Treblinka - For Holocaust Remembrance day

 

Treblinka

    They had been rounded up and taken to the train station in Warsaw. Their only crime was being Jewish, but in 1941 in Poland that was all it took. They were piled into the train cars like so many cattle. The train stretched on forever, or so it seemed to little Ava.

    Ava asked, “Why do we have to get on the train Mommy?”

    “We must go where the soldiers tell us to go.”

    “But why? Why can’t we just stay at home?”

Her mother, Illiana, wanted to tell her that these were evil men and that they were being sent to a work camp. She wanted to tell her that they may not survive the camp. There was so much she wanted to tell her, but she was too young.

    Illiana looked at her sister Ireana and asked her, “What should I tell her? She is too young to be told the truth.” All this she said in Yiddish because she knew Ava wouldn’t understand; they only spoke Polish when Ava was around.

    Ireana said, “I can’t tell you what to do; sooner or later she will have to know.”

    Illiana looked at her daughter and said, “The soldiers have taken everything from our house; there is nothing to go back to. We just have to get on the train now and hope for the best.”

    Ava was crying now and Illiana held her close and began to weep too, but not for herself. She would have gladly sacrificed herself so that Ava could grow up, marry and have children of her own, but this was not to be. Illiana wiped away the child’s tears as they were herded into the boxcar. There was hardly any room left by the time the last woman got on board. Illiana and Ireana had found places against one wall of the train car and Ava was in Illiana’s lap. Through some unspoken arrangement some women would stand up to allow others to sleep. They were cooped up for nearly a day before the train started moving.

    There were air vents toward the top of the car that allowed the guards to send in stale loaves of black bread and water. There were also buckets that needed to be dumped through these same vents. Illiana didn’t want to think about that, it was humiliating enough to have to pee in a bucket in front of all these other women.

    It was frigid in the boxcar; it was only the warmth of all the other human beings that made it bearable. The train crept down that tracks towards its final destination. Although Illiana didn’t know it at the time, the final destination was Treblinka. It consisted of two camps, the work camp and the other one that nobody ever returned from. They were headed for the second one.

    It took three days to cross the fifty miles to the camp. By this time every one was filthy, weak and despondent. On the third day Illiana saw, through a crack in the slats, the work camp. They slowly rolled by it and pulled up to the other camp. There were so many women to be “processed” that it took another day before the soldiers opened Illiana’s car. They were once again herded from place to place. Information was taken for each woman and all of her possessions. Finally they were sent to the showers. They were told to strip and go into the showers get cleaned up and that there would be warm clean clothes waiting for them on the other side.

Ireana whispered to Illiana, “I’ve heard about this place, these aren’t showers. They are going to kill us.”

Illiana replied, “Wouldn’t a quick death be preferable to anything else they could do to us?”

After running the possibilities through her mind, Ireana nodded in agreement.

Ireana looked at Ava and then back to Illiana and said,” It's time to tell her the truth.”

Illiana squatted down and looked her daughter in the eyes, “Once we get through the showers and come out on the other side, everything will be alright.”

“Do you promise Mommy?”

“I promise.”

They put their clothes in a pile and walked hand in hand to the showers.

Scarred for life

 I wrote this piece for a monthly contest out of Australia, although I was not familiar with the contest, it must be very popular because there were over 1500 entries. I didn't win, or make it to the short list or even the long list. This just tells me I have more work to do.

Here was the criteria:

Each story had to begin at sunrise.
Each story had to use the words SIGNATURE, PATIENT, BICYCLE. (Longer variations were permitted.)
Each story had to include a character who has to make a CHOICE.
500 words or fewer
55 hours to complete

 

 

 

“Grandma, tell us how you got your scar,” the two little girls said.

“I got up as dawn was just reddening the sky and gathered eggs, those along with butter and cream to take into town on my bicycle. Just before you got into town there was a checkpoint; the guards would stop you to look at what you were carrying and to make sure your papers had the correct signatures. The Germans had occupied France and we had to follow their rules, except for the resistance. They approached me and gave me the option to join. I knew it might be dangerous but I chose to join. I became part of it although I was only a few years older than you two.

My job was to take baking supplies to the cafe and on the return trip to give the two guards a pastry and a smile. The people in the resistance told me I needed to be patient. It wasn’t until the Germans had let their guard down that we could strike. This went on for over a month and the guards had gotten used to me and just waved me through.

It was early July, 1941, and my bicycle basket had be retrofitted with some kind of explosive. I was told that when I took the hamper out of my basket it would pull the pin on a hand grenade. I would have about six seconds to get to a safe spot. They recommended going all the way through the cafe and out the back side and putting as much distance between me and my bicycle as I could in six seconds.

I rode through the checkpoint as usual, all the time wondering if my bicycle was going to explode. A few feet from the cafe was the county office building, and that was where the Germans had set up their base. My bike was supposed to do great damage to this building and all that were inside. The resistance had passed the word around and although everything seemed pretty normal as soon as I showed up, people began to quietly disappear.

