Dating : Shepherd SS

Flash Fiction

At many times in the previous six years, my life had been in danger. But never had it been so out of my control. I was waiting for my fate in a little shepherd’s hut high in the mountains on the border of Austria and Italy. My life was to be decided by the creak of a door. Not that there is a good creak or a bad creak, just whoever entered that little shack once the door was opened.

It was cold in the hut. Very cold. But it was so much colder outside and at least I had some blankets and was protected from the wind. It was the most basic of sheds. One room, twelve-foot square, with a table, a chair and a bed with a tatty mattress. There is a small window to the side to let in some light, but no window at the front.

Maybe, you are starting to picture it in your mind. Perhaps you’re imagining yourself there and starting to have some sympathy for me. Well, I’m sure that sympathy is about to fly out of the creaky wooden door.

You see, I was an officer in the SS. Even though the war had been over for six months and the Third Reich had fallen, I still called myself an officer of the SS. For that last half a year, I had changed from hunter to hunted and had made my way down through Germany and Austria to the border with Italy. I now waited for my Italian friend to bring me papers so I could cross the border and travel to Rome where I have heard there were still many friends who will help me with travel to South America.

But now, I wait. Down in the valley, I hear there are American, British and even Jewish groups searching for us; for there must be others like me.
This thought of others like me — friends, was far from my thoughts when the door finally creaked open. It was far from my thoughts when another man not dissimilarly dressed to me, in ill-fitting civilian clothes and heavy coat entered the hut. It was far from my thoughts as he looked at me silently as I pointed my service revolver at his head. But when he spoke in that clear, sweet Berlin accent, I started laughing. I lowered my revolver as my whole body shook with laughter.

Once I had recovered, I asked him where he had served in the war. Auschwitz, he told me. I laughed, “A holiday camp! I was on the Eastern Front with 5th SS Panzergrenadiers.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “Our experiences may have been different, but we are still both SS officers…if you really are in the SS.”

Again I found myself laughing uncontrollably. Not only had I found a fellow German, but I’d found a fellow comrade as well.

“I’ll prove it,” I said, putting my gun down and taking off my coat, sweater and finally shirt. I lifted my left arm in a Nazi salute. Of course, I would usually salute with my right arm, but the purpose was not the salute but to reveal what lay underneath my left arm. Just below my armpit was a small black tattoo that had my blood type. All members of the SS had them in case they need blood transfusions. At the end of the war, some had tried to cut out tattoos or burn them off to hide their identity. But any scar in that area would arouse suspicion, so why bother.

“Now it’s your turn, comrade,” I said.

He took off his coat and his sweater and put them on top of my revolver. He then smiled and took his shirt off to reveal his tattoo. Five numbers tattooed in blue ink on his left forearm.