Bloodshed Injustice

The midday breeze was crammed with subdued wintriness, gunshots and the eerie screams of women as each bullet was fired. Mothers wept for their sons and daughters from afar, screaming self-acquainted names and German obscenities to the sky as one out of a thousand children fell to their knees and collapsed to the ground.

My son’s life was taken during sunrise.

I was in the crowd, a head among a myriad of other mothers who stood by, freezing and numb in my scant clothing. He, on the other hand, was at the opposite end of the camp, half-dressed and cold as the other young boys were. I caught sight of him lining up patiently (a trait he inherited from me), his arms wrapped around his feeble chest, shifting side by side as he searched for me as well.

The stream of tears that had gushed from my eyes was not because of the anticipation of both our deaths, but of the immeasurable paint of joy on his face as he eventually found me – my boy waved frantically and a throaty “Mami” escaped from his shivering lips. I raised my right hand to give it a little sway but kept the other one firmly on my mouth to stifle the whimpers I have fought to hide.

Another high-pitched wail was discharged into the air. The brawny lad in front of my son had already surrendered to the floor. It was his turn.

I kept his gaze as he was ushered by a soldier (grünes Männchen as he always called them) to step forward and stand still. His black hair was illuminated by the sun’s light as it rose to meet with his eyes – his father’s eyes.

Nothing else was remarked by my senses during those seconds but my son’s last traces of life – last blink, last unconscious raise of his left eyebrow, last twitch of the nose, last toothless smile, last breath…

Before my eyes was the thievery of my son’s life and the fate of a million others.