Three Seconds

Unblinking eyes of a wrinkled man stared at him: raw, pained, exposed, stripped void. Bareness was the only presence; everything else had been taken.

People did this. Bruno gawked at the declaration. Other humans caused this. Humans just like him. Just like me. My people did this. They destroyed him. I destroyed him.

The man shouldn't look be this thin, this tattered, this torn beyond human capabilities to mend—but he was. But. There was always a but. There was always another Jewish corpse. There was always another unlawful punishment, unwarranted human sacrifice to suffice for the crime committed by breathing, by living, by being a Jew.

"Stand," he told the man, voice measured, low.

I could be killed for this.

"Follow me."

Someone could have their gun barrel aimed at me right now. I could be a target. I could die in three seconds. Two. One.

No shots were fired. The man hauled himself along. He didn't look scared anymore. He was wiped of the element of fear ages ago. But not wiped; wiping purifies. He was wiped of something that doesn't cleanse, something that kills. He could die—but like every german soldier, every jew is replaceable. Brutus wished he could give something back to him. Anything. His life. Yet at least that.

Brutus had a feeling the man had lost a lot more than his life in three seconds.