Connect with Grace
Website | Facebook | Twitter
Other books by J. Grace Pennington
The Firmament Series
Radialloy | In His Image | Machiavellian | Reversal Zone
The Firmament series chronicles in eighteen books the adventures of young medical assistant Andi Lloyd as she travels through the galaxy aboard the starship Surveyor and navigates the difficulties of family and faith.
Never
Travis Hamilton never expected to be a killer. One day he was studying to become a schoolteacher in the little western town of Spencervale, and the next he was sentenced to ten years hard labor in the Dead Mines outside town — from which few return alive.
Ross Hamilton is no detective. But when his brother is convicted of murder, he has no choice but to abandon his ranch and do all in his power to find out just what happened the night of the killing, and who is really responsible.
Neither brother is prepared to be stretched and tested to his limits and beyond by an adventure that is much bigger than either of them ever imagined.
But in the next few days, they will be. The only way to survive is to never compromise.
Never.
Implant
Welcome to the world of a universal cure.
Gordon Harding didn’t ask for the life he has. He didn’t ask to be orphaned. He didn’t ask to go through life with cancer. And he certainly didn’t ask to be pulled into a future world without warning-–a world where every human being is controlled by means of a medical implant.
And when he learns that he’s the only one who can destroy the base of operations, he’s faced with an impossibly painful choice: either hide and let the world decay under this mysterious futuristic force, or rescue humanity from oppression, knowing that there’s someone out there who is willing to use any means necessary to stop him.
Sweet Remembrance
Emily Ann Putzke
“Oh, take me with you! You go away when the match burns out.”
— Hans Christian Anderson
I.
A bitter gale raps against the cracked window. It’s determined to get in, sink its icy teeth into my fragile flesh, and drain every last scrap of warmth from my body and soul. It pulls at the shards of glass in a frantic effort to reach me.
Kasia, it whispers, give in. You know you won’t survive another night. Give in.
But I can’t. Not yet. Romek would be disappointed in me. I can hear his voice cut through my groggy thoughts, countering the wind.
You have to live, Kasia. You have so many dreams…
Romek, you don’t know how much you asked of me.
My fingers grip the doorknob. I hesitate only a moment. One glance at the swelling bruise on my arm reminds me that Father will be home soon. When he finds out I haven’t brought home any bread, I’ll pay for my failure. He doesn’t seem to realize that there’s no food left in the ghetto.
I stumble down the stairs, my fingers grazing the wall. The wind rushes toward me as I near the door. Come to me, Kasia. Come to me. A blizzard of white lashes against the cobblestone as I step outside. It howls in my ears and rattles my teeth against my aching jaw. What am I doing? Where am I going? I don’t know. I just walk, my cramped shoes crunching the snow beneath me. The street is quiet this evening. The Germans find it more amusing to inflict torture on us in the warmer weather, for they very rightly assume that winter will take care of us for them. Naked bodies are frozen to the pavement. There’s brown snow under every window. Some snow is crimson. I don’t want to be here when it thaws, and the secrets of winter melt in the sunlight.
I don’t have to worry. I won’t be here.
The old apothecary shop sign swings in the wind, and a German-issued resettlement leaflet flutters across the sidewalk. I step on it, grinding the death notice into the snow. Evening is descending, cloaking the ghetto in inky shadows and smothering the cries of the innocent. Was life ever anything but despair? Did I ever have a desire but to die a painless death? I can’t remember. It’s all hazy now, and I just want to sleep. A sharp wind encircles me. Its vicious fingers tug on my sweater in attempt to hurry the process. I tug back. I’m not ready yet. My feet are taking me somewhere. I stumble over an abandoned baby pram, and the icy metal digs into my shin. Blood drips down my leg and saturates the snow.
“Are you all right, child?”
I lift my eyes. A middle-aged woman stops to help me up. Her face is gaunt and ashen, her lips blue. I stretch out my hand, and she struggles to help me to my feet. I try not to think of the nauseating pain clawing at my skin.
“Thank you.”
“It’s getting dark. Go home before trouble finds you,” she whispers, readjusting her kerchief.
What home?
I simply nod and watch her walk away. She intermittently casts glances over her shoulder before disappearing down an alley. Her kindness propels me to walk a bit further, to struggle against the determined wind.
“Geh weiter! Schnell!”
My nerves prick at the sound of deep, cutting voices. I stop walking, my eyes searching for the source. Just ahead, Nazi soldiers are dragging four young Jewish men toward the former watchmaker’s shop. The young men are half naked, and their waxy skin clings to their bones. They are shoved against the exterior of the building.
A soldier waves his pistol at them, a cigarette dangling between his teeth. “Face the wall!”
Three of the young men turn their bodies toward the wall, the red stone that is the last thing their eyes will see. But the fourth man doesn’t move. His hands are balled into fists. With a glare, he burns holes into the soldier’s skull. “‘If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’” He spits at his captor’s feet, his final act of defiance.
