Sosnowiec was a small town in southern Poland, inhabited by several thousand citizens, including fifty Jewish families, as well as two platoons of German soldiers. The streets were arranged around a central town square in front of the town hall/Wehrmacht command post. It was early in the morning. By eight o'clock all one hundred and eighty Jews in Sosnowiec would be in the square, awaiting orders from their Nazi guards.

The battered, bullet-ridden truck stopped near a farm near Sosnowiec so as not to attract attention, and for a different reason. The four Polish soldiers got out, one helping young Zeva down onto the firm earth, and another attending to the wounded Jacob in the backseat.

Vladislav Boyarski sneaked across the field in the early morning pre-dawn dim and opened the door to the barn. Sitting down on the soft grass and sighing in overbearing pain and ennui, Zeva blearily watched Vladislav return from the barn with five more groggy members of the resistance.

"...a German in the truck. We patched up the bleeding, and he knows of the Nazi plans for Sosnowiec," Vladislav was saying as he drew closer. "This is Zeva, the girl he rescued."

Zeva did not look up. Neither did the men look down; they had just been woken up by their commander, Vladislav.

"Should I try to awaken him now, Vladeck?" said Miczimikowski from within the car. Vladislav nodded.

Miczimikowski shook Jacob roughly; he tightly closed his eyes. Shaking him harder, Miczimikowski jarred him from his rest.

"...What happened?" Jacob asked heavily.

"You fainted. Blood loss and shock. We bandaged you up, so you should be all right."

"Where's Zeva?"

"Safe. She's sitting outside."

Jacob leaned back, looking relieved. "What time is it?"

"Just before sunrise," Miczimikowski replied. Turning away, he asked someone out of Jacob's sight, "Zhuravlev? The time?"

Zhuravlev looked at his watch and said, "Seven o'clock. Give or take a few minutes."

"We have an hour then before the Germans get all the Jews into the town square," Jacob said determinedly. "There's a hundred soldiers in Sosnowiec...and eleven of us."

"That's all right," said Vladislav, sticking his head in the car. "How many would be guarding the people in the square?"

"They would use just maybe a squad or two," replied Jacob. "But my old platoon is coming up...and the ones who were chasing us. Hessen and Baum."

"Then let's wait here," said one of the Poles that Vladislav had brought out of the barn. "We have food back in the barn."

"Lead the way, Henrik," Vladislav said, yawning.

The soldiers trooped away into the barn, and Jacob got out of the car, tenderly rubbing his pulped hand. The blood had caked all down his forearm, and it was giving off an unpleasant smell. He noticed Zeva looking up at him, brown eyes perpetually watery and deep. A burst of guilt ran through him again. He had lost two fingers, she had lost a family.

"Are you going to eat, Zeva, my love?"

"I don't think so."

"...Are you thinking of your parents?" he asked tentatively.

It struck a chord. Zeva clutched her left arm tightly and twitched. "Y-yes..." she said hesitantly. She began looking around wildly, as though she would be ambushed at any moment. Jacob knelt down and put his unmaimed arm around her. She broke away at first, but then sunk into his embrace.

"I'm sorry, Zeva. I—"

"Why didn't you do anything?" Zeva hissed, beginning to shed tears. "You stood there, you just stood. You didn't do anything or say anything. You just let Mama and Papa and Elise...you..."

She screwed up her face pathetically and in a childish rage slapped her tiny palm against Jacob's chest, burying herself in his grip and sobbing over and over, "I hate you, I hate you,"

Jacob couldn't help but weep along with her. For his immortal soul. For the rabbi, his wife and daughter. For every innocent life that he had watched savagely destroyed by his friends' mocking guns, for every trainload he had seen departing to Auschwitz further south.

"Zeva..." Jacob said, his voice filled with sorrow and contrition. He couldn't bring himself to say any more. There was nothing to say.

"You will be assigned into five groups, four with forty, and one with twenty," the German commandant said. "Starting at ten o'clock, your groups will report to a designated place outside Sosnowiec at half-hour intervals to be processed."

The hundred and eighty Jews were silent, grim. All the Polish citizens had locked their doors and abandoned the city to the Reich. Several squads of Germans was patrolling the streets anyway so that any nosy civilians that poked their head out to see what was happening could join a group to be buried in the Polish soil.

"I think that about wraps it up," the CO said to the eleven other soldiers standing behind him. "Let's start sorting them out."

They began fanning out when one German soldier exclaimed, "Hey, Poles! Get back in your houses!"
The others turned around to see seven Polish men confidently striding into the square the CO seized up. He knew what was going to happen.

