Promised Land

by Brandon Dean

  I was on the ground outside, but not for long, before I was pulled to my feet by another thickly accented Nazi and told to walk. My leg was pulsing in pain, but I knew better than to show signs of weakness. I was behind Emmett, and we walked toward a large building—an old, abandoned church with a white concrete steeple standing several tens of feet above the rest of the structure. The place was swarming with Nazis; I counted seven of them total: two walking around near us, two on the rooftop with rifles, and three in guard towers.

  A chain-link fence with barbed wire crudely wrapped around the top was all that separated the church from the outdoor living area. Carelessly built shacks constructed from what seemed to be sheet metal and plywood scattered around the yard served as the living quarters. Some of the prisoners leaned against the fence, watching the new arrivals. Some looked emaciated, their skin stretched like tight leather over their skeletons. Some looked as if they hadn’t been there as long and still had some body weight to them. But all of them looked as if they were dead inside, and all of them wore matching clothes: white pants and a long-sleeved shirt with blue vertical lines. I stopped to take in what I was looking at, but was soon shoved back into motion by a German soldier telling me to keep moving.

  We were in front of the church, and a German soldier stepped ahead of Emmett to open the door for us. I looked down at my leg, feeling a strange warmth spreading over it. My pant leg was soaked in my blood. I prayed they wouldn’t notice.

  We were inside the church in the meeting hall, just before the nave. Our wrists were unbound, and we were told to stand against the wall on the farthest right side of the room next to two other newly captured men. Both of them stood there in terror, in nothing but their underwear. One of them was about my age, and the other around Emmett’s. They both had black hair and a similar facial shape; I assumed they were father and son.

  The two Germans from before stood on the other end of the room. “Take the clothes off,” one of the Nazis demanded in broken English. We obeyed and stood next to the other two men.

  “What’s going on?” the younger man asked as I stood next to him.

  “Don’t,” Emmett said out of the side of his mouth, indicating that it would be best for us to stay quiet.

  I reluctantly ignored the young man’s question.

  It seemed to be hours that we stood against that wall, looking around at the dull white walls of the church lobby. A couple of wooden benches, a second metal door with stairs visible through a small window slit, withering potted plants, and pictures of Christ and religious icons scattered about provided an ironic setting. The two Germans on the other end stood there, completely silent with loaded rifles in hand, the entire time.

  A heavy metal door leading to the nave opened as a third German walked out, carrying a bag in his hand. His boots shone in the light; his uniform was perfectly ironed and pressed. He appeared to be an officer rather than one of the grunts I had seen up until that point. For a split second as the door closed behind him I glimpsed pews lined up evenly in front of the pulpit with stained-glass windows and art behind it.

  “Hello,” the German officer said, his voice echoing off the walls of the lobby.

  Emmett, the other prisoners, and I remained silent as the officer awaited a response.

  “I said hello!” he screamed in impatience.

  “Hello,” we replied dutifully, afraid of what would happen if we didn’t.

  The officer approached the four of us and reached into his pocket to pull out a stopwatch. He dumped the contents of his bag onto the ground. Uniforms, obviously used heavily, with brown bloodstains on them. “Here. You will do what you’re told. If you fail, you pay,” he said as he started his watch. “Sixty seconds. Get dressed.”

  All four of us dove to the floor to grab whatever clothing we could. I was in possession of two pairs of pants, and Emmett two shirts. We swapped one for one with each other as the father and son were already getting dressed. I slipped into my pants and then my shirt as quickly as I could as the officer announced, “Fifteen seconds remaining.” I got ready and stood against the wall next to Emmett, who had already completed the task.

  “Time is up!” the officer informed us, looking to see who had successfully complied. He gave both Emmett and me a look of satisfaction before going over to the older man, who stood shirtless to my far right. “Where is your shirt?” he asked.

  “There were only three. I couldn’t get one in time.”

  The officer growled in anger, “I told you what happens.”

  “Please, give me another chance!” he pleaded. “I just need a shirt!”

  The officer smiled wickedly. “I see,” he said before unholstering a pistol on his side and shooting the younger boy in the head, his blood splattering on the wall behind him. “Take his! Sixty seconds!” the officer demanded.

  “Jesus Christ,” Emmett mumbled. “Don’t let it get to you. Tune it out.”

  The older man was in a panic, trying to put his son’s head back together in a desperate fit of shock and sorrow.

  “Twenty!” the officer said moments later.

  The man didn’t care; he was still holding the warm corpse of his son close to him.

  “Ten,” the officer said.

  Still nothing. The screams and yells coming from the man kept coming. And then they stopped as a bullet pierced his skull. Father and son lay there motionless, intertwined with each other in death.

  The officer walked over to Emmett and me. “Congratulations!” he said with sadistic glee. We remained silent. “Happy! Celebrate! Clap!” the officer instructed. Emmett and I looked to each other and obeyed. “That’s enough!” the officer barked suddenly. “This way, come.”

