Forgiveness

• Tom Hart, Grade 10, Tamborine Mountain State High School
• Short Story
• 2017

1st in the 'Write Here Write Now 2017' competition

Can you smell the smoke? Thickening the ever-expanding gloom that stretches across the skies - darkening the joyful blue to a looming black. Can you hear the marching? The unstoppable beat of booted feet echoing down the shadowy suburban canyons of Hamburg. Can you see it? The swift pouring of jet black jackets and blood red armbands down the street.
These marching jackets represent all that is evil. They are vile, unfeeling, ruthless, and loyal. The worst part? Many of them are just too young. These ‘men’ were nabbed by Hitler’s youth for Nazi recruitment fresh out of school. The boys don’t know anything else - they have only been taught one thing and one thing only- loyalty to the Fuhrer. It doesn’t matter what Hitler asks for. It doesn’t matter how brutal or cruel. It doesn’t matter if they vomit immediately after completing an extermination-they do it for the ‘good’ of the Fatherland.
The thundering draws ever closer - not only through the air but along the ground. How ironic - that the very police, sworn to protect and comfort, now inspire fear and dread with every step. The continuous sound of surface crushed under Nazi soles draws closer to my door - changing from the smacking of concrete to the shifting of gravel. A terrifying silence ensures as they reach my door. There is nowhere to hide. The soldiers tear the homes apart; forcefully removing the residents by any means necessary, then confiscating wealth to fund the German War effort.
Finally, the burning of possessions; books, scriptures, notes, no matter what - dissent of word nor thought has no place in the Filhrer’s ‘utopic’ Germany.
Suddenly there is a thunderous blow against my door. The screw in the corner frame busts and ricochets off the wall - leaving a harsh, charcoal indent on the floral wallpaper. The door comes down. In my last minutes I run my fingers across the fraying wool of the armchair - I had never noticed how dishevelled yet comforting the straying lines of fabric had become. It is of no comfort now. Two men move from the door frame directly into the kitchen. Another four pushes into the living room raising their weapons in my face. They can’t afford to kill me in my house. A public execution is preferred to inflict fear across the neighbourhood.
The soldier closest to me crashes the wooden stock of his rifle into my skull. Disorientated, I am dragged out onto the street. The soldiers drop me into the mud. I struggle onto my knees and look at the rain puddles. An inaudible shouting makes its way through the ringing in my ears. I lift my gaze to meet that of a rabid screaming officer. The rain travels towards me as it runs down the barrel of his gun.
“If there is a God he will have to beg my forgiveness.”