewels spilled across the road like liquefied amber. His eyes met the driver’s in the side mirror. It registered that the driver was another soldier barely older than Oskar and was too stunned to react. The boy’s hand shot not for his gun but for the gearshift.
The sergeant took a step closer, nudged the expensive leather case with the toe of his boot. “What have you got there?” He rested a hand on his Luger, with his other brought his cigarette to his lips for another drag. “This is a pretty fancy suitcase for a farmer to carry, isn’t it?”
Fredrik’s gigantic hands separated the top of the satchel. The shadow inside hid the jewelry from view. The sergeant craned forward, squinted. His curiosity was palpable. When he caught sight of the slick surface of the gems, he hiccuped, then let out a stream of rancid smoke. Behind him, the young soldier took a step forward, too. The sergeant’s shoulders stiffened. Slowly, deliberately, he unsnapped his holster, slid his sinewy index finger behind the pistol’s trigger guard.
Oskar was having trouble catching his breath. His vision had blurred. Panic gripped his stomach. He knew his father well enough to know that he wouldn’t surrender the suitcase to the Germans. When he started running, his flight caught everyone off guard. He had reason enough, but it wasn’t apremeditated decision to flee. His head was light, his legs started to move. He dropped the cashmere coat, pumped his fists, darted as fast as he could toward the trees.
A second passed. Oskar’s footsteps resounded with a wet squish. Then the sergeant drew his pistol. He didn’t issue a warning. He simply grabbed the toggle to cock the hammer and load a bullet into the chamber, straightened his arm. As much effort as Oskar was expending, he wasn’t moving fast. His feet were slipping, the landscape was roiling. The small forest loomed in front of him. He saw a raven land on a twig then jump into the air and soar. A fern caught the sun like an emerald. A dead branch reached toward him like a blackened hand.
The German had the back of the boy’s head fixed in his aim, blocked by the black, triangular edge of the front sight, when Fredrik took hold of his wrist. The sergeant’s finger squeezed the trigger, but the round plugged the soil at Oskar’s feet. Mud splattered Oskar’s legs, the recoil vibrated up Fredrik’s arm. His son kept running. The farmhand’s fingers clamped the German’s forearm, buried themselves into his muscle and sinew, and crushed his bones as easily as if he were sinking his fingers into a block of butter.
The young soldier watched from the corner of his eye as Fredrik snatched the pistol from the sergeant and swung his boot into the sergeant’s shins. The leg splintered with a loud crack, the tall German dropped to his knees. His cigarette tumbled from his lips, hit the pavement with a shower of sparks. In the same motion, Fredrik let go of the sergeant’s arm, ratcheted back the hammer, fired a bullet point-blank into the sergeant’s head. With the crack of the shot, the smell of gunpowder permeated the cold morning. Blood peppered the young soldier. He barely had time to look directly at Fredrik before the gun was cocked again and a second bullethad found its way into his forehead. The force of the projectile sent him sprawling backward. His skull shattered against the asphalt. Then, except for the idle of the truck, it was quiet again. The two dead soldiers rested side by side in an unmoving heap. The sergeant’s cigarette rolled to the edge of the road, where it lay smoldering, sending a weak finger of smoke into the still air.
“What the —” Axel spun around.
Fredrik was still moving. He took a clumsy step, knocked the suitcase flying, scrambled toward the cab of the truck. Jewels spilled across the road like liquefied amber. His eyes met the driver’s in the side mirror. It registered that the driver was another soldier barely older than Oskar and was too stunned to react. The boy’s hand shot not for his gun but for the gearshift.
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