The soldier aims his pistol with apathy, and the young man crumples to the ground like a rag doll. Blood seeps through his meager rags. The German continues down the line, never flinching as he steals life after life. “Judenschwein,” he grunts once they are all face down in their own blood. He kicks the bodies with his jackboots to be sure he did his job thoroughly. Romek’s face materializes in my mind, taking the place of the brazen young man. I remember his comrade coming to me one bleak November night. He told me Romek was among a group of resisters executed against the old concert hall. He threw out words that were supposed to comfort me.
Romek gave his life for a noble cause.
I stare at the limp bodies. The Germans don’t care that we want to live. Their guns speak for them. What right do you have to wish such a thing? The soldiers move up the street as they share a chuckle. They hold their heads high. I slink into the alleyway and lean against the brick wall until they’ve passed. I try to clear my head but can still see the dead men across the street, their death replaying in my mind like a hellish newsreel. I see Romek’s face. His eyes that crinkled when he laughed. His smile that could light up even the darkest days.
I start running, exerting every muscle in my body as the raw air rips open my lungs. My energy flags as I approach a woman huddled near a small fire in the alleyway. Her eyes are fixed on the ebbing flame, and she clutches an infant tightly to her breast. She rocks back and forth, but her child is inconsolable. Tears trickle down her hollow cheeks as she sings a lullaby. “Sleep, sleep my beloved son. Sleep, sleep with no worries nor pain. Close your beautiful eyes. Sleep, sleep favorably. Close your beautiful eyes.”
I know what Romek would do. He’d stop running. He’d search his pockets for anything he might have that would help the suffering people before him. Romek wouldn’t turn a blind eye, like I long to do. I’m suffering! I want to scream. Why can’t someone help me? But my feet move without my consent. I plunge my hand into my dress pocket until my fingers land on a rough cardboard box. I look down into my palm.
A matchbox.
The woman cradling the wailing infant snaps her dark eyes away from the waning fire and sets them on me. She’s younger than I first thought. She’s only a teenaged mother tryin
g to hold onto life. I feel her inquiring stare as I struggle to open the flimsy box. When the box gives way, I count the sticks. There are five left.
“Here,” I say, holding out a matchstick to her.
She reaches out her hand, and I gently place it in her palm. Such a small gift. How will it benefit her? Perhaps give her one last night to keep warm? Perhaps not even that. But she smiles at me and nods her head in thanks.
As I walk away, I look over my shoulder.
I can see Romek stopping in his tracks, kneeling before a woman and her child near the Vistula river.
A Memory
He made me light up like a firefly whenever he walked into the shop, but all I knew about him were four things: His name was Romek. He was very respectful to me and my mother. He liked books, and he was the most handsome boy in all of Poland. He came to our shop at least once a week, but I never gathered up the nerve to ask him any questions about himself.
It was an early July morning, and I had just flipped the sign to “open” on the freshly washed window. I sat behind the counter, my feet propped up on a stool. I was turning the page in my book when the bells chimed above the door.
“Good morning,” I said, dropping my feet. When I glanced up, my heart burst into a million butterflies. Romek stood there, his hat tucked under his arm.
“Good morning,” he replied, offering me a cordial grin.
I tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear and tried to offer a smile back. “Romek, isn’t it?”
I cringed at my attempt to sound ignorant.
“You have a good memory, Kasia.”
He remembered my name? “Can I help you find something today?”
“Actually, yes.” He took long strides to the counter and looked at me. I hid my instinctive blush. His brown eyes, sprinkled with flecks of gold, sank into my gaze. “I’m looking for Naborowski.”
“You like poetry?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t look so surprised.” He smirked.
“Oh, I’m not.” I dropped my gaze. “Let me see what we have.” I circled around the counter to the bookshelves that homed a large selection of classic Polish writers. Mama wouldn’t have it any other way. “It’s just… well, most young men who frequent this store limit their search to cigarettes and the newspaper.”
“I like cigarettes and the newspaper just as well as the next man, but when you’re a student of literature you’re apt to enjoy a good poem or two.”
There. Now I knew five things about him.
I trailed my finger across the leatherbound classics, the raised lettering firm and stately under my touch. I was so lost in searching for the book that I didn’t notice his stare. But I caught him as I turned around. He quickly looked away and my stomach flipped as I held out the book . “Will this one do?”
He hardly glanced at it. “Yeah, that would be fine.”
“I’ll just ring this up for you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” He dug in his pockets as I took the book to the counter. I wished he would put it on credit, just so I could learn his last name. Unfortunately he had the money and placed it on the counter. I took my time wrapping the book in brown paper.
“You’re good at that.” He nodded at my folding.
“I’ve been doing it for a long time.”
“How long?”
“My parents started the shop eight years ago.” I didn’t dare tell him my father then gambled away our earnings, skipped town, and only came home when he saw fit. “What do your parents do?” I asked.
“My father is a professor of science, though most people get the impression that he’s a musician.”
“Why?” I slid the neatly wrapped package toward him.
“Our last name is Mendelssohn.” He winked as he grabbed the package.
I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing, and he smiled at my response.
“Do you like music?” He lingered near the counter.
“I dream of being a concert pianist in the Warsaw Philharmonic someday.” My body tensed. Why did I tell him that? He’d laugh, just like everyone did.
