"The war is over for him." -Unknown
The bright light faded slowly. Like dawn but in reverse. The blinding white dimmed to grey. The mouth organ tune was back.
Richter opened his eyes. The sky above him was the same dark grey it had been before. Clouds were drifting slowly overhead.
He lay on his back. Something hard pressed against his shoulders. Rough and uneven.
The brick wall.
Richter tried to move but couldn't. His arms were too heavy. His legs wouldn't respond. He could only lie there, staring up at the sky, feeling the ground beneath him.
Cold, hard ground with dirt and rubble.
Richter's breath shortened to shallow gasps. Each one was harder than the last. His lungs wouldn't fill. The air wouldn't come in.
Voices spoke in Russian nearby. The sound of boots on pavement. Someone laughed.
Richter's head turned slightly. He noticed bodies lying beside him. Crumpled against the wall, blood staining their uniforms. Their eyes open and empty.
They hadn't been moved.
They'd never been moved.
Richter's vision blurred worse than ever. He blinked, but it didn't help. Everything was… fading as his head rested against the brick wall.
He'd never left the wall.
He had never been dragged to a truck. Never woken in a mass grave. Never stole a motorcycle or driven through the night, nor did he hold Greta in his arms again.
A great sense of stillness crept over him now. He could feel the pain slipping away. He tried to smile in relief, but his jaw would not move. Only his eyes flickered toward the gray heaven. And as the darkness deepened, he felt for the first time in years- peace.
It was 6:30 p.m. on May 3rd, 1945, in Berlin. First Lieutenant Klaus Emil Richter was no more.