The Hunt

There was about the place such an utterly despairing sense of futility and lost hope that Keegan seemed to collapse inside. His shoulders caved in and a pitiful moan escaped from his pressed lips.

“Shh,” Wolffson warned.

“My God,” Keegan said softly, “it looks so ... so totally hopeless.”

“And so it is for the people inside,” whispered Golen. “This place is not just for Jews. Most of these prisoners are Germans.

Political prisoners. Hitler’s enemies. God knows what they do to them.”

“Come, we cannot stay here, Keegan,’ said Wolffson. “The dogs will catch our scent.”

“Just one more minute.”

He swept the glasses across the crowded yard one more time. And then he saw her.

“There!” he breathed. “Over by the barracks. She just came out.”

Jenny seemed smaller, withered almost. Her steps were short and faltering. She hugged herself as if she were cold. Her hair was tangled and snarled and she wore a formless dress that hung down to her shins.

“She looks so.. . so frail,” he breathed. “Jesus, what’ve they done to her.”

“At least she’s still alive,” Wolffson said, locating her in his glasses.

“That’s not living. That’s torture,” Keegan answered.

He bit his fist to keep from crying her name, to let her know he was nearby, that there was hope, although in his heart he knew her situation was futile.

Is that really why Wolffson had brought him here, he wondered. So Keegan would know how utterly hopeless it was?

“Keegan, we must leave now!” Wolffson insisted.

A moment later they heard the dogs.

Wolffson grabbed Keegan by the arm and dragged him back into the trees.

“Stay low and run,” Golen said. “We must get through the culvert before they catch our scent.”

They ran stooped over, dodging through thickets that tore at their clothes like thorny hands snatching at them. Behind them they heard the deep snarling bark of the shepherd dogs drawing closer.

“Faster!” Golen demanded.

Keegan’s breath was waning, his lungs were on fire, the muscles in his legs began to knot up. But he kept running, trying to breathe with some semblance of rhythm. Ahead of them the forest grew brighter, then suddenly they were at the edge of the field. They ducked into the culvert, their footfalls echoing

in the narrow tube, dashed through it and burst out of the other end. They jumped three feet down into the stream and headed away from the camp, running through knee-deep water. Behind them they could hear the dogs barking, snarling, yipping. Their cries echoed in the culvert.

“Gut,” Golen cried out, “the dogs are confused. They are in the tube and have lost our smell. We’re almost there.”

Golen turned sharply and Keegan and Wolffson followed as he jumped out of the creek and climbed a small embankment. The firewood cart was where they left it, the horse nibbling on the grass. Wolffson dove under the cart, rolled over on his back and opened the trap door. He and Keegan crawled inside the dark compartment. Golen quickly changed from his wet pants and shoes to dry clothes and boots. He rubbed limburger cheese on the shoes and on his wrists and, leaning under the cart, rubbed the foul-smelling cheese around the edge of the trapdoor. He threw his wet clothes inside and slammed the door shut. Keegan and Wolffson lay in the dark on the rough floor gasping for breath. A moment later they heard Golen chopping wood.

“What’s he doing?” Keegan whispered.

“He is sweating. So he will cut some wood and if they follow us this far, they will not suspect him.”

Fifteen minutes passed without incident. Inside the compartment, Keegan felt the cart lean as Golen climbed into the driver’s seat. A moment later they began to move, the wagon creaking down the road toward the village.

“You will be in Switzerland before morning,” Wolffson sighed. “The rest of the trip is easy.”

“I owe you one,” said Keegan.

“Which means?”

“It means I owe you a big favor.”

In the dark, Keegan fought back tears.

“I wasn’t a hundred yards away from her,” he moaned. “A hundred stinking yards!”

His defeat, frustration, humiliation were complete. Now he fully comprehended the futility of the situation.

“Use your influence, Ire, “Wolffson said. “Go back and tell them what you saw here. Take this.”

“What is it?” Keegan asked, then felt the cool, small spool of film in his palm.

“It is the film Golen shot back there. Take the pictures back. Show them what is happening. Tell them if they do not stop this madness, the sin is theirs just as it is the sin of all Germans who turn their faces away from the truth.”