No Tears for Sammuel

A dark story about WWII

My hand is shaking as I try to make another journal entry in this diary of mine. My eyes hurt from being open for so long and the dust in this apartment isn't helping. There is no one left to inhabit the space. Memories of faces are fading, like forgotten wishes in the well. One by one the Nazis have come here to the ghetto to take out entire families. There is nowhere left to hide. They hunt us down like dogs, hell bent on blood. They leave our bodies out in the cold for the ravens to pick clean. Their thick German accents come out in guttural tones and forked tongues.

My child, Sammuel, and I are the last ones left in this particular rat cage. Sammuel is nearly 3 months old now, a product of an experiment that I shouldn't have made it out of but we both survived. Dr. Hermann Stieve is the devil's right hand, and if it weren't for my blond hair and blue eyes I would have been left mutilated and murdered.  Now I'm rocking Sammuel in his make shift cradle with one toe, and chewing on my fingernails nervously. I know it's only a matter of time before they come for us. Every footstep can be heard on these cobble stone streets. Their marching boots become the altos for the chorus of screams.

I've become afraid to breathe for fear of attracting attention. They stopped bringing food days ago and I have no intention of mentioning this. Perhaps they've forgotten we are here. For now my few remaining friends nearby have been sneaking rations to me, if nothing else but to be able to supply sustenance to the child. I try to distance myself mentally from Sammuel. His perfect little features, half a mirror of my own, are looking back at me now. There is a questioning gaze upon his face. Will I be able to do it once the time comes, or will love prevail? I can't help but be reminded of the cruelty I suffered which produced him. Yet he is only a child, grown of my womb and unknowing of the hatred that planted its seed. Besides a few kind words behind wilted eyes I haven't spoken to another adult in almost 2 weeks.

I found a few scraps of paper that I put together as a makeshift diary. My thoughts are scattered and confused. I almost pity the man that finds this scribbling of half sentences and broken words.

Airplanes and ammunition have become my lullaby. Though we are stuck here in this man made purgatory rumors still soar, higher than these walls can contain. We may be prisoners but that doesn't make us stupid. We know where they are taking us. We know there is no coming back once these b******s have gripped your flesh with their talons.

The light outside is growing dim as Sammuel begins to stir. I pick him up and cradle him gently in my arms, my heart at war with itself. I expose my breast for him and still feel nothing, a simple obligation, a duty as a mother and nothing more. Yet when I look down a small smile appears on my face. His little hands are closed into fists as if he is fighting the very same demons. A single thought hits me so hard it knocks the air out of my lungs. I put Sammuel back in his crib and stare at him furiously. I pace the floor as quietly as possible but unable to stop myself. Is that what this is about? Am I being judged by my own child now? Surely he must know the secrets that lie within. We have no love for each other. He knows how I was used and now he can't stand the sight of me. I look back at him and his face is turned towards the opposite wall as if to reaffirm my suspicions. I can take it no longer. There are accusations in his unspoken words and baby blue eyes.

A small voice is telling me I've lost my mind, I've finally given in to the very insanity I'm surrounded by. I choose to ignore it. “How dare you judge me!” I yell. I have not raised my voice barely above a whisper in so very long that I can't even recognize it as my own. It feels so good to not care anymore. Now I'm on a tirade. I'm not really yelling at Sammuel anymore but at inanimate objects. The wooden chair I used to trip over because old man Elliot would leave it in odd places or the toys the children would leave in the middle of the room. It’s funny now since I don't have the heart to move them. The more I pace the more enraged I become, barely noticing the cold floor beneath my feet.

I swing the front door open and start screaming obscenities. There comes a point where I'm not even sure what it is I'm yelling. Months of pent up anger not only at the Germans but at myself, my neighbors who used to come over for Sunday meals and now acted like they didn't know me, even at my parents for being Jewish. Somehow I've ended up on my knees in the doorway. My anger has turned into uncontrollable sobbing, I'm digging my fingernails into my flesh to try and bring my senses back to reality. The air is frigid making my lungs freeze in my chest and I'm gasping for breath.

I see the tips of their boots before I actually hear them. Their running footsteps are coming closer.

My four apocalypse riders come for my final judgment. Reality comes crashing down like a tsunami, threatening every neuron in my brain in its wake. I pull myself to my feet and slam the door shut. I’m no longer worrying about being quiet. The same chair I used to curse at is now under the door knob, as if a simple piece of wood could stop them. I laugh at my own foolishness and laugh even harder when I realize I have truly gone mad.

Sammuel is beginning to cry and it suddenly occurs to me that in my disillusioned state I have almost forgotten about him. The crushing weight of my own actions is threatening to knock me down. My knees begin to buckle except this time I'm aware of the event. I'm crawling on my hands and knees towards his crib when the pounding starts on the front door. I know I won't be able to stand and I can barely see from the tears streaming down my dirty face. I pull myself up and take Sammuel back into my arms but there is no consoling him. Angry shouts and the sound of wood splitting are deafening enough. I stare down at Sammuel as if I've never truly seen him before. His features are close to angelic. I trace his little round face with my fingers as his hand somehow finds my own. He is gripping my index finger for dear life and staring at me with those all knowing eyes. That gaze turns into a plea and I know what I must do.

No matter how he came to be he cannot die like the rest of us. His innocence must be preserved even if that turns me into a monster. The front door is half open now and I can see a man's hand coming through the crack. My heart is racing so fast it almost drowns out their voices. I'm too afraid to take my eyes off of Sammuel's face. We're in this journey together, this whirlwind of demonic dreams.

I reach for the blanket that once had his small frame wrapped inside. One last glance at my son's face tells me I'm making the right decision. His eyes hold more wisdom in that single moment than any other human being. I cover Sammuel's face with the blanket. I'm screaming in mental anguish as his body is fighting for survival. His little feet kick out until my index finger is released. I gently place his lifeless form back in the crib.

I no longer care about my own self worth now that I have won this personal battle. Instead of months of detachment for that little creature I feel nothing but gratitude for the strength he gave me. The strength I know it’s going to take to die.

Hands are reaching from all around me and grabbing at my limbs. I don't even bother kicking or screaming. Once we make it outside and they realize I'm not a threat they set me on my feet and walk beside me like prison guards. I hum a childhood tune as I walk to my own execution, a faint smile on my face. It was in this moment I realized I loved him all along.

The End.