July 7, 1942
They’ve come. The young couple hold each other desperately, their infant son, carried in their embrace, sleeps unaware. She trembles and he leans a hot kiss on her forehead, murmuring that everything will be alright, shh.
If only. Safe transport to America is arranged in just 3 days. Their trunks packed and ready. If only. Why not 3 days earlier? Last night? An hour ago? If only time could flow into the hopeful past instead of the certain future.
They wait. She and he huddled in fear, trapped beneath the hideous and powerful black spider. Nowhere can they run or hide.
Hours pass. They sleep fitfully, leaning against each other. Their son bleats his hunger. She feeds him, hiding beneath the smart coat her husband gifted her last birthday. He watches her, eyes dying. He knows.
It ends. They are rent from each other. Screaming, tears, terror. She sees him lined with others upon a wall. The terrible shout of bullets, his life sprays red upon the ground, his eyes sightless as they seek her, one last time.
She dies within. They drag her onto the waiting train. Her son screams. She holds him in her arms and whimpers sounds without meaning. She tries to feed him, but there is nothing left to give.
The child dies in the night, rocked gently in the moving train, smothered within her breast as bodies lean heavily in to her. She slips into madness.
They arrive. Disembarking, she is herded, a long line of women. Head shaved, smart coat, leather shoes, dead child, all taken. She silently screams for them to kill her.
She breaks line, walking slowly nowhere. Shouts. Whistles. She is cast to the ground, a rifle butt slammed to her skull.
She sighs her death softly. Thankful.
July 7, 2014
They embrace joy. Another chance to live the lives stolen. This time they get to win.
This time they get to live.