The question exploded upon Rudolf Meier like a torpedo hitting the hull of a German U-boat.
His head jerked violently to see who could possibly have voiced such an outrage and then Rudolf’s gaze landed on the son of the farmer who owned the fields where he and other Nazi prisoners of war labored.
“Why do the German people still believe in Hitler?” the youth asked, unexpectedly throwing his inquiry into the stifling air. In that terrible moment of frozen impotence, Rudolf knew he would never forget the brazen American kid who stood in the midst of a scorching Arizona cotton field, leaning against the wooden handle of a hoe.
The German straightened suddenly from his bent position where he had been digging fiercely at a tenacious weed. “Why do you ask such a thing?” Rudolf spat out his words, rage soaking his voice. Wasn’t it bad enough he suffered such degrading work tending the hated baumwolle?
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