  We followed the German officer through a back door of the church and into the yard. The space itself was a wide-open plot of shin-high browning grass, about the same size of a high school football field. No doubt, the fences surrounding it were placed there deliberately to keep people inside. I looked back toward the building; on top stood two German soldiers keeping watch over the prisoners like wardens. Prisoners dragged their feet as they walked around helplessly. Most of them looked like they could drop dead at any second from malnourishment, while those who may have looked physically stronger didn’t look as if they were in any better condition mentally.

  I looked over at Emmett and noticed the number on a patch sewn onto the left side of his shirt. He was number 184, and I was 166.

  Off to the left, I could make out a large ditch dug into the ground, several feet in length and depth. A thick cloud of flies and gnats swarmed over it. I didn’t have to look closely to know it was a mass grave.

  “How’s that leg, boy?” I heard a voice from behind me say. It was Willard; I couldn’t forget that voice, despite how hard I wanted to. I took a moment to collect my composure, then turned around to face him.

  “What? Cat got your tongue, boy?” Willard asked.

  “What did you do with her?” I said, my voice evenly measured but still threatening.

  “It ain’t what I did with her that matters now. It’s what someone else is doing to her.”

  The Nazi officer noticed us talking. “Friend of yours?” he sneered.

  My face was beet red with rage. Emmett must have noticed; he positioned himself beside me to give me a quiet word of advice. “I ain’t trying to die today, and neither should you. That girl of yours ain’t gonna make it if she ain’t got no help. Calm down.”

  Willard laughed at Emmett’s advice, giving me the once over and smirking. “It’s over—you lost,” he said to me.

  The officer instructed Willard to show us our living space and left to return to the church.

  “This way, pissants,” Willard said as we trailed behind him. “Here.” He stopped in front of a poorly built shack and looked at Emmett. “What skills do you have, Negro?”

  “I was in
the Navy during the first war,” Emmett said.

  “Good. I’ll tell the boss you can keep inventory,” Willard replied before looking at me. “And you, I don’t give a shit what a useless worm like you can do.”

  “Oh, but you care what I’ve done,” I retorted.

  Willard’s cockiness dissolved into fury. “That smart mouth isn’t going to help you. When the day comes and we put you down like the dog you are, I’ll be the one behind the trigger. Just like that old whore back at the house. You’ll be digging those ditches over there until your hands are nothing more than raw meat over bone, and then you’ll be buried in the same hole you helped dig, boy.”

  I stared at him, trying not to look threatened.

  “Breaking you down is going to be fun, I can tell. Now get inside, and get what rest you can. You’ll need it for the morning,” Willard rasped.

  Emmett and I walked up the shoddy steps leading to the shack. What we saw inside was dismal.

  Had there not been a poorly cut hole in the door used as a half-assed window, there wouldn’t have been any light at all, and the smell was like nothing I had ever experienced. Four other men lay across the floor, their bodies covered in blisters that told of being brutalized and overworked. I wasn’t sure if they were even alive. Maybe that’s what the smell is: death, I thought. The floors were filthy, and a large pile of feces and other bodily fluids infested with maggots and flies occupied the far-most corner.

  The facial expressions of the men in the room—I had never seen anything like it. All of them looked as if they would welcome death as a mercy, each of them clearly starved and so weak that every breath was a struggle.

  Emmett took a seat against the wall, as far away as he could be from the other men inside the cramped shack. “I’m not gonna die here,” he said as I sat on the floor next to him.

  “What do we do?” I asked, hoping he had some kind of plan.

  He looked around the room at the four men who still hadn’t moved an inch since we’d walked inside. “I don’t know, but we have to do something before we end up like them,” he said.

  “How did you get here?” I asked Emmett.

  “We were trying to make it to Cincinnati. A caravan I was a part of from Indianapolis traveled here on foot. We got intercepted by the Nazis about halfway through. We fought the best we could. Some of us got away, and some of us were killed. I wasn’t lucky enough to have either one happen,” Emmett said. “What about you?”

  “We were hiding just outside of Cleveland. Me and my parents. Dad didn’t make it. Mom and I went out, found an old farmhouse, and stayed with the old woman and the girl there—Hazel. You’ve heard me say her name. We were getting ready to leave when Willard caught up to us.”

  “It all comes back to that prick, don’t it?” Emmett asked. He turned his head to look at the malnourished beings sharing the room with us. “We can’t end up like them. I hate to say it, but our roommates over there ain’t gonna last another week.”

  “What do we do? We can’t just try our luck with killing those guards out there. It’s suicide!” I said more loudly than I’d intended.

  I heard a sharp rap on the front door. “Pipe down in there!” a voice said in perfect English. A voice I had heard before, many, many times. A voice that was once comforting to me. I was confused as to why I was hearing it then.

  I stood and looked through the makeshift window. “Riley!” I exclaimed in shock.

  The uniformed soldier who was walking away stopped to turn around slowly, and I found myself looking into the eyes of my best friend.

  Riley made sure nobody was looking and then jogged back to the shack. “Brodsky! What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered.

  “I’m on vacation, you dumbass! What’s it look like?” I retorted.

  “I thought you were a goner!” Riley said.

  “Not yet, but I will be if I stay here. I need your help. I need it now more than ever!” I begged.

  Riley stepped back from the window. “I’m sorry,” he said regretfully. “I can’t . . .”

