She had never really known what Horst did out there in the East. His letters were frequent enough, but he never talked about the war. Perhaps he would mention the weather or the discomforts of life on the front, but nothing more than that. The most information he ever offered to anyone – his own wife included – was that he was assigned to an anti-partisan unit. Especially because she knew so little about his life as a soldier, she cherished having him home, even if it was just a week of leave.
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The earth yawned, exhaling fetid gases from its gaping maw, the swampy forest perfect for hiding the horrors buried within. Blood ran in streams, down the backs of children’s necks, women’s hysterical screaming echoing above the noise of the rifles and occasional machine gun. The deep pits were filled with innocent, naked corpses, covered with black soil by the tractors that they had liberated from the village just hours before.
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The tortured mumbling woke her with a start, realizing after a moment of confusion that it was Horst who was speaking, talking in his sleep. He jerked and flinched, his words barely decipherable.
Eingraben. Frauen. Kinder auch. Erschossen. Eintausend. Zwei.
The loose jumble of terms sent shivers down her spine. “It’s just a dream.” she whispered, trying to calm the still-unconscious young man. “Please,” she whispered, voice desperate as the horrifying reality dawned on her.
“Please let it all just be a dream.”
Sleep talking
Published
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