We expected them to make the first move, so we waited. There was a calm in the inevitable storm, ready to be set off by a singular action. For what seemed like hours, there was a standstill. Eventually, a man from the ghetto army stepped forward. He was young, with bright, tired eyes. Slowly, he approached the piano. Rifle on his back, he began to play:
I will see you, my country,
When the calm has come.
When the night washes over,
When the cars cease to run.
I will never forget,
The beauty of your land,
“Kill him!” screamed a voice. I looked over, and saw Klaus, insanity in his eyes, give the order. At once, shots were fired, and the pianist slumped over onto the keys. Blood trickled down onto the ground, his eyes facing towards the sky, his mouth still uttering his final note.
That day was seen as a triumph for the Germans. The last of the ghetto residents were killed or deported. I died with them in a way, my soul departed with theirs. That day left me truly shattered; the hatred of war had finally killed me.