I leaned my bike against the building. I took the wicker hamper out of my bike basket and I heard a click. I dashed into the cafe knowing I only had six seconds, nearly tripping in my hurry. All the while I was counting the seconds off in my head. I’d made it to the back of the cafe and the waiter grabbed my hand and pulled me out the back door and down the alley. Still counting in my head, five seconds and now six seconds. Nothing. Seven seconds, eight seconds. Then the rumble and the ground shook. We were thrown to the ground. Glass from the windows above rained down on us. Your Grandpa shielded me the best he could but one jagged piece fell at the very end ripping through my forehead. He said I should have gotten a purple heart."

Reality, what a concept

 

I wrote this mico-flash fiction piece last week for a challenge in the UK from https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/

The criteria was; No more than 300 words and there were three dialog prompts to choose from.

Dialogue Prompts:

1.  "There's plenty left."
2.  "It's not real."
3.  "How did you know that?"

 I chose "It's not real."

My son had recently given me a game controller for my birthday that had an amazing rumble effect in your hand. This is called haptic feedback and that was the jumping off point for the story. When I wrote it I was unaware that a suit existed. the picture is from https://teslasuit.io/ They are not currently selling to the general public, but this is basically what i was imagining in the story.

So without further ado:

 

Reality, what a concept 

 

The new gaming gear had set Leonard back a bundle, but it was top of the line for the most realistic game play. It included VR goggles and a full body suit outfitted with haptic feedback sensors throughout. The only thing missing was taste and smell.

Leonard suited up and loaded the game. It was a multi-player battle royale game. To win you needed to be the last man standing. Leonard had played and won many of this type of game. He had been reading about this release for months and he’d been chosen to be a beta tester. He’d been chosen for a couple of reasons; his gaming history on Twitch, and this state of the art gaming system.

He pulled down the VR goggles and began to armor up as much as possible, he would have to gain some gold before he could get any advanced armor and weapons. As it stood he had a leather vest over his shirt, a helmet, and a short sword.

He began to explore. It seemed the usual small village surrounded with forests. He went into the tavern to see if there might be a task to be performed to gain some gold. He went to the bar to speak with the innkeeper when a burly well armored player with a long sword challenged him. Leonard accepted. The battle began, Leonard was at a disadvantage, but really had nothing to lose. He was still just getting used to the suit and goggles. Every blow shook his whole frame. Leonard raised his sword to strike when his opponent pierced his vest and killed him. Leonard threw off the goggles and felt his side, there was blood oozing from a wound. Leonard just stared in disbelief and said,”It’s not real”. Then he promptly fainted.

 

Too much again

 I went looking through some old folders for something that I could post this week. I do promise to post some new stuff in the coming weeks, I just haven't gotten back in the groove to write on a regular basis. I did send off a micro-flash fiction (300 words or fewer) to a contest in the UK. It's a weekly prompt so hopefully that will help the creative juices.

So as I was saying, I was looking through some old folders and I came across "Too much again" and began to read it. I only vaguely remember writing it. When I checked the date on the file it was from July 2013. I guess when something has been laying dormant on you hard drive for more than seven years, you have a right to only vaguely remember it. I think I tend to remember ones that are written for contests. I'm not sure why I wrote this particular story, but here it is.

Too much, again

It had been six months since he’d left. He’d had too much to drink that night before he got home and that was all it took to piss her off.

“I see you’ve been celebrating. You could have at least taken me with you, after all it is our wedding anniversary”, she said.

He stared at her through blood-shot eyes, the said with a slur to his words, “Is not, that’s next week, on the twenty first.”

“Today is the twenty first; I don’t know why I ever married you. You weren’t like this to begin with. You used to be fun, now all you want to do is get drunk.”

“I drink to forget,” he said.

“Forget what?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Oh ha ha, very funny. You drink because you are an alcoholic, just like your father. I should have listened to my mother, she told me you were bad news from the beginning, but I wouldn’t listen.”

“I didn’t know your mother thought so highly of me.” He swayed for a few seconds then lurched over to a chair. After a moment or two he navigated his backside into the chair.

“Of all nights to show up like this. You knew my mother was coming over for dinner. I’m glad she left before she could see you like this.”

“I am too,” he said with a belch. “That’s better.”

“What’s wrong with my mother?”

“How much time do you have, the list is pretty long. Let’s see, she’s manip…, manip…, she tries to make you do things you don’t want to do. She’s fat, she colors her hair that awful shade of red, and she smells funny. Nothing is ever good enough for her, your cooking, your cleaning, and your choice of a husband. She’s just a fat old wind bag.”

It was then his wife began to cry and throw things at him, so he left. He had no plans of ever returning.

