Leading Edge
I spotted something dark in the shimmering, icy rapids that sloshed among the rocks. I reached down to pull it out and held the dripping object up. It was a cap. An officer’s cap, with the skull insignia of the SS-Totenkopfverbände. But the black band was thicker, twice as thick as the band on my own cap. It had to be Waldhar’s. It had to be; no other officer in the camp wore that uniform. All at once the memory of the sound of that haunting violin pressed against my ears and made my head throb. The footprints led to the river, implying that whoever had come down to the river, had gone into it. I looked at the water—there was no way anyone would have survived if they’d gone into those rapids. That meant that Waldhar was . . . and I had been following the same path, headed to the river myself . . . Suddenly irrationally terrified, I dropped the hat, letting it splash back into the water. I turned and sprinted back to my quarters. My hands shook as I yanked the door shut and shot the bolt across the door. I left the light on and threw myself, coat, boots, and all, under my blankets. Waldhar was dead. Ferka was gone. How was I supposed to get through the rest of the war in one piece if Ferka was gone? My boots caught on the framework of my bed, and I grabbed at them, annoyed. I yanked them off, and threw them under my bed violently. But they didn’t hit the wall. There wasn’t a thunk—there was a clattering, a skidding of another object beneath my mattress. I hung my head over the side of my bed and nearly laughed out loud in relief. The violin case. Ferka had left it there, and he would never have done that unless he was planning to come back. At least, I dearly hoped so. I grabbed the handle, pulled it out, and brushed off the mud my boots had left on it. I held onto it desperately with one hand, even as I fell back asleep, afraid that it would evaporate into the night like its owner.
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I was awakened by a splintering crash—followed by loud, joyous cheering that made
my tired head throb. Still clutching the violin case, I stumbled outside into the commons. It was packed with cheering prisoners. There were no guards, no men in Nazi uniform. There were only prisoners, headed for the still-open gates. I turned around and, for the first time, looked at the hallway of the officers’ quarters. Mine was the only door that had been shut—the others were thrown open, the keys, for some, still in their locks. Frowning, I turned back to the commons, and went down the steps. The ground was still soaked, but without my boots, I didn’t slip like I normally did. Some of the prisoners glanced at me as I weaved my way towards the gates, perhaps concerned I was planning to lock them in again. I wasn’t going to attempt to create any sort of order all by myself, and I certainly wasn’t going to try and stop the exodus. I wanted to leave with them. Get the hell out.
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