Remember when at sunset, exhausted, hoping for food,
we finally found that Polish village
,but the Germans had arrived before us.
Afraid, we fled, across stubbled fields towards the forest's safety.
Soon
night flowed us with a full moon.
Why is each of our footsteps marked by spots of light? I asked.
Glow worms?, special electric wires on the ground?
Son, the Germans have electrified this field.
They know where we are!
We ran faster hunted by bright search lights.
Light beams find us.
Gun shots.
We ran through the trees, tripping over rotting wood
till I couldn't breathe.
Finally we rested, my back against a tree, you in my arms.
We both fell asleep.
When I a woke, a German officer, not dressed not like the others.
is lying in front of us.
He worn a World War One uniform -
spiked helmet, shoulder epaulets,
jacket with brass buttons, a silver sheathed sword.
An elderly face, grey bushy moustache, his blue eyes take me in.
He does not speak.
I wanted to flee. I wake you.
Do you see him?
Yes, you replied.
Trembling, I stared at him.
He, motionless, stared back at me.
Minutes passed.
Don't hurt us. I am just a woman, and this is my son.
Look, here are my papers. Please spare us.
He does not answer.
His eyes fixed, he keeps looking at us.
Why did God place him here?, I silently asked.
Son, let's recite the Shema.
Saying the prayer, we fell asleep.
When we woke the sun was high. He was gone.
Where he lay ferns were bent,marked was the needled ground.
"Who was he?", you asked.
He wasn't a ghost.
I don't dare to call him an angel, I replied.
- Bernard Otterman