At a distance of twenty feet, Ivan Miczimikowski put a round in the German's head, and other six commenced the gunfire. The Germans were caught off guard; they were used to rounding up civilians and murdering them, not actual combat with an accurate enemy. The large crowd of Jews drew back in fear and panic as the Germans and Poles traded shots across the square.

Jacob, Vladislav and Zhuravlev burst onto the square from another street, blocking the German retreat. With rifle and pistol rounds cracking on the cobblestones and thudding into German bodies, the entire squad was destroyed. The CO had taken down a Pole with him as he was cut to pieces by gunfire, and Miczimikowski was now tending to him.

The twelve Germans were lying all over the street in growing pools of blood. There was nothing but silence in the square. Zeva stepped out from behind the safety of the sidestreet and looked on the scene. Jacob spoke.

"Jews of Sosnowiec!" he cried in a loud voice. "You are free. Every one of you is free. Now go, and hide. I don't know where you will hide, maybe you can go into the countryside, or seek refuge in the large cities of Lodz and Warsaw, but wherever you choose to go, do not stay here. The Germans were coming into this town to kill you all."

Some of the people in the square nodded morbidly; the ones at the front whispered their thank yous to him, and they slowly, as a crowd, began to shuffle off, out of the square, and away from Sosnowiec.

"Do not get caught by the Germans," Jacob cried out as a final warning.

"Here," Vladislav said to some of the Polish soldiers. "Go with them. Make sure they get somewhere safe."

Four resistance fighters left, jogging down along the crowd's perimeter as it slowly moved away, down the sidestreets, and out of Sosnowiec. As they departed, the Jews, as though they were a single organism, looked back at Jacob, their savior. A few had come up to him, thanking him. One was the rabbi.

"I can never hope to thank you for what you've done," he said, shaking Jacob's hand. "You have a German uniform I see. Who are you?"

Jacob paused and said, "Rabbi...I am the kicker. Now go in peace, my friend. Don't let them find you."

"I will pray for you," the rabbi whispered, kissing Jacob's hand and lifting his head to smile at him. "May God bless you."

"And you too," Jacob returned. The rabbi walked away and joined the rest of the group, now halfway out of the square.

"Well..." said Miczimikowski, sidling up to Jacob. "What do we do now?"

All that was left in the square of the Polish resistance was Vladislav, Jacob, Henrik,
Miczimikowski, Zhuravlev, and a soldier called Vladimir, as well as Zeva.

"The other Germans will be arriving," Vladislav. "We need to take over a building."

The shots had alerted the ninety other Germans in the city of Sosnowiec, and the march of boots and clink of rifles was approaching the square fast. Harsh, guttural shouts rang through the air.
"Here," Jacob said, pointing at a jewelry store underneath several levels of apartments. "We will hide in there. I've visited Sosnowiec before, that store has a back way out, into the opposite street."

"Good!" Zhuravlev said. "Let's get in there quick then!"

The five Polish fighters, as well as Jacob, who hastily picked up Zeva, darted into the jewelers, just as the first Germans entered the square. Most of the jewelry in question had been stolen by the German troops, although a few rings and diamonds were still left. As he set Zeva down behind the register, away from the bullets, he realized he should have sent her with a Jewish family that was escaping.

"No," he reminded himself. "She has to stay with me. I'm protecting her."

"What?" Zeva asked looking up. It was too late, Jacob was already at the window. The glass had been broken by a stray bullet, and now the six defenders, Jacob with a dead German's K98 as well as his old CO Mülhausen's .45 aimed at the German squad approaching across the square. He recognized Hessen, his old friend, and Baum, another from his old platoon.

"Hessen! Hold fire!" Jacob cried out, hoping to speak with Hessen one last time.

Hessen held up his hand and stopped. "What is it Jacob? I thought I saw you there with the Poles on the street."

Now that he had actually gotten Hessian's attention, Jacob didn't know what to say.

"...Just...I'm sorry it had to end like this," Jacob said, his voice cracking slightly.

"So am I...friend," Hessen replied bitterly. "Deutschland über alles!"

With that the Germans attacked.

The Polish soldiers and Jacob couldn't work their guns fast enough to stem the onslaught. The bullets popped and whizzed all around, throwing up chunks of glass into Jacob's face and slamming hard into the wall behind. His right hand exploded in agony every time he pulled the trigger, but he knew he had to.

The German dead piled up on the square, but more and more of the Wehrmacht kept coming. For every dead man out in the snowy street, two more emerged from behind a building to shoot into the jewelry store.

Henrik was the first to go down, his head exploding across the open air of the jewelry store. Jacob did not pause for a moment. He kept reloading his rifle, even when his bandages burst open and blood began running down his arm again.

A German squad armed with MP40s and Sturmgrehns entered the square, and started blazing automatic fire into the shop. The five defenders sunk further down behind the counter; they had killed twenty Germans so far.

