I didn’t. I winced. I heard the plop of the head, and then the splash of the body, and I knew that my father was at peace as well.
Soaking, Brent and I staggered from the water together.
“I told you,” he said sadly. “Something wasn’t right with Johnny.”
Federal troops came the next day; the incident was quickly over. At that point in history, none of us had the energy to argue much when the murders on Douglas Island were blamed upon the horror and stress of war.
Brent and I left soon after. We are a strange couple, but we do well enough. We manage in life, and like other couples, we sleep together at night.
Unlike other couples, we both sleep with swords at our sides. Johnny is at rest. But God knows who else might come marching home.
Not really.
Heather is the child of Scottish and Irish immigrants who met and married in Chicago, and moved to South Florida, where she has spent her life. She majored in theater arts at the University of South Florida. After a stint of several years in dinner theater, backup vocals, and bartending, she stayed home after the birth of her third child and began to write. She has written over 150 novels and novellas, including category, suspense, historical romance, vampire fiction, time travel, occult, horror, and Christmas family fare.
She is pleased to have been published in approximately twenty-five languages, and has had over seventy-five million books in print, and is grateful every day of her life that she writes for a living.
On the Train by Rebecca Cantrell
Joachim Rosen shifted on the wooden bench. He was lucky to have a seat at all. Most prisoners had to lean against the sides of the train car or sit on the floor.
He pulled his tattered striped jacket closer around himself, folding his arms over the bright yellow triangle. Despite the afternoon sun, he shivered, but the presence of the man leaning against the side of the car next to him weighed more heavily on his mind than the cold. He looked familiar, and he did not want to meet anyone from his old life.
Out of the corner of his eye Joachim noticed the man’s pink triangle. The familiar face belonged to a homosexual. He avoided the man’s gaze.
“I know you from before.” The man pursed his lips.
Joachim tensed, but ignored him.
The man inhaled slowly. “I’m Herman Schmidt. We met at El Dorado on the Motz Strasse, in Berlin. Ernst Vogel was scheduled to sing. Remember?”
“No.” Joachim watched the white puff of air that accompanied the word. “Never been to Berlin, except to get to Oranienburg.” He glanced around the car. Had he told anyone of his shop in Berlin?
Herman stared at Joachim’s yellow triangle. “I didn’t realize you were Jewish.”
He straightened on the bench. “Always was.”
“Being different didn’t used to be so difficult.”
Both sat silently. Joachim listened to the clatter of the train’s wheels and the high scream of the wind. The metal door clanked against the side of the car. Perhaps it had fallen off once and been refastened too loosely. Through the high window fragile black limbs of bare winter trees appeared and disappeared, each tree a sign that they were one step closer to their final destination.
“My name was in someone’s address book.” Herman’s voice cut through the wind. “Some imbeciles didn’t even know enough to throw them away.”
Joachim flinched. If informers heard Herman, it could cost Joachim his life. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m certain you don’t,” Herman said sarcastically. “Where are we going?”
He lied. “Don’t know. Another camp. They’re all the same.”
Herman picked at his ragged cuticles. “I’ve never been to a camp. What are they like?”
Joachim looked at him for the first time. Herman suddenly seemed plump and healthy in the clear, cold afternoon light stabbing through the window. “Bad. For you, even worse.”
Herman pointed to his pink triangle. “Because of this?”
“It’s the worst kind to have.” Joachim glanced involuntarily down the car at the bowed, bald heads of the other prisoners. No one paid them attention.
“You’ve been very careful, I see.” Herman twisted the right corner of his mouth into a smile.
“I’m here because I’m Jewish.”
Herman studied his face. “We could jump the guards when they stop the train. I’m still strong.”
The man on Joachim’s right shifted on the bench. Joachim froze. What if he overheard them?
“They have guns,” Joachim whispered. “I’ve never seen anyone escape like that. But I’ve seen men die trying. It’s reckless.”
Herman sighed. “I was never very good at being careful.”
Joachim stared blankly at the sliding door in front of him. Rust had bled deep lines into the metal. Loneliness howled through him like the wind through the open door. “I’ve always been good at it.”
Herman ran his palms along his cheeks, as if he just woke. “Good at what?”
“Being careful.”
Herman slid to a sitting position with his back to the door and wrinkled his nose. The smell of so many unwashed men crowded into the car obviously bothered him.
“It’s not a simple thing to do,” Joachim said.
Herman embraced his round knees. “I should be in Berlin. Studying for my degree in engineering or reading the paper and thanking the Fuhrer for ridding the country of vermin like you. Of vermin like me.”
Joachim scratched a flea bite on his shrunken calf. It itched, but he tried not to think about it.
“Then I’d have dinner with my landlady, Frau Biedekin. She’s an exquisite cook. We’d have potatoes, smothered with butter. We’d have sauerbraten, since today is Sunday. For dessert, let’s see-”
Joachim’s stomach clamped into a tight knot. “Stop it!”
Herman snorted. “Is it more than you can stomach?”
Joachim glared at him until Herman stopped laughing.
“That’s the only way you’ll get it,” Herman said. “By dreaming.”
“Dreaming is not,” Joachim hesitated, searching for the right word, “careful.”
“I believe I mentioned that I was no good at being careful.”
Joachim shrugged, the coarse material of his jacket scraping across his shoulders. “Dream, then. Just quietly.”
“If you can’t escape from them in dreams, they’ve defeated you.”
“What do you know? You’ve never even been to a camp,” Joachim said. “Tell me about dreams in a month, friend.”
“If I can’t tell you about dreams then, I hope to have the sense to end it.”
Joachim drew in a sharp breath.
“Life,” Herman said as he stood, “is more than mere survival.”
Joachim shook his head. “Not right now.”
“No!” Herman’s voice echoed off the sides of the car. Several prisoners swiveled their heads toward him. No
