Brothers Beyond Blood by Don Kafrissen

Author:Don Kafrissen [Kafrissen, Don]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, Historical, Jewish, World Literature, Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9781575500355
Google: dq1bngEACAAJ
Amazon: B00BMGLYEC
Publisher: International Digital Book Publishing Industries
Published: 2013-02-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18 - Herschel’s Story

I grabbed Hans under his arm and helped him to his feet. In the dim moonlight we embraced.

“Thank you, Herschel,” he said simply.

We stepped back into the shadows and watched what was happening across the street. A jeep carrying a single wounded man sped back toward the road, turned left and sped toward the medical clinic I had been released from a short time ago. A medic bent over the rear where a stretcher was secured. We couldn’t make out the wounded figure or his attire.

“Was that someone you knew, Hans?”

He shrugged, “I do not know. I hope not. I mean, I hope my friends were not the two bodies they are loading now.” A 4x4 truck had come out and slowly made its way to where the bodies lay. We saw several soldiers climb out of the truck and begin to hoist them inside in their blankets.

I pulled on Hans’ arm. “Come, we need to lose you in the camp.”

Silently we slipped from shadow to shadow. Near the front of the camp, a crowd had gathered trying to see what was happening in the prison camp across the road. We skirted the rear of the crowd and found my tent. Inside, Reb Horowitz and Mendel were reading a book they’d borrowed from the small library the Red Cross people had started. The Reb had reverted to his role of teacher, as both Mendel and I were eager to continue our schooling.

I entered the tent, tugging Hans in behind me. Mendel looked up, and then struggled to his feet, or rather, his foot. The artificial leg was propped against his bunk. Reb Horowitz cocked an eyebrow; his spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

“My friends, this is my brother, Hans.” I shoved him before me and into the light of the kerosene lantern.

Reb Horowitz turned it brighter and squinted, looking up. “I know you,” he said.

“Yes, sir, you do.” Hans sat heavily on the edge of my bunk and leaned forward toward the old man. “I am Hans Rothberg. I was a guard at your camp. I am sorry, sir, for everything I did there.”

I interrupted them. “Reb, Mendel, Hans saved my life. Now I have to save his. I need your help. We both do.”

The Reb studied him, and then said slowly, “You arrived only a few months before the Americans came. The gassings were over by then, were they not?”

“Yes, sir. I had no part in that, nor would I have.”

“Do you remember when Sergeant Granski shot the three cooks in the kitchen?” I asked.

The Reb nodded.

“I was there. Granski was just about to shoot me when Hans here stepped between us. I am alive because of a camp guard.” I took a deep breath. “He is now my brother. I ask you both to accept him.”

The Reb looked at each of us, at Hans the longest. “How old are you, young man?”

“I am seventeen years, sir. Why?”

“I want to insure that you have a long life, my son.

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