Natalia stared at the gun barrel that was pointed at her head. The man that held it had a disinterested expression. It was like he had done this plenty of times before. If the bodies in the pit behind her were any indication, he had done this more times then she could guess at. The smell from it was horrid. She had a strong constitution and had resisted the urge to wretch at the smell.
The finger started to gently squeeze the trigger.
Her brother was fighting in the war, while her sister had gone to another village to work. She had been left at home to care for the small farm, alone. Sometimes the neighbors would come by to help her out with the work. Every day she would write letters to her beloved brother. Occasionally, she would even receive a reply.
When she heard the men outside her house that night, she had assumed it was the Germans. She had grabbed a knife from the kitchen to defend herself. Her relief at finding out they were Soviet was short lived when they had made her march away from the house without anything but the clothes on her back.
Others had also been taken. Some had cried. Others had tried to run. Those had been dropped to the ground with one or two efficient bullets. Most followed obediently in a solemn acceptance.
She used to come here with her family to pick flowers. What was the name of those flowers they had picked? Natalia had always loved them. Why couldn't she remember?
Natalia scowled at the shooter in front of her as the gun fired.
"Kurapaty."
The bullet hit her in the forehead. Her corpse fell backwards into the mass grave, pale hair spread out under her like a cape.
Every single kurapaty blossom had been destroyed in digging the hole.