Posts Tagged ‘WW II’

Saving Papa – 1941

Posted: February 27, 2020 in Friday Fictioneers
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Ten days before Papa’s return from his mission, Mama gifted me a miniature theater with twenty-two minikin figurines. My ladies wear frocks of silk. The gentlemen sport suits of wool.

Mama spent tedious hours explaining the figurine’s placement on the stage. Formations include: ‘Stay in The Forest’, ‘Run’, ‘We’re Safe.’ Nothing makes sense. But no one questions Mama.

Tonight five uniformed men stormed our home, shouting, “Where is he?” Luckily, Mama understands German and the men knew no French. Mama shrugged, kissed one man on the cheek, and turned to me. “Fosette, ‘Run’. Place the stage in the window.”


Posted: January 11, 2020 in What Pegman Saw
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Today Pegman took us to Minsk. I’ve once again gone to the dark side because I’ve recently started a class about the Holocaust. Dark times. Dark story. On the other hand, Happy New Year, fellow Pegman Writers!

You send taunting postcards from AfricaChinaNorwayPortugal. Some signed MissYou, WishYouWereHere. Others WeWillVisitHereTogether-Someday. The worst say WeWillNeverSeeOneAnotherAgain. They arrive in a neverending mixed-up rotation I can’t process.
But this last postcard broke me. You are the one person who knows my parents were thrown into a ditch then shot by Schutzmannschaft in Minsk. You know, because, just as you shouldered your rifle you noticed me, legs shattered by a hail of bullets, clinging to my father’s chest.
For some godforsaken reason, you pulled me out of the mud. Hid me inside your coat. Gifted me to your wife who kept me as if I were a child of her own. You? You merely kept me.
Twenty years later I lie here, half a woman with a gun beside my bed while you travel the world with your mistress, and send postcards. Today, Herr Stein, I choose WeWillNeverSeeOneAnotherAgain.

Pain Relief

Posted: August 24, 2019 in What Pegman Saw
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Boy-o-boy! Don’t know what me and the boys drank last night but it must’ve been good.
Must’ve been plenty.
Nothing’s in focus. Buildings are all wonky and, at this end of the street, there’s a giant caterpillar face.
Do you see it? Just there?
Oh, never mind.

Džons. That’s what we drank! That’s what the clean-up crew always drinks.
Me, Juris, Edgars, even Ilze drink when we’re done digging through rubble looking for the remains of our families.
Ilze. So beautiful! I hope we’ll marry when this ugly war is over.

Džons is the only way to relieve the discomfort of concrete dust that dries our nostrils,
and clear the stench of moldering flesh.
Džons. Džons. Džons.
Džons runs through my veins day and night.
Džons keeps me sane.

“Come with me, Love.” Ilze gently steers her husband’s wheelchair out of the garden and into the asylum’s foyer.

A Quiet Argument

Posted: November 29, 2017 in Friday Fictioneers
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As you can see, What’s His Name submitted the black and white picture prompt that our Fairy Blog Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, posted to inspire our merry band of Friday Fictioneers on this last Wednesday of November.

“A lifetime is stored behind those doors.”
“Junk, Grandpa, all junk. If that old barn burned down tomorrow, nothing would be missed.”

While I fought in WW II, your Grandmother penned letters by the window because sitting alone in the house was too hard.
When I returned, your father was conceived in the loft amidst the smell of fresh hay, chicken feed, and the sound of happy tears.
You boys wrestled in the horse stalls and you proposed to Milly in that old barn.

“Go inside. Feel the memories, then tell me you want to tear it down.”



“No one is to go out after dark!”
“I won’t go out, Mama.” Not until you sleep.
Bicycle wheels squeak squeak squeaking, Jan rattles over the cobblestones.
His back aches from constant jostling, his eyes burn from glaring into the moonless night.
The gun on his shoulder seems to weigh twice as much as it did when he started five miles before.
Still, he goes on. It’s his last chance. “I can’t be late.”
The Troja Bridge. A motor car. The right motor car.
Jan drops the bicycle, steadies his gun.
Reinhard Heydrich’s face comes into focus.
Then disappears.

Thanks to Rochelle and Jellico’s Stationhouse, we once again have the perfect photo prompt for a Wednesday/Friday. The bike reminded me of WW II – why? It’s not what you look at but what you see. I looked up Reinhard Heydrich, and he seemed like the perfect recipient for a sniper’s bullet. This isn’t exactly what happened, but . . .

The Twin

Posted: August 6, 2014 in Friday Fictioneers
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Friday Fictioneers has reared it’s pretty head once more. This is my contribution at 101 words. Thanks, Bjorn, for the thought provoking picture. I’m sure this desolate building will inspire some sad tales this week.

Björn 6

First, German tanks rolled through
shelling buildings to rubble.
Next came Russians, finally Americans.

People hid in basements between
walls humming with the weight
of the enormous machines
rumbling past their
front doors.

When the soldiers were gone
Francine’s entire family was dead.
The neighbors who remained buried
Momma, Pappa, and baby Michelle
in what was left of the cemetery.

But Francine had hidden Franklin
in her pretty pink room.
Arranged him in the chair Pappa gave
her for Christmas.

She placed weak tea and crumbled cookies
on the stool beside him
saying, “Momma told me I must
always look after you.”