‘He’ll be questioned, if not already. Then … perhaps transported …’ ‘No!’ Amalia cried. By the time the late night supper arrived she had no more tears left to shed. ‘I have come to take you with me,’ he said finally after finishing the meal, when she had calmed down enough to talk reasonably again. She looked at him through glassy eyes, a sad smile on her lips. Oh how she had longed to hear him say those very words, for years even. But now, it seemed too late. ‘I have the papers with me, we will marry tomorrow morning in the city.’ ‘Marry? You are not making sense! Are you not here to arrest me as well? Why would we get married, you haven’t even proposed!’ He took her hands gently in his own. The fingers of an artist. She could faintly hear the music in her ears, see him dressed in casual clothes, sitting in their music room, the summer before the war, carefree. Laughing and playing Chopin with all of his heart. Secretly she had hoped, she liked to imagine that he was playing just. She looked up as I crossed the yard, pointed and cried, "They's in the house. Help her." She sobbed and fell on her man's corpse.I charged through the back door and found two men sitting at the table where we usually ate with a stoneware bottle between them. One was leaning back, feet on the table and waist undone, while the other had the jug lifted to his mouth. I yanked the first to the floor with the chair atop him and smashed the heavy bottle into the other's face. Then I pulled my big bayonet and dispatched them both quickly if not neatly. That's was when I first heard the screams, the woman crying, "Stop, don't! Please!"I ran to the front room, the parlor, bloody knife in my hand and kicked open the door. Two men were holding Andrea bent over a chair while a third, his britches at his knees, was sodomizing her, both his hands grasping her hips as he lunged into her arse. Blood ran down her legs.I pulled him away from the woman and slashed at him without really aiming. Then I.
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