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 pening. But deep and genuine compassion, full of grief and pain, stifled me.

Schuster’s high-pitched voice continued to sound, moving farther towards the left. In front of us stood several soldiers. They did not know what position to assume, confusedly looking about at the officers who stood dispersed over the field.

Increasing anguish held my heart and throat in a vise. All of us were pale and terror stricken. Vaněk was looking about and, like a little child, he turned and smiled at us. Whenever he felt that he was observed by one of the officers he straightened up and, according to military rule, gazed intently ahead into vacancy.

I recalled many moments spent with him and to my mind came the rending consciousness that Vaněk had three children at home.

“This is terrible,” I whispered, quivering in every nerve. But I did not have the power to undertake a deed that would save his life. A sort of weakness of which I had not been conscious before, and which was due directly to the impotence of human nature, held me back. In my eyes a slight wave of heat, then tears and powerless rage followed each other in quick succession. I was crushed, but I could look at all that was happening about me somewhat more resolutely.

Schuster had finished counting. Twenty-one men stood in the foreground. The company which had just arrived with rapid step