Free In the Land of Armadillos by Helen Maryles Shankman Page A

Max saw Toby looking carefully up and down Mickiewicz Street. Adela took his elbow, and they stepped down off the curb. Halfway across the intersection, Hackendahl caught up with them, coming up behind Toby and putting his arm around him, pulling him close to his chest. Toby looked frightened; Max saw his hands come up to pry at the SS man’s grip, his long white fingers fluttering against the black uniform.
    Even in the best of health, Toby would have been no match for the strapping SS officer. The gun was already in Hackendahl’s hand. He raised it to Toby’s temple and pulled the trigger.
    Did Max really scream the word no, or did he just think he did? As he lurched forward, his legs numbly pumping, Hackendahl fired again, then stepped away. Toby was a crumpled heap at his feet.
    Time warped and stretched like a rubber band as Max elbowed his way through the crosscurrents of soldiers and civilians clogging the street. He squatted beside Toby, aghast. His hat had fallen upside down in the gutter; blood was leaking out of a ghastly hole in the side of his head. Gently, he took his arms and rolled him onto his back.
    There was no mistaking it, Toby was dead. His eyes were wide open, the pupils dilating. On the gray, wasted face, the deep lines were fading, replaced by an expression of ceaseless wonder.
    Max seized him by the shoulders. Toby’s lips parted with a click, as if he were going to say something. But his mouth was full of blood.
    â€œAre you happy now?” he shouted down at the dead face. “You finally got what you wanted, you dumb Jew bastard. Is this better?” Helpless with fury, he shook him, Toby’s head rolling loosely from side to side.
    Gruber was standing over him. “Stop it, Haas,” he said quietly. “He’s dead.”
    Max blinked. A gaggle of townspeople was gawking at him in horror. When he looked up, they scattered, continuing hurriedly on their way. Slowly, he let Toby sink back onto the cobblestones, then got to his feet. Hackendahl was posed like a recruiting poster for the SS, legs apart, smoke drifting from the muzzle of his pistol.
    â€œLast month,” he said, spitting out the words. “At the Judenrat. Remember? You killed fifteen Jews.” Max stared at him with repelled amazement. “One of them was Liederman, my dentist.” Incredibly, he was wiping his eyes. “He was not a bad little fellow,” he blubbered. “Why did you have to kill him? Do you know how hard it is to find a good dentist?”
    Hackendahl prodded Toby’s flank with the toe of his boot. “There,” he said shortly. “You killed my Jew. Now I killed yours.” The skirts of his coat billowed in the wind as he turned on his heel and went back to join Rohlfe in the market square.
    Max wanted to tear his fucking head off, beat him with his own gun until his brains came out of his ears, but that wasn’t possible. There was nothing he could do. He squeezed his eyes closed, pressed his shaking hand over his mouth. He was afraid he would scream. At the same time, his throat was closing up; it was hard to breathe. He didn’t feel a thing, he told himself savagely. It was over in seconds. He fell without a sound.
    But none of that brought even the slightest glimmer of comfort. There was a tightness in his chest that was swelling rapidly into bottomless, insurmountable, desolating, terrifying grief. The world staggered beneath his feet.
    That was when he remembered Adela. Max looked up, and found her standing a little distance away. When she noticed him seeking her, she vanished into the milling crowd.
    Gruber was calling his name, and he heard himself automatically answer yes. After a last sorrowful glance, he turned away. The body lying in a halo of blood wasn’t Toby anymore; whatever Toby had been was gone.
    Slowly and deliberately, Max walked back to the market square. With every step, he battled for control over his emotions,