  “You can’t? What the hell do you mean, you can’t?” I demanded.

  “I mean . . . I’m not much better off than you. They have my mom, Clint. They said if I work and follow instruction, they won’t kill her. You understand, I’m only trying to do right,” Riley said heavily, obviously feeling immense guilt from what he was doing.

  “Do right?” I spat.

  “Do you think I want to do this?” Riley shouted, glancing around in worry that his outburst had been noticed.

  “This ain’t like old times, man. I’m sorry. Things change. We can’t just be kids from Mayfield anymore. I hope one day you’ll understand,” Riley said more quietly before walking off.

  “You backstabbing asshole! How could you let this happen?” I screamed from the window as Riley kept walking away from me, ignoring my words. “Goddammit!” I shouted, going back to reclaim my seat on the floor near Emmett.

  “You seem to know a lot of folks in here,” he remarked.

  I shook my head. “I used to know him. He used to be my best friend. But that guy parading around with a swastika on his shoulder? I don’t know him.”

  Emmett chuckled. “Sometimes we can’t be who we really are. Only what we have to be to see another day.”

  Emmett’s words resonated. They echoed, in a way, what Willard had said, but he was too much of a lost cause for me to truly understand what it meant. I only wished I had realized it sooner.

  If I wanted to get out of that place, that hellhole, I’d eventually have to do it.

  I’d have to go too far left.

  Chapter 16

  Rise and shine!” Willard’s scratchy voice said from the doorway of our shack.

  The sun had just begun to rise, and the misty morning air had yet to settle.

  A German soldier grabbed Emmett by the arm, and the look he gave me warned me to keep my anger in check while he was gone. After he’d been pulled outside, Emmett was escorted and followed by armed soldiers who would take him to his assigned duties.

  Willard pointed at me. “Get up!” he commanded.

  I reluctantly followed him to a large ditch several feet away from the shack.

  “Hope it was worth it, boy. Welcome to the first of your last days on this earth!” he crowed.

  “Let her go, Willard. This doesn’t involve her,” I said without preamble.

  “Jesus Christ, you sure know how to beat a dead horse, don’t you?” he asked, turning to give me a condescending look before laughing in my face. “Didn’t get much sleep last night, huh?” he asked. “You look like hell—not that your scrawny ass looked too great to begin with.” Willard turned around and resumed the walk to wherever we were going.

  I stood in front of it before long. Dozens of naked, decaying bodies filled a large hole to the ridge. Some looked like recent additions, while others had varying degrees of rot. I could see decomposed flesh cracked and separated from skulls and bone, bluish-gray-pigmented skin, and bacteria-ridden stomachs that were bloated while still attached to their skeletal structures. Maggots crawled through a playground of empty eye sockets, gaping mouths, and skulls riddled with bullet holes. The number of flies was incalculable, and it sent a chill down my spine to know that I might have been wearing the clothes of one of the bodies inside that hole—someone else who had once been number 166.

  Willard handed me a shovel and gestured to a large pile of fill dirt. “Cover it up. Better be done by nightfall.”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me? That a threat or promise?” I asked.

  Willard opened his eyes wide in mock shock. “Trying to be a tough guy, huh? Trying to make me think I don’t scare you?”

  “What’s left to be scared of?” I asked.

  “You can stop with the charade, boy. I can see it, them legs of yours, shaking like a
drunk in front of a judge. Your fear stinks from a mile away,” Willard scoffed.

  “You know the funniest part about all this?” I asked. “The Germans don’t give a damn about you. You parade around like you’re some big shot, but all you are is a demented, bigoted joke. And as soon as you outlive your purpose, you’ll be in that hole, too.”

  Willard smiled crookedly and walked off the way he’d come. “I’ll be back to check on that hole, boy,” he said over his shoulder.

  I’m not sure how long it took me to cover that grave. Wasn’t too long, though, before I started to feel the first layer of skin rub off of my fingers and palms from the friction of the wooden shovel handle. Muscle fatigue had set into my shoulders, and with each scoop of dirt, lifting the shovel got increasingly more difficult. And the smell was indescribable. I threw up seven times while digging, though I had nothing more than stomach acid to vomit by then. It burned my nostrils and throat, leaving a sour taste in my mouth, and my shirt collar and sleeve were eventually soaked in it as I wiped my lips to rid them of the residue. Adding to my misery, my leg was still sore and made itself the most troublesome when I had to rise after repetitive bending over my task. I could feel the warmth of blood trickling out of me as my wound ripped open more and more with the extension of my legs.

  A dark shadow was cast over me in the setting sun as I was finishing up the job. “I need to talk to you,” Riley said quietly.

  I turned around wearily, sweat and dirt soaking my clothes and skin. “Why don’t you learn German so you can talk to your friends?” I asked.

  “You don’t understand,” Riley insisted, taking the shovel from my hand and placing it on the ground.

  “Who says they’re keeping their word? You always used your dick to do all your thinking, but I know you have a brain up there somewhere!” I said. “Do you really trust goddamned Nazis with your mother’s life?”

  “No, but what other choice do I have?” Riley countered.

  I sighed. “You always—”