Nevermind | Short Story

Nevermind

"Papa! Papa! Papa's coming home tonight!" Rosie chants. Her real name is Rosalie, but no one ever calls her that. She's only six, so she has no idea why he's coming home. The truth is that Papa's been hurt and he can't do anything for the Wehrmacht anymore. He's been shot by some hotshot young boy who thinks parading around with a rifle and shooting people is funny. Too bad Papa wasn't well enough to give that boy a piece of his mind. I know Papa will when he's better. If he gets better, that is.

Only the Lord knows if he'll survive. Shot right in the ribs, he was. I was in the middle of a good book when Rosie stormed in, chanting her nonsense. Not that Papa's not coming and all, but that he's coming here tonight. He has to stay in a hospital just outside Stuttgart for several nights. We live in Munich. Berlin is the capital obviously, but that's hours away. Papa has always wanted to live there and see the big city and what not. We're already in a big city, but Papa used to say that he wanted to see the real deal, the talk-of-the-town.

"Josef! Rosie!" That would be Mama calling us for dinner. She is always cooking up some new thing, trying some new craft, taking us some new place, always trying to distract us from the horrible things taking place.

Kristallnacht. The Night of Broken Glass.

That was the horrible thing that had taken place last night. Last night, Jews—no, people—were ripped from their homes, their belongings smashed, their lives put to an end by shots ringing out against the night. Rosie and I had huddled with Mama in her bed together. I doubt any of us got much rest, with the constant screaming, shooting, and smashing. Those were people, real people that were being killed just for not looking like the führer, Adolf Hitler.

Otherwise known as my father's idol.