Red on Yellow

He looked down and remarked to himself how nicely red and yellow pair together. His breath felt ragged, but the air smelled sweet. The field of marigolds rose and fell with the hills and butted up against the sky on the horizon. They were beautiful. He was happy that this would be the last thing he would see in this life.

He looked to his left at the trail of flattened flowers. His two children ran hand in hand, carving a path through the field of yellow. He wished that he could share this moment with his wife. She almost made it; they had been so close. He felt the warmth of the sun on his face, and he felt her watching them from beyond, “You did well,” she told him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded photograph. He unfolded it and ran his thumb across his wife’s face. In the photo, he stood next to her as they brushed their horse together. He smiled and softly laughed to himself. It was always her horse; it would never listen to him.

His hand began to shake; he looked down and dropped the knife. It landed next to the soldier at his feet. He knelt to him and whispered.

“I am sorry that I have killed you,” he said.

“Will they make it?” the soldier asked. He winced in pain.

The man looked back up to his children, now further away. He saw his son looking back toward him with his daughter in tow. “Yes. Yes, they will make it.”

“That is good. I am glad your children will live.” said the soldier.

“Where are you from?” the man asked.

“Otterndorf, do you know it?” replied the soldier.

“I do. When is the last time you saw your home?” he asked.

But the soldier did not answer. The man rested his hand across the soldier’s face and closed his eyes. He placed a hand on the soldier’s chest.

“Alav ha-shalom.” said the man.

He felt down to his leg and his blood-soaked trousers. He poked at the wound; it was deep. In the distance, he could hear dogs barking and men shouting orders.

He stood up at the edge of the marigold field and slowly walked forward. Even with his limp, he took care not to trample the flowers if he could avoid it. He walked until he felt the pool of swaying yellow sufficiently surrounded him. It really was a beautiful day.

His children were now cresting the hill. They stopped and turned around to see their father one last time. The man raised his hand, and his son replied with his hand. His daughter cupped her mouth and shouted to him. All that reached him was the faint sweet sound of a child’s goodbye. Then they were gone.

The sound of dogs and angry men was closer now.

He felt a tear roll across his face. He stared at the empty hill for a long while. Hoping, simultaneously, that he would see them one more time and that he would never see them again.

He turned around to face them. They had arrived.

“Where are they?” a soldier demanded.

The man stood silently. He watched the soldiers fan along the border of the field of yellow, hesitant to walk among the flowers.

“Come out from the flowers!” another one shouted.

One of them had knelt to the dead soldier, and he placed his hand on the corpse’s neck. “He killed Dietmar,” he said. Then, they raised their weapons and aimed them.

“Where did they go?” the first one asked again.

“Dietmar killed them back in the barn, so I killed him.” the man said.

“He lies! There is a path through the field; you can see it here!” one said.

The man’s heart began to race. His mind became jumbled, searching for a way to distract the soldiers.

“Ah! Never mind.” the soldier said. “That horse probably made the path in the flowers.”

He turned his head and saw the horse, her horse. It stood at the crest of the hill where his son and daughter had just been. The creature shook its head. Then it was gone.

He stared for a long while.

He never heard the shot.