Michael Becker was an unlikely young man to find himself for a loss of words, in that he could string together a story to suit his interests without a second thought. Not that he would confess to this. As the seven-year-old son of the town's barber, he was enjoying the reputation of being a goodnatured boy. He always straightened his breeches, tucked in his shirt when asked to, and wore his wool cap straight on his head, without so much as a sulk.

He enjoyed his youthful vice in the small things, and making up grand stories that misguided the grownups around him was one of these things. Therefore he couldn't be called a hellion — but in truth, he didn't deserve the repute of an honest, pure-hearted child either.

The town was called Dachau, and it was located at the far end of a modest river, where one could enjoy the bright swift waters whenever it struck their fancy. As Michael and his classmates so often did.

But for now he remained silent, as the butcher and his wife berated him and Paul Muller — the butcher' son — for their vagary. A prank the both of them would later come to call "the pig's ears of Mrs. Brandt" — as it was her clothing line on which the boys had hung the offal.

Muller was not his best friend, but he was a fine one. The honour of being his best went to Hans Schneider, but only because his sister, Emma Schneider had been especially kind to him. Thanks to her he had been the second boy of his class to ever kiss a girl. Karl Vogels had been the first, but in his own eyes, Michael knew his had been the better of the two since Emma was a girl of particular elegance.

"Now you have to marry me." He had said to her.

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Mrs. Sophia warned us. It's not true were any boy to tell us that."

"Don't listen to her," Michael had said. "Mrs. Sophia is old and alone."

"So what?"

"My dad says her son left to fight for the Allied."

"Not true!"

"Sure is. My dad knows."

"You're so full of yourself." She had balled her fists as a slight blush adorned her cheeks, turning her back on him, bound for the girl's classroom.

Honestly, it hadn't been his finest moment.

But at that moment Paul Muller and Michael Becker were in some trouble of another kind. At least Paul was — he looked rather disheartened once his father, a butch man with a bald head on which the veins stood out as a complicated river system, told him to go clean the yard behind the shop. A dirty labour one might imagine, as Dad Muller and Mother Muller often slaughtered the pigs on that very spot. In the past Michael had done the same assignment in exchange for a few marks. Which he kept in the folds of his short brown vest until he had enough to buy himself something sweet from Mr. Winkler' shop.

This thought stayed with him as he was send home by Dad Muller with the words; "Don't let this happen again young Becker."

"No, Mr Muller, sir."

It was mid noon, and Micheal took a route by which he passed through the main road, consequently passing by the grocery shop. He regarded the sugarcoated candies behind the window on which bold black letters spelled the name 'Winklers Lebensmittelgeschäft'.

The frame of the shop was painted in a fresh green colour, which made the multicoloured sweets behind the glass stand out all the more. Under the capitalised 'W' lay a formation of red and pink tidbits, the sugar almost melting in the late summer heat.

Sadly, the absent tingle in his pockets told him that he had yet to earn several marks before he would be able to enjoy the delicacies displayed before him. Mr Winkler himself was known for his uncompromising attitude, and while he was considerate towards children, Michael knew he still had to have some money to imburse the shopkeep.

Instead of going home, he decided to go to the hills by the river. After the short walk he met up with Hans, and Emma — who appeared to be crying.

The twins from next door; Olivia and Isabela Fischer, were seated next to her and desperately tried to make her stop, but the blonde little child would not. Michael walked up to her, saying hello with fumbling hand while his eyes darted everywhere but towards her.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"Nothing."

"Liar." Hans said.

"Shut up, stupid!" Oliva said.

"What?" Hans heaved his hands in defence, "I'm just saying."

"She says she's frightened of the soldiers," Olivia told Michael.

"Why?"

"They kill people!" Emma said in between heavy sobs.

"So? They only kill bad people, like the French," her brother said, kicking the bark of the tree upon which his sister was seated.

"Stop it!"

"Stop crying!"

"Cut it out both of you." Olivia said.

Michael looked longingly towards the river. He wanted to play with Hans — but if he could prove to Emma that he cared for her... He sighed and joined Olivia and Isabela.

It wasn't that particular to have soldiers in town. Ever since the war began, they had been hanging around ever so often. The cafe of the Schneider family had particularly fortuned by this, as the new clientele was always thirsty and laden with rare treasures, such as golden teeth and coated watches. One officer had once showed their group — they had been playing behind the bar — an abundant trophy; a pair of cufflinks, mesmerising and enthralling when the candlelight shone upon its gems.

Emma Schneider had started crying again, and Olivia took charge by proposing to take her home. Michael just nodded.

