Running

By David Seller

Having witnessed incredible brutalities in the Lodz Ghetto, eighteen year old Saul Weinberg decides it is time to escape.

But staying out and alive is proving very tricky as he faces constant threat with the locals and nature itself, and with every day bringing new challenges he soon finds himself wondering whether there is indeed anywhere for him to run...

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Seller
• Release date: Oct 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311547781

Book preview

RUNNING

DAVID SELLER

Copyright 2013 David Seller

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information, visit: davidseller.wordpress.com

Cover design by Kat Spencer

With special thanks to…

Kat Spencer, who dedicated valuable time and effort towards the production of this work.

Naomi, Josh and Becks…for being you.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Afterword

Chapter One

My name is Saul Weinberg and I'm on the run.

I escaped this evening from the Lodz Ghetto, and while the actual getting away was a feat in itself, the real tests lie ahead of me.

The rain is lashing down on me, stinging my neck; my clothes, threadbare and inadequate, clinging wetly to my frail physique. The curfew is in place, so apart from the patrolling Germans, the streets are deserted. Which is a relief: there are Poles out there who are every bit as bad as the Nazis.

The water is seeping in through the soles of my shoes as I splash through the puddles, chilling my toes - amazing how these trifling matters can be so bothersome. I suddenly see the glare of the torch which indicates the German patrol is about to round the corner and I slide hastily beneath a low peddler cart abandoned roadside. The boots click menacingly, audible over the driving rain, the torch-lights probing and I try to make myself as small as possible, holding my breath for what seems like an interminably long time. The two Germans finally move away and at last I can slide out, my body shivering from the freezing cobblestones, and move on.

The problem is that I don't have a destination – no address or acquaintance I can turn to for shelter, and there is only so long that I can dodge these patrols, because some of them have dogs.

I'm not sure what I'm looking for exactly, but my feet are taking me past the school now, towards the slightly less populated area of Lodz. There are no tall buildings here, just small private lodgings, cottages, bungalows and the like. I've lost all feeling in my feet; my toes are numb from the chill, my whole foot feels like it belongs to someone else.

I see a small house with a detached barn alongside it. Chances are there are animals sleeping there, but if it's just for storing equipment or food then I may have just found my bed for the night. I slink up quietly. The barn door is wide, the kind that can creak alarmingly when you open them. I try easing it open but it won't budge.

Locked. Of course. I'm not about to give up and I quickly circle the barn, looking for some kind of opening, a hole of sorts to squeeze myself through. Nothing.

I continue walking; I desperately want to lie down already. I'm wet, tired and hungry, but still I must go on.

***

This barn is open. I can see the door swinging from where I'm standing. Only a few minutes further down the street and possibly even more isolated. Perfect.

There is a pervading smell of rotting wood; there are also piles of nondescript stuff on the floor, but tonight this place will suit me just fine.

Stacked against the wall are some bales of hay – if the smell is anything to go by, they've sat here for years – and I squeeze myself behind them. The smell is nauseating, but in a rare twist of irony, I have nothing to throw up in any case. I rest my head on a small strip of cloth – possibly a scarf - and I try to fall asleep. My stomach is growling from hunger but it's a sensation I've grown accustomed to, and I ignore it and close my eyes, listening to the rain dancing noisily off the roof overhead. My head is a hive of racing thoughts, past, future, present, but somewhere in the midst of it all I drift off.

***

The knocking is like a staccato drum-roll proclaiming the death sentence.

We are instantly awake, my father wide-eyed with terror, his hair disheveled as he looks desperately towards my mother. The banging is accompanied with raucous shouts and excited yipping form the German Shepherd which the Nazis take everywhere with them. My sister, Leah, is bawling, holding her raggedy doll over her eyes as she tries to block out the drama which is about to unfold. My father doesn't get to the door in time. It bursts open and the hob-nailed boots are pounding up the wooden stairs. My father is standing up as the Nazis enter and he is immediately sent crashing to the ground courtesy of a rifle butt in the chest. My mother shrieks with terror and the Germans turn to her.

Get up! He is huge; his face fleshy, sweating, his eyes small blue chips. He wields the rifle threateningly and my mother is out of her bed like a shot, her nightgown hanging limply off her thin body like it was on a rail. They must have seen us, my sister and I, but we are obviously not the focus of their attentions today. My father is curled up on the floor, cowering like a wounded puppy, Leah sobbing silently now as she clutches her doll. The German Shepherd is suddenly standing over my father, snarling viciously, saliva dripping from its fangs.

Come with us! The Nazi orders my parents. My mother, she still thinks this is some kind of nightmare – shakes her head.

You're going to kill us. We know what you do with the Jews you 'take away'. She says, facing up to the German defiantly.

In front of my disbelieving eyes the German shoots her in the stomach. She folds over with a strangled moan, blood pooling around her. There is a heavy silence as everyone watches as my mother's life blood drains out of her.

Let me join her. My father suddenly says, in a curious disembodied voice.

No! Someone shouts, and after a moment I realize it is me. My father turns his sad eyes on me, and this is the last sight I will ever have of my father; the man I knew as a pillar of strength and wisdom, now reduced to a beaten wreck of a person.

But with pleasure, says the Nazi, turning the rifle on my father. The first bullet blows off the top of my father's head; the second just leaves his face a bloody mess. Sickened to the core, I suddenly feel the urge to join my father as well and only the sight of my sobbing sister compels me to retain a semblance of responsibility. The German turns his plump face toward me, his eyes cold and piercing, deciding whether to let me live or not. He signals to his men. They can't be bothered with us. For now. They file out of the door in orderly fashion, leaving the bodies on the floor.

I sink onto my bed, trying