Scarred Roses

Chapter one: there's someone on the porch for us

When it came to that particular time in the evening when it was tempting to settle down with a good book and a cup of tea, the attic by far, was my favorite place to do this. The basement was my dark-room; a place I used to work on my photographs during the mornings when I wasn't doing chores. The kitchen was usually mama's safe haven; a place she could relax and do what she loved without being disturbed. The work-shed inside the barn was papa's sanctuary; a room cluttered with bits and bobs, just waiting for him to tinker with. The living room was Audrey's place; a room she could host all her little parties and social functions without having to worry about interruptions. But the attic was where I went for peace. A dusty, cozy nook in the house that caught most of the warmth from the sun, and the best view of the evening sky. It was here I sat down, making a little dust-cloud as my backside hit the bay-window cushion, then drew my knees tight into my chest. Tonight, I was reading Wives and Daughters; it was a banned book, since it was set and printed in England, but banned books turned out to be the most interesting. It seemed anything with a semblance of a plot was deemed 'too dangerous' for us to read these days; even the sappy romance-novels.

Still, that never stopped us from hoarding all our books. We all thought it was bad enough when the soldiers came to claim our country as 'New Germany', taking away our native tongue, our food, and our culture, but when they put out a list of literature, truth and fiction, that was to be burnt, that's when I started to make up my own, little library. Under the washing machine in the basement, was a loose, concrete tile. This tile could be lifted, and underneath was an empty space, big enough to fill with eight books. For just about six years now I've had them stashed away, and the German's never suspected a thing. And now that they would soon be gone, I doubt they ever would. I wondered then, if I should perhaps give them to the library once it's opened again. I knew eight books wasn't nearly enough, but they'd need to start somewhere if they were going to rebuild what they had.

"Hazel!" It was Audrey, calling from downstairs. That's odd-why didn't she come up to the landing? "I need you down here-we've got another one!"

Camp survivors. I knew them well enough. I nearly spilt my tea, jumping up to escape the attic. Oh, who cares? It'd be cold by the time I went back up anyway. Running down the narrow, little staircase, across the landing and down the bigger stairs, I met Audrey in the foyer, who had her arms around what looked to be a young man. He was half-standing, half-leaning over my sister, who was buckling under his weight. Quick as I could, I slung his other arm over my shoulder and helped her lug him to the sofa. He was filthy; all of them were. At this rate, the salmon-colored sofa we had would be muddy-grey by the time these liberation's were finished.

"How is he?" I asked her, kneeling down to get a better look at his face.

"It looks like he's been beaten, but not critically. He may have a couple of broken ribs at the most. I don't think he's starving though; just look at him."

She was right. He was injured, covered in dirt, but he wasn't emaciated. Just a hot meal, and some water should do the trick. As for his bruises though, I wasn't so sure.

"Audrey, why don't you telephone Ingrid while I clean him up. If he's got any, broken ribs, I think we ought to have her take a look."

"Good idea. If you need me, just yell. I'll be down like a bullet!"

I went to get the medicine kit as Audrey ran upstairs to use the telephone. We'd stocked up on supplies just this morning, after a couple of young women stopped by for a day or two. The two were horribly thin, with skin like concrete and eyes as hollow as a couple of saucers, but after a bath, some clean clothes and a few meals, you could swear they were just hungry peasants. The tattoos on their forearms were their only giveaway. When we bid them goodbye at the station, I thought I'd almost seen one of them smile; just the faintest, upward-tug in the corners of her mouth. But that moment was gone, almost as quickly as their train had been as it drew away from Bolen station. I hoped they were able to find what they were looking for, in Krakow. Little dreams were scarce enough these days; how rare must the bigger dreams be?