Jean  Yesudas       Mrs.Mirecka  /  p.7  

The Final Remorse The air was still, nobody spoke, as though the world was on standby. It was intense,

heavy and harsh. Reminiscent of trudging through quicksand. My heart and soul were being

pulled down to my conscience, while they fought to stay up.

I should feel remorse, nervous, even fearful… today was the day I would lose it all, but

the only thoughts that kept running through my mind were, “I am right.” And… I am.

From the moment I started this “business” you could say, I knew I was right. The

Jews… or even the Americans had absolutely no say in the matter, no permission in fact, to

blame the Germans, or worst yet, me. I have no intention of changing what I believe, I am a

Nazi, and in my opinion, why should I feel sorry? I was only following orders, if they wanted

to blame anyone, they should hold Hitler responsible himself, but of course they would find

fault in everyone that supported him as well.

The winds had slowly moved past me, barely even shifting my hair. The plain cerulean

skies seemed to call at me with its bareness, not a single bird was soaring through the

depressing wisps of clouds. I felt the glares, boring into my back. I did not even dare to look,

I already knew their faces by heart: defiant, and with clear hatred bright on their features.

The enmity toward who I am and what I do did not shame me though, no, not at all; it

only made me stronger, made me believe even more that I had done the right thing. When I

was chosen to slaughter a whole family, I did it with honor and pride. When I was asked to

shoot the youngest and the oldest of every household, they were dead even before they

realized we had come to kill.

Any order I received, I followed through. I was right. No matter what the rest of the world

believed, I just loved to kill Jews.

All my life, from the day I was born, I was raised to think that Jew’s did not belong, that

they were not fit enough to live with Pure Aryans… blonde hair, blue eyes. Of course when I

was younger, I thought scorning someone because of their religion, or how they looked like,

was absolutely absurd. But once I started to grow up, and it was the norm to join the

Hitlerjugend, a prestigious organization to train young Nazi officers like myself at the time, I

    Jean  Yesudas       Mrs.Mirecka  /  p.7  

learned to stay away from them, and win the pride of the Nazi Officers within my family

itself.

My main goal was to do everything exactly like the Perfect Nazi. I wanted the highest

position in rank. I wanted all the medals and trophies given by Hitler himself. I wanted it all,

including my fathers’ pride. And with lots of hard work, determination, and permanently

stopping everyone that got in my way, I was rewarded. Right hand man to Hitler, but the first

to be sent to the gallows.

I knew as the war was starting to end, and we had come to our first loss against the

Americans, all of us would eventually come to this pitiful end. The gallows were my expected

death. I was sent with an unfair trial, a judgmental judge, and a jury full of vile Jews.

The closer we neared, the slower time had gotten. I had began to remember everything;

my first uniform, first gun, first medal. I was proud, proud as anyone of my status should be.

I could see the gallows now, blade sharp, and crowd ready. We neared, almost right

across from my final departure. Hundreds of pupils, traced my every move, watched my

every muscle, and stared even sharper this time, straight into my spine; cutting, electric, and

pierced.

I glanced up. My mind had suddenly been carried into a sea of sadness. It should soften

me, open up my heart, even a little. But I could only stare back with the same smug smile I

wore all day, provoking many of the onlookers to curse. Every time I had seen someone cry

and turn away, I would wonder if they knew me. Knew specifically what I had done, to a

personal extent. I never felt hurt by their feelings. I have seen eyes fill up with tears more than

once, more than twice, and it didn’t even matter to me anymore.

The people, washed out and sickly thin still held their head high. Children were hoisted

on to the backs of their parents, not even scared for the horror they were about to see. My

eyes slid across the tops of the heads, and then quickly down.

A particular girl, with large eyes, and soft curls of chocolate surrounding her thin, pale

face, stood out. I couldn’t stop staring.

    Jean  Yesudas       Mrs.Mirecka  /  p.7  

Her eyes, auburn in the sun, were as though they were of a 96 year old woman, a woman who

had lived her life completely and was ready to die… but this girl, not even half the age she

proved to be, had the same expression.

Not sad, not hateful, just tired; as though all her life had been drained, slowly.

I was brought up on to the stand. Cheers erupted, shaking the ground I was kneeling on.

The crude gallows, made completely of wood, was ready for me.

My chin touched the roughness. The whole time, my eyes had been on the child. Her

stony expression and lifeless eyes kept my gaze fixed on her face.

Swish! The blade was released.

My eyes met the girls, in that frozen moment, we met an understanding, she ran through

the crowd, to the street, alone, in her dirty dress, and broken shoes.

For the first time in my life, as the blade was just millimeters away from my neck, I felt

sad, sorry, and … peace.