Ends by Matthew Roy Davey

The cart creaks, pitches and yaws. A whip cracks up ahead. Four women sit on the floorboards, grey uniforms muddied. Sitting is not an act of mercy, they cannot stand without falling, their hands bound behind their backs. Ruth glances at the other women, but they are all within themselves, eyes unfocused. They have spent many hours together: on duty, in the mess, in the barracks, have shared laughter, secrets, tears. Now they are bloodied, bruised.

The cart jolts and the guards, all women, two for each prisoner, steady themselves, holding on to the slatted sides. They still wear the striped uniforms.

Soldiers march behind, rifles slung over shoulders, heads down as they trudge along the raised verge. There is no need for watchfulness, but they twitch at sudden sounds, look up from time to time, scanning the horizon, the tree line. They don’t need to worry about the prisoners, the women standing in the wagon are more than ready.

The rain has stopped but clouds cover the sky. A cold wind blows from the east. The faint, sharp smell of burning. Ruth looks up and watches a swallow skimming across the grey canopy. The first this year, come too soon.

A blow to the head snaps Ruth’s neck to the side, dazing her. She looks up at the woman, narrowing her eyes. Can’t have been in the camp long. Too strong, too willed. Fire in her eyes. Still pretty. Another blow rocks Ruth and she falls backwards. Only Ilsa keeps her upright.

“Don’t look at me, bitch,” spits the woman.

Ruth lowers her head and contemplates the splintered floor of the wagon. How long until they get where they’re going? Why not just do it here? Wouldn’t it be better to be over with, even if it means blows from a rifle butt? They will not waste bullets. They are heading for a suitable tree, she supposes, or a beam. Maybe they have found one left by the retreating armies. At least it gives her time. Time to remember. The little house with the pretty garden, the apple tree and flower beds. How the swallows made their nests in the eaves of the house, rising and dipping in the cool evening light, her grandfather pointing them out, his pipe clutched in a three fingered hand. He had loved to frighten her with it, wiggling the remaining fingers, his head back, laughing as she cringed, stroking her head with his good hand.

A punch to the head brings her back. It’s the same woman. The others stare with neither hatred nor pity. In their hands they hold cudgels. The woman’s is on her belt. She prefers to use hands. Ruth and the others must remain conscious.

“Wake up, whore,” the woman screams. Her accent is familiar. Somewhere not far from home.

Ruth looks up.

“Won’t you be quiet? Won’t you let me have this moment?”

The guard sneers.

“Like you gave the others?”

She recedes, despite the slaps, the blows. She recedes, knows she will not see Hell, knows there is nothing. She has seen it in their eyes.

And then they are there, at the appointed place, the gallows, like an oversized goal mouth. Four nooses.

They make her go last. They do it slowly, to make them feel it, she supposes. One at a time, off the back of the wagon, then move forward, then backward to the next rope. It is awkward, a nuisance for the horse and driver. Ilsa goes first, without fuss, without sound, just the snap of her neck when she jumps. That’s the way to do it. Don’t wait for the push. Maria awakens at the last moment. She cries and pleads and they have to shove her off. She is still dancing when Herta curses them and leaps.

Ruth is hauled to her feet and the noose is put around her neck. It is coarse, scratchy. Two soldiers are pulling on Maria’s legs.

“I am sorry,” Ruth says, her voice loud and clear. The women stop for a moment, listening, curious. “I am sorry for what I was. For my crimes.” She pauses. “I am sorry for what I have made you become.”

The words hang like a curse, and she steps off before they can push her.

Matthew Roy

Image: A rope tied into a noose and lying on the floor. From Pixabay.com