"Christ...Jacob, I'm hit," Miczimikowski said, clutching his bicep. Jacob looked to his left and saw the shattered bone of the person who had taken care of him while he was unconscious.

"I'm a medic, I think I can help." Jacob replied, trying to make his voice heard over the sound of gunfire. He took the arm in his hand, and removing his own bandages, Jacob bound tight Miczimikowski's wound.

"That should hold," Jacob said, looking up at Miczimikowski. All of a sudden there was a thud and blood splattered onto Jacob's hair.

"Miczi?"

There was no reply.

Miczimikowski had a small hole in his chest and a blank face. He let out a final, moaning breath, and slumped over onto the windowsill.

"Keep fighting, Jacob," Vladislav said.

"There's too many of them!" Jacob shouted back in return as a line of automatic fire raked the window. "You need to take Zeva! You need to escape!"

Vladislav grunted and said, "Zhuravlev, Vladimir, hold the Germans off for a bit."

Vladislav and Jacob both crawled down back to the place where Zeva was hiding, staring blankly at the wall.

"Zeva, I'm sorry for everything," Jacob began. "I would say more, but we're in danger. I'm sorry I said nothing. I'm sorry your parents were killed, but here is my last gift: safety. Go with Vladislav. You'll be safe."

"I'll always hate you. No matter what you do." Zeva swore bitterly.

"I don't care. As long as you're safe. I love you, Zeva. I wish you happiness." Jacob said, hugging the nonresistant Zeva.

"I'll take care of her," Vladislav said. "Thank you, Jacob."

"It's been a pleasure," Jacob responded, shaking Vladislav's hand. "Make sure she's safe."

"By God, she will be," Vladislav replied, lifting Zeva up and making his way out the back door. "You're truly a saint," he called out as he departed.

That was the last Jacob ever saw of Zeva.

Vladimir gurgled behind him, his face blown apart by gunfire. Zhuravlev called Jacob back, saying, "Jacob! They're assaulting us!"

The bullets flew by so thick Jacob could swear he could see them hovering in the air. They shattered Zhuravlev's watch, skull and rifle, and took huge chunks out of the window frame.

And Jacob was alone.

There was no one in there but four dead bodies and his K98. Outside was over fifty Germans attacking him.

His thoughts drifted for a moment to suicide, but no: he had to give Vladislav and Zeva enough time to escape.

Zeva...Zeva...what happened? The guilt and shame crushed him worse than any pain in his hand could crush him. He felt dead inside. His soul had been consumed. The hatred of a child is difficult to earn, but somehow he had done it.

It came to him in a split second: it didn't matter! If she hated him, it didn't matter, as long as she was alive! What does it matter if she went through her whole life hating Jacob, as long as she is able to go through her whole life!

With this thought bringing him back to life, Jacob sprung up with a roar and began firing at the Germans. One down, two down, he shot at the mass of soldiers charging the jewelry store.

They shot back. Two bullets in rapid succession struck his left breast with sickening crunches as his ribs shattered. He gasped, doubled over.

I cannot die now., Jacob thought Just a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes.

He saw Baum out there, a shooter from his old platoon. Raising his K98, Jacob fired. Baum's head burst open in a spray of red. Where was Hessen?

Another bullet smashed into Jacob's chest, and another grazed his chin. The Germans were charging and firing with every available man now. Automatic rounds came fast and furious. With the pink froth of aerated blood from his lungs on his lips, Jacob kept firing and praying.

Just a few more seconds. Just a few more seconds.

One last German bullet found its target and buried itself deep in Jacob's center. This wound was different. While the others had a sharp, sickening pain, this one had a deeper, crueler pain. It was as though his soul itself had been shot. Jacob slumped down onto the floor, still clutching his rifle.

He had one round to go, and the Germans were quickly running in now. Any moment, gunfire or grenades would pour into the room. The frothy, light blood around his mouth now became a dark, red liquid, thick and putrid. Jacob choked mightily, spitting out globs of his own life.

"He's in there! The traitor!" Hessen's voice rang clear across the square and across Jacob's rapidly fading mind.

"Oh...Zeva..." he whispered to himself.

Gathering what was left of his strength, he propped himself up and grabbed his rifle.

Seems a shame to die with a bullet still left in the gun.

Hessen appeared in the doorway and strode confidently into the room. Then he spotted Jacob, rifle out.

"Jacob...?" he exclaimed, surprised.

The rifle went off, finding its target and slicing through his brain like so much wasted flesh.

Jacob Erlicht, the kicker, looked out through his blasted eye sockets blankly at the wall as he slid back down onto to the floor with the rest of the dead. He was dead, no doubt, Jacob thought, right before he pulled the trigger. But somewhere, someplace....Zeva was safe.