World War II: A Short Story

whispered. On one side of the door stood Hermann and the other side a Nazi. He slowly inhaled and opened the door. The Nazi man walked down to the basement. Herman sat at the table. Cecilia prayed in the corner, mouthing the words. Every step he took brought him closer to Adalise. The basement was dark. The kind of dark that makes you dizzy. A lamp was lit. Shadows loomed over every object in the room. The Nazi climbed back up the stairs. The basement wasn’t safe and neither was Hermann. As a punishment for once having a Jewish child Hermann was drafted into war. It was a silly cruel joke. An old man like him would do no good. He would be taken away within twenty-four hours. Cecilia and Hermann made their way to the basement. Behind the drop

They are full of stories that are equally difficult to fathom. I had passed him once, though neither of us had scheduled a meeting. Personally, I had a lot of work to do. As for Hermann, I think he was doing his best to avoid me. I never came close to touching Hermann Freud. He was either too lucky, or he deserved to live, or there was reason for him to live. During, his time in the war he didn’t stick out at either end. He climbed in the middle, and ran in the middle. He did not excel enough to be one of the first chosen to run straight at me.

The Smell of Friendship

Cecilia told Adalise the news. Sitting in the water, she imagined the smell of it, mapped out on her papa’s clothes, it was the smell of friendship. She could find the smell of it on herself, too. Adalise loved that smell. She sniffed her arm and smiled as the water cooled around her.

Adalise and her mother spent many days together in the basements. Together they painted many images on the wall. Painting was comforting. The colors, the fluidity of the paint, the experience of painting something on a flat surface and then it comes alive and has a story to tell you. The paint has a personality and it becomes a person, who talks to you and expresses what you keep deep inside your mind. The brush, the paint, the brick wall, all come together to create a story. The memory of something you want again. A field of roses. Henrik.

Almost all the words are fading now. I can tell you what happened after Adalies’s words stopped. This is how I came to know her story from present to past. Like this. Imagine yourself walking down Stieg Feld Street in the dark. The air pressure is on the verge of changing and your hair is getting wet. The first bombs hit an apartment down the block. The innocent faces twitched in their sleep. I hovered above their beds. Feet were sticking out from underneath the blankets. Petra’s butterfly ears fluttered every time the Earth was punched. Stieg Feld Street was burning.

The sirens began to hum their song.

“You waited too long.” I whispered. Everyone had been fooled. The Earth was destroyed were Henrik and Adalise once played. A church was chopped down. The bricks were removed from the street.

There was only me.

I'm not too great at these comforting things, especially when my hands are cold and the bed is warm. There was a mountain range of rubble. The hot sky was red and turning. Streaks began to swirl and I became curious. I know, I told you that at the beginning. My curiosity usually leads me to witnessing some kind of human outcry. Even though it broke my heart I’m glad I was still there. Stieg Feld Street no longer existed. Everything was apocalyptic. The sky was snowing with burning