Professor Bergman

For the rest, all I remember is flames in the night — the three of us scurrying past burning houses, over dead bodies littering the streets — and hiding by day. Somehow we found ourselves in an underground bunker where some thirty people had been holed up for days. By the glow of a candle I made out the features of my teacher of Latin and history. Professor Bergman, a fragile and kindly man, was rocking his infant son, trying to stop his coughing. On the other side of the trap door above us came the shouts of German search parties and the barking of their dogs. We all fell silent; only the baby’s coughing continued. ‘“‘Shhh,’’ hissed a burly man near the door. The coughing did not stop. The man crawled over and placed a hand over the baby’s mouth. The coughing ceased. Minutes passed. The child sank limply to the ground. All the while, Professor Bergman sat petrified. I knew he was not a coward. Even then, I understood that if he could think or feel anything at all, he was weighing one life against thirty, even if that life was his own son’s. ...