That afternoon, he came home, having spend the day playing in the hills with several classmates he had met after the situation with Emma — and with yet another made up story of how he saw a raven take away Mrs. Brandt' earring to tell his mother. He knew her to always keep the kitchen door unlocked, so he entered from behind, jumping over the wooden fence that separated their yard from the woodland behind.

Theresa Becker was in all aspects a respectable woman. She was strict yet just, and spoke with the kindest voice. Her brown short hair was ever so properly styled and the smile she bore Michael whenever her son behaved, could make a room all the more brighter.

Upon entering, mother ushered him towards the sink to wash his hands, after which she made him sit down at the table that dominated their modest kitchen. Though she first berated him for the state of his breeches; the muddy knees were fine testimonies of his time playing in the hills.

In the background rang the single copper bell of the barbershop in front as another costumer opened the door and greeted his father with a brief shout.

That evening they ate together and Michael was tucked in soon after, with his mother's voice to sing him to sleep and his father smoking an elegant pipe downstairs.

The following day after school, with the mental image of Mr. Winkler's etalage in his mind, Michael made way for the woods. He knew of a chestnut tree that dropped enough nuts to fill the pockets of his breaches and vest to their full several times over. And while Michael knew it was likely too early for the tree to have let down his treats, he was more than happy to make the short trip.

Above the young Becker, the canopy filtered the sunlight like the stained glass windows of a cathedral. There was a softness to the woodland floor, to the moss that supported and sprang back. Beneath were a hundred hues of brown. Mingled in were some stones, adding their greys to the mosaic. The trees were khaki over the bark, kissed with moss; on their shaded sides grew lichen as if thrown there like powdered paint, so softly green they appeared to be white. The chestnuts lay cold on the soil, bright against the dark rain-soaked ground. Drops adorned the impervious peel. On mother's window sill sat a bowl of chestnuts from last season, dried and several hues more dull than these.

With eager fingers he tucked his bounty in his pockets.

He knew his mother would greatly praise him for bringing such a treasure back home. As he was screening the ground for more, a distant shot made him crunch down, his head between his knees, his frail arm around his legs.

Another shot disturbed the woodlands around, and Michael dared to look up. He had not been that afraid of the sound as he had heard it before on many an occasion. It was surprise that had fuelled his initial reaction after hearing the abrupt discharge.

Letting himself be guided by the alarming sounds, Michael could not contain his curiosity. Accompanied by the small mice and birds jumping away, he traveled further into the woods.

The trees were veiled in the lightest of mists, their trunks sombre brown with sable cracks that gnarled the bark. As his gaze traveled to the arch of the hill before him, they became silhouettes against a blanket of white, as if it was only daylight where he stood. Voices and shouting became distinguishable for his ear and he lowered himself to the ground, peeking over the hill.

At the bottom, a boy with a black shirt walked ahead, looking sideways with an disconcerted look upon his face. Not far off, ten women were standing at a ditch. Ready to be shot. And in the next minute it's the boy's turn.

The girl behind the boy in the black shirt didn't face the same way. She was walking backwards, turned to her mother who attempted to calm her. The young man behind her didn't even look. He kept his gaze on the ground, careful in his step. Next to him was a woman with a child in her arms who rested her head on mother's shoulder; without worry or understanding she was to be killed in but a few minutes.

The ten woman lined up on the far side of the ditch stood directly facing the execution squad standing on the other side. The third woman on the left side lost her composure, and, leaning against the woman next to her, she shivered, knowing fully well that the last five seconds of her life had come.

They looked out towards the trees and long helm grass on the hills afar. And, in a way, it might have been reassuring to them that the last sight they got of this earth were the hills they loved so dearly.

A shot.

Now the boy's group was lined up on the steep precipice. The earth crumbled at their feet, the falling sand laying a thin cover over the bodies that had fallen, about three meters beneath them. There were quite a few layers of bodies already and on the far right one could make out a man with a pitchfork. He was pushing the bodies lying on the edge of the ditch, into the ditch.

The little girl that Michael Becker saw earlier, facing her mother, was now standing next to her. The rules at these executions were that if a child was old enough to stand, they were treated as adults. Each of them got two bullets. But if a child couldn't stand, if it was too young, then the mother was expected to hold it up high. One bullet went to the child, one to the mother.

A few seconds later they were shot.

The boy in the dark shirt was lying on the edge and was about to be pushed down into the ditch. Michael swallowed. His throat tightening, his chest convulsing, a fever throbbing behind his temples. He ran back — this time with a story that wasn't made up.