The old man woke up thinking that he should have collected worms yesterday afternoon after it rained. He could have gone out and collected them from the pavement just outside his flat, but now he would have to dig for them. He slowly got out of bed and got dressed in the dark. He could not remember the last time he woke up after sunrise. He supposed that it was something he did when he was young, or before the nightmares maybe. That was a long time ago. He went into the bathroom and began to shave, lathering his face with soap and water and then scraping it away with a bare blade. It took him longer than it used to, he thought to himself, because of the scar on his neck and perhaps, as an afterthought, because his hands had become less steady. He liked the way that it felt to shave, and he always felt better afterwards. He felt cleaner, more organized, presentable. He stopped for a moment.
"I see you've been working. It's a fine web my friend, but I'm afraid you won't have much luck over there. It's a funny thing, how you choose where to build. Last week it was the opposite corner. Why do you think you will do any better there?"
He watched the spider for a few more minutes and then finished shaving and thoroughly rinsed his face. He briefly considered killing it before drying his face and moving into the kitchen.
He put on the kettle still regretting the worms. It would have taken all of five minutes, since they come out in droves when the rain begins, and he should know since he had done it a thousand times. Now it would take three times as long, if he was lucky, and he would feel it in his body by the time he could dig up enough. When he had finished his tea he carefully gathered together his fishing rod, basket, and a small trowel. He looked over his hooks carefully, and took two of them. Then he selected a small knife even more carefully, and ran the edge along his thumb, testing the sharpness of the blade. Unsatisfied, he sharpened it, then tested it again, this time faintly breaking the skin on his thumb. Finally, he took a small loaf of bread, put on his hat and a large officer's overcoat, and left his flat.
Still at this time the sun had not yet come up, although there were hints at some light on the horizon. The morning air was cold and dry, and the old man breathed short, quick breaths until his face and lungs adjusted to the change. After walking to the end of his street, he took a small path that lead to the river. He carefully maneuvered down the steep river valley, following a path that he had used for months, until he came to the bank. It was the solitary nature of the river, and it's proximity to his flat, that the old man came here on such a regular basis.
Today the old man walked slowly to the edge of the river and watched the surface for any signs of trout feeding. He noticed several slight disturbances on the surface that he supposed could be trout, but he could not be certain in the near light of predawn. After several moments he removed his jacket and began hunting under rocks and prying behind rotten bark for any kind of bait to use, working steadily with his trowel until he had gathered enough. The sunrise slowly illuminated the river and covered it in a slight mist, and the old man rested for a moment and tore off a piece of bread. He felt a chill as he ate, and he reached for his jacket and began to put it on.
When he heard them coming he was tempted to run. He could make it out of there, following the river until it almost intersected with the train station and just leave again. He could be in Paris in half an hour, and with his papers, disappearing had never been a problem before. He stood, listening, and thought about it for half a minute before slowly sitting back down. He finished eating the bread, chewing slowly, and when they arrived he was finished. They stood, awkwardly watching him from the path. The old man stood to face them. He recognized them immediately and was not surprised by the two on the left, but the third man was the local grocer. Gregory Brooks: wife, young, and two children, no older than five. Although all three men looked nervous and uncomfortable, it was Gregory Brooks who clearly did not belong. The old man almost would have smiled if it would have been appropriate. The other two men were not locals. They looked much older than when he had seen them last, more refined, or perhaps that was only because they were dressed much better and were cleaner now and not nearly as emaciated. No, there was a quiet dignity about them.
"Klaus Fischer?" asked the one in the middle. It was not a question, it was nearly a command. The old man snapped his heels together and stood at mock attention.
"Klaus Fischer, Oberstleutenant, 12th Volksgrenadier Division?"
"Ja."
The man in the centre moved his hand from his coat pocket to reveal a small handgun. He pointed it at the old man as they moved behind him and pushed him to his knees. The old man did not resist, but removed his officer's coat and cap and placed them in a folded pile beside him. He heard the sound of steel against steel as they attached a silencer to the gun, and the old man closed his eyes. So it was not as it had been in his nightmares. So he was at peace, after all. He spoke: "Denn Dein ist das Reich und die Kraft und die Herrlicheit, in Ewigkeit." Then the pistol sounded and he fell onto the damp ground.
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