A Mere Shell

In the end I ran away, fleeing what I am guilty of. As a young man I committed those crimes, telling myself orders were orders, that we were the justified, dealing out punishments fit for imagined crimes.

Now, older, reflecting on how my past moulded me, I return to the scene of my crimes. German and Jew, I embraced one me and snuffed out the other. Is this survivor guilt? Or am I finally realizing and admitting my evil past?

I wander the compound, begging spectres for a forgiveness that will never come. Are they the ghost, or am I?From Guest Contributor Tim Law

Salvation

I release the sewer grate and climb into the darkness, the stars my only light. I stay close to the alley in case German police scope the streets. My family is starving and out of the three of us, I’m the least weak to make the walk, even though I stumble from fatigue. We’re all in angst living in sewage, but we have no other option.

His figure is faint, but recognizable. He hands me the bag of potatoes and apologizes for not having enough, then kisses me passionately.

“Go now, my Sadie.”

Aron, my salvation in this wretched war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Punishment Without Crime

Oompah-pah music and traditional German drinking songs floated up from the street festival into the third-floor courtroom. I shifted uneasily from foot to foot as I stood before the scowling judge. One prosecution witness after another had described in specious detail my attitudes, conversations, habits, and interests. There was even testimony about the transparent Jewishness of my penis. Now it was finally my turn to speak. I had just begun when the judge interjected, “Spare us your life philosophy.” His face was grave. He studied me with cold, squinty eyes as if calculating exactly how much a person can bear.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Melodious Birds

Erik sat silently in the small attic, fatigued, and his legs aching from being crunched together in the confined space. His father had told him to stay quietly hidden until the birds chirped.

Before the gunshot, his mother screamed. His father yelled a profanity, then he heard another gunshot and muffled his cries.

As Erik awakened, the birds sang. He slowly opened the creaking door and went downstairs.

In the kitchen, his parents bloodied bodies laid on the floor and a Nazi soldier stood against the wall.

“Ich habe gewartet.” I’ve been waiting.

A gun was aimed at Erik’s head.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Death Camp

Aviva Blonheim stepped onto the train with her parents. As the German soldier closed the door, he chortled. Aviva, only ten years old, didn't understand why Herr Hitler hated the Jewish, and as she glanced at her people packed into herds, unkempt, smelling of sweat and urine, she became more frightened. She tightly clutched her mother’s hand.

Upon arrival, they were led in groups to a small room. Aviva realized something bad was happening, and her parents collapsed, unresponsive. People clawed the walls to no avail.

As the poison gas entered Aviva, she grasped her throat and collapsed into darkness.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Old Mrs. Meyer

Johan returns with the potatoes for lunch. Mrs. Meyer, who lives opposite, opens her door. Though he’s eleven, the kind old lady still gives him candy.

However, seeing the two Gestapo officers with her, Johan hides.

“My father was German,” she says.

“The Reich is grateful,” they reply.

Soldiers arrive. Knocking down their front door, they drag out his parents and the family in the attic.

“Jew-loving Dutch swine!” says a soldier, spitting at his father.

Johan never sees them again.

His eyes meet Mrs. Meyer’s, peering out from between her curtains.

He never forgets her look of triumphant malice.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in Schlock! Webzine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.