After a few more kilometers, Zev cut the engine, halted the truck behind a thick cluster of trees at the far edge of an alfalfa field. They quietly stepped out and crouched in a ditch. Traiko’s eyes widened when he gazed at the middle of the field.

A detail of Bulgarian militia with rifles lined up at attention. Facing them, a beaten and drained man braced himself. Nearby, soldiers in a canvas-covered truck trained two machine guns on witnesses from the town. They stood in the dirt staring at the prisoner. Their faces twisted in anguish.

Captain Georgi Lukanov, Commandant of the Secret Police, barked orders to the firing squad. They raised their rifles to the ready.

“. . . Aim!” Lukanov watched his tight-lipped prisoner’s glassy eyes stare at the ten rifle barrels. “Fire!”

Korle Ivanoff jerked backward as the bullets tore into him. Blood spurted onto the earth beneath him. The citizens watching groaned, pushed toward the firing squad. The cocking of the machine guns halted everyone’s forward motion.

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