Ah. Yet another school assignment. Set in WWII.

*****

The officer looked at me, and I tried my best not to look back. His guard post was right outside our house, which stood on a corner. The French windows made it difficult to avoid looking outside. The officer stood on the corner, occasionally glancing back to peer over the fence and attempt to find me; every evening, starting from six and I always fall asleep before he leaves.
I spend my time in my room, not on the first floor. At least there, on the balcony, I can look down, and he never thinks to look up. I try and I try, but I cannot avoid looking at him as much as he looks at me. Staff Sergeant Sigmund Emmerich was a young man, still, too young, in my opinion, for the horrors of war. Then again, what did I know of war? A Jewish merchant’s daughter, a failure at schooling, a mere girl still: nineteen years old, and still suitorless and jobless. I suspect I will always live at home.
“Adi, will you return this to that kind guard in front of our house?” asked my mother as she walked into my room. I was lying on my back on the balcony, staring at the world – or, more specifically, one of its inhabitants – both upside-down and intently. As she spoke, I lifted my head to look at her, and felt all of my blood rush out of my face from the sudden movement.
“Can you not do it yourself?” I replied, unwilling to speak with him until I absolutely had to. My mother held a plain, white handkerchief in her hand, a few spots dotted in a very faded red; blood had been washed off.
“Your younger brother fell in front of the house, and he wrapped the cut in this. I’ve washed it, but I have to cook dinner. Will you please take it to him?” Mother asked, and I sighed before standing up and taking it.
I let my hair down and smoothed out my dress. Taking a deep breath, I opened the front door and walked out. He was staring again; I tried not to notice.
“Thank you,” I said to him, handing him the folded piece of cloth, “For helping my brother.”
“And here I thought he was your son,” the man joked quietly, grinning slightly. I smiled a little. The moment was awkward and suffocating; all I wanted was to go back to our routine of looks and stares.
Taking another deep breath, I smiled again and nodded. “Thank you again,” I murmured; turning on my heels, ready to run inside if needed.
I had not taken three steps before I felt a hand on my wrist, holding me back. I stiffened at first; stories of German officers that abused their power ran through my mind, and the beginnings of fear began creeping into my mind. Two words, though, eased my thoughts and released the tension in my chest. “Please stay.”
“There is a curfew,” I pointed out, no longer trying to run home, but contemplating how warm his hand was on my wrist.
“A curfew which is null if there is an officer with the person,” he answered, a slightly pleading tone to his voice. Those aquamarine eyes melted away any other arguments I had and I nodded. It was not long before he found an orange crate for me to sit on, and we introduced ourselves – properly, not through another person. It was not five hours before his shift ended, and I walked him home.
“There is a curfew,” he pointed out, teasingly. I bit my lip, knowing that should I be caught on the way home by an officer (or be caught walking in my room by my father), I would be in a world of trouble.
“What should I do?” I asked.
“Stay here?” he suggested, planting a kiss on my lips. That was all it took.

* * * * *

“Everybody! Line up!”
I was confused. I had just stumbled through the door, in the early morning hours, and there were officers lining us up. Everyone in the neighborhood was forming ranks. What was going on? What was happening?
I searched around frantically, as I stood in the streets, my hair still mussed and my dress still askew. Finally, I saw Emmerich. He was the one who called us out, as much as I would like to think otherwise. The guilty look in his eyes was all I needed.
For some reason, I was not the only one crying that day.
Later, when we were being moved elsewhere – I did not want to know where – we passed each other, and I heard him mumble to me, “I’m sorry.”
I received my first concussion of many when I slapped his face.

* * * * *

Years passed. I was not sure how many. I was not sure of anything. Not of how I survived, not of how I died, not of a single thing.
I lay in a bed, an infirmary ward. The baby in my arms was sleeping, hiding the aquamarine eyes that I hated so much. It was terrible… I hated my only child because of him.
“Adi.”
What an unfamiliar name. Was it mine? I think it used to be. I looked up, and nearly screamed.
It was him. It was that bastard! That lying, conniving, son of a-
“You probably hate me,” he whispered, visibly trembling. “I know I do.”
I said nothing in response, but sat there stiffly, channeling all my hate and anger and suffering and so many other emotions I thought I had lost.
“I’m sorry… I’m so, so, sorry.”
He was crying… there was an eye patch covering his right eye now, probably making it difficult to cry, but he managed. Quickly, too quickly, I was running out of hate. Out of anger.
“You could not have told me?” I managed to ask in a hoarse whisper. The baby stirred, and, quickly, I shushed it. “Quiet, child, all is well. Shh…”
“Is it…” he began, noticing the child for the first time. I nodded and the silent tears flowed harder.
I sighed. He… he must have went through almost as much as me. Closing my eyes, I sighed again. “Emmerich,” I murmured. The name tasted sweet on my lips, like honey. How long have I avoided that name in my mind? He looked up, hiccupping comically. I smiled a little, or as much as my face would let me; every motion hurt… I had been too cold for too long. “Will you at least hold him?”
I chuckled when his hiccup interrupted his disbelieving laugh.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...