That had been six months ago and he was back at the same bar where it had all started. Once again he’d had way too much to drink. He was beginning to think she might have been right when she called him an alcoholic. He’d made his way to the bath room, but the door was locked. He decided he’d go relieve himself out in the alley. He was just finishing up when he felt the bottle come crashing down on his head. Nobody had missed him inside, he was just another drunk who had staggered out and not come back. When he came to it was nearly dawn. He felt the lump on his head and looked around. He had no idea where he was, but worse than that he had no idea who he was. As he struggled to his feet, his wallet hit the ground. He picked it up, there was no cash or credit cards, but there was a driver’s license. He staggered out to the curb and threw-up. Once he saw the street signs he knew where he was. The address on the license was only a couple of blocks away. He slowly made his way there. He felt like his head was in a kettle drum and someone was playing the 1812 overture on it. He finally made it to the row house that matched up with the address on the license. It was only vaguely familiar, but he knocked on the door anyway. Although it was early, his wife had been up for a while.

She heard the knock and said, “Coming.” She looked through the peep hole and saw her husband on the stoop. She flung the door open and said,” You're brave to come back here after everything you said that night.”

He just stared at her, and then he asked, “Who am I?”

It was then she saw how disheveled he was and noticed the dried blood in his hair.

“Oh my God, you’ve been hurt. Get in here and let me look at that.”

She maneuvered him into the bathroom and sat him down on the toilet. He reeked from being in the alley overnight and she began to fill the bathtub with hot water. While that was happening she wiped his head with a wet washcloth.

He winced and said,” Hey that hurts, can I get a couple of aspirin.”

“In a minute, but first we need to get you out of these disgusting clothes.”

“Hold on there a minute.”

“It’s OK, I’m you wife. “

He looked her over with an appraising eye. “Really? I’m married to you?”

She hadn’t seen that look in his eye since before they were married, and it made her blush.

“Yes, really. If you think you can get out of those stinky clothes and get in the tub by yourself I’ll leave you alone and go get you some aspirin.”

He thought he’d be able to manage so she went off to fetch him some aspirin and clean clothes. Luckily she hadn’t thrown them out yet, although it was on her to-do list.

She came back and found him dozing off in the tub.

“Wake up! We’ll have none of that; nobody is drowning on my watch.”

She popped the aspirin in his mouth and gave him the water to wash them down with. “Do you think you can stay awake long enough for me to get you a cup of coffee?”

“I’ll try”, he said. “It’s just that I’m so sleepy.”

“It’s the concussion, when did this happen?”

“I don’t know, early this morning before the bar closed.”

It took all of her control not to launch into him. Instead of retaliating, she said,” I’m going to get you that coffee now. If you feel too sleepy, wipe that wash cloth across your head, that will wake you up.”

When she got back with the coffee, she found him wide awake with a slightly bloody wash cloth in his hand and a grimace on his face.

“You were right, that wash cloth sure woke me up, but boy does it smart. I guess I said something before that wasn’t too nice. I’d like to apologize for what ever it was. You seem like a nice person, and I seem like a bum, but you took me in anyway.”

She felt a lump come up in her throat and tears begin to form in her eyes. “Well we are married, for better or worse. I’ve had the worse, maybe we could work on the better.”

“Maybe, am I worth it though?”

“I guess we’ll just have to see. Get dressed and come downstairs and I fix us some breakfast, then we can talk about it”, she said, as she bent down and kissed his forehead. “Maybe we can get you into AA.”

“I don’t think I can do that”, he said.

She felt her blood pressure starting to rise and was about to say something.

“I think to go to AA meeting, you need to know your name”, he said.

They both burst out laughing, something she hadn’t done for quite some time.

“Ow, don’t make me laugh, it hurts my head.”

Only when the mist clears

This was written for a micro-flash fiction contest, that I won by the way. This is the criteria (Your object is a lake. This must appear in your story as a physical lake, not mentioned in thoughts or in speech. Your word is 'mist' this must be included, but can be morphed into 'misty' or 'misting' or demist - anything you like as long as the letters appear in the correct order. The theme for this competition is 'horror,')

Having read a lot of Stephen King etc, I had a pretty good grasp of the genre, but no matter how you slice it, writing a horror story in 200 words is tough. There were a couple of nods of the head to H.P. Lovecraft in there. I took this picture several years ago not too far from where I live, but kind of had it in the back of my mind while  I was writing this. I hope you all enjoy it.

Only when the mist clears

No amount of coffee can keep my eyelids from drooping as the blush of the dawn sky creeps over the horizon. All night I’ve waited, watching the lake. Other than a few loons and the occasional pike snagging a dragonfly everything’s been quiet. I sip the dregs of my thermos as the mist rises from the water. I catch myself nodding, that's why I have the video equipment, it never sleeps. If the thing is out there, I want a record. I nod off for a second and dream of a huge tentacled monster reaching for me, my coffee cup hitting the ground jars me awake. I peer out into the mist, is there something there or just a branch? It seems to be drifting toward me, or is my mind playing tricks on me? Maybe it’s a pike just below the surface. It breaks the water and I see a grey-green tentacle. It shoots past me, grabbing the video equipment dragging it into the lake. Another tentacle grabs me by the feet. I manage to kick off my boots as the sun illuminates the sky and the lake. The last wisps of mist are gone along with the monster.