“No kidding?” Was his look of surprise undertoned by mockery or genuine curiosity? I couldn’t tell.
“It’s silly. I know it is.” Heat creeped into my face. I busied my hands with rolling up the paper packaging.
“If it’s your dream, it’s not silly. You shouldn’t talk like that.” I met his gaze. No one had ever defended my dream before. “What are you reading, if you don’t mind my asking?” He was looking at the book I had abandoned on the counter.
“Music theory. But it’s just on my own. I can’t…” I took a deep breath, swallowing my pride. “Well, I can’t afford going to university right now.”
“Then I commend you for your dedication.”
“Thank you.” I smiled, not sure what else to say.
A heavy silence hung over us for a long moment. I racked my brain for something—anything!—to say. He cleared his throat and moved away from the counter. “Well, it was very nice talking with you.” He turned to leave.
My heart sank. He must have found me dull. Why couldn’t I think of anything interesting to say to keep him longer? I sank down into my chair to watch him leave.
He stopped halfway toward the door, hesitated, then turned. “Kasia?”
I dropped my book, my hands trembling. “Did you need something else?”
“Yeah… sort of. I just…” He was staring at the ground, his brow furrowed as if trying to sort out his words. “You can tell me no, and I’ll never bother you again, but I just thought that maybe you’d like to go to a concert tomorrow night since you like music and everything…” He looked up at me.
“With you?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah… but if you have a… you know… a boyfriend…”
What was he asking? “Yes, I’d love to go,” I cut into his tangled up sentence. “Thank you.”
A smile danced across his lips. “Great. I’ll come by tomorrow around seven.”
I wanted to ask him, “Is this a date?” But what else could it be?
I walked on clouds for the remainder of the day.
The next evening I couldn’t swallow, breathe, or do anything human except feel my stomach do somersaults one after the other.
“What if I can’t think of anything to say?” I asked Mama. She was sweeping the shop floor, a kerchief covering her silver hair. She grinned but kept her eyes fixed on her work.
“There’s beauty in silence, Kasia.”
I tapped my fingers on the counter and kept watch out the side window for Romek. “How do I know if he’s the right one?”
“You’ll know.”
“That’s not very helpful,” I grumbled to myself. I leaned forward on the stool, cupping my chin in my hands, as I observed a young couple strolling past the shop. My dedicated vigil was rudely interrupted by jingling bells. Romek swiped off his hat upon entering.
“Good evening, Mrs. Heim.” He nodded toward Mama, and then his eyes fell on me. “Hi, Kasia.”
I jumped off the stool.. “Hi, Romek. Let me… I just need to grab my sweater.” I felt his eyes on me as I hurried into the back room where I had shed my sweater earlier. I haphazardly draped it over my arm. “Well, I think I’m ready.”
“Have a good time, you two.” Mama kissed my cheek, then turned her gaze on Romek. “Have her home by ten, please. I’ll be waiting.”
“Yes, Mrs. Heim. I’ll take good care of her.”
His response pleased her, so we set off without any further questioning. Romek pulled open the door and we stepped outside into the gathering twilight. The air was cool for a summer evening.
“It’s a bit chilly,” he said. “Here, let me help you.” He took the sweater from my arm, gently wrapping it across my shoulders. “Do you mind walking?”
I shook my head. Ribbons of coral hung in the dusky sky, and a waft of fresh pastries lingered under our noses as we passed the bakery.
“You know,” he said, breaking the silence, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about this concert for a while. I guess I was too nervous you’d say no.”
I fixed my eyes on the buildings ahead. “I never say no to a concert.”
“Good to know.”
I tried to study the faces of the passersby to calm my thudding heart. There was a schoolboy kicking a ball around, an old woman and her middle-aged daughter, and a young couple so lost in each other’s eyes that they nearly pummeled right into us. Romek took my hand in his and pulled me out of the way. Our eyes met for half a second. He quickly dropped his hand. I probed for something to say to alleviate his embarrassment.
“What do you want to do with your life, Romek?” Did I just say that? I blinked, wondering why I couldn’t converse like a normal human.
His chuckle caused heat to crawl up my neck and burn into my cheeks. “That’s quite the question.”
“Sorry, I… I don’t know why I asked that.”
“No, it was a good question.” He buried his hands into his pockets and lifted his head to the sky as if it held all the answers.
“You are a student of literature. Do you want to be a world-renowned author or scholar someday?”
“No.” He was quick to answer. “I just want a simple life. No heroics or fame, you know? Besides,” he said, glancing at me with a grin, “who says I can write anything fame-worthy? Now you on the other hand are going to be a famous pianist, and I think it would suit you. I better get your autograph now before the crowds swarm you and you forget all about me.”
“That will never happen.”
“Yes, it will.” He nudged my shoulder. “Just wait until you’re playing in the Philharmonic. The crowds will go wild.”
“I mean, forgetting about you… that would never happen.” What was happening to me? Words were spilling out of my mouth without sufficient thought. I bit my lip, scolding myself for sounding so flirtatious.
Once Page 29