“Not yet. They might come back this way.”

Abraham obeyed without argument. Elie was barely two years older, but they had known each other since childhood, when such age differences fix seniority in concrete. But Elie envied Abraham’s vitality, his youthful energy, the strength he hadn’t lost despite the harsh weather, constant hunger, and bursts of violence. At eighteen, Abraham was still running at full speed, four years after they had escaped the German slaughter of their shtetl. They had learned to survive in the thick forests, stealing food when possible and killing Germans at every opportunity. But as the war dragged on, hiding became harder, and the dwindling German units had little food left to steal.

“Maybe they took another route,” Abraham said.

“I heard them clearly.” Elie had eavesdropped on two German soldiers smoking outside the inn at the village. They were cousins, serving as drivers for SS General Klaus von Koenig, who was transferring loot from the camps to the Swiss border. Elie and Abraham had climbed the steep mountainside, plowing through deep snow and treacherous boulders, to set a trap. But they must have been late.

“Listen!” Abraham tensed, inching closer to the road.

An engine sounded from uphill. Elie watched the next turn up the steep road. His eyes never disappointed him. Back in Kolno, his father had been the village shoykhet — the kosher butcher. People had said that Elie had the devil’s eyes, small and black and all-seeing, even in darkness. People had strange ideas where death was involved.

The engine noise came closer. A single car.

Abraham got up on one knee, ready for action. His hands were strong, his shoulders wide. He was no longer the rabbi’s dutiful son. Gone were his side locks, the black coat, and the hat. He grabbed the trunk of a fallen tree and dragged it into the road.