The Road to Liberation
Trials and Triumphs of WWII
Marion Kummerow
Ellie Midwood
Chrystyna Lucyk-Berger
JJ Toner
Marina Osipova
Rachel Wesson
Copyright © 2020 All stories are copyright of their respective authors.
The contributing authors have asserted their rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the authors of their work. All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
PLEASE NOTE: Our authors hail from around the globe so the stories in the collection were written using either US English or British English. Differences in spelling and punctuation reflect this.
Also, several stories include strong language, which some readers may find offensive.
Cover design by JD Smith Design
ISBN Paperback 978-1-908519-69-6
ISBN Hardcover 978-1-908519-70-2
Contents
Foreword
Stolen Childhood
The Aftermath
Magda’s Mark
Liberation Berlin
Too Many Wolves in The Local Woods
When’s Mummy Coming?
Foreword
Seventy-five years ago, the second World War came to an end after six years of suffering and brutality on a near-global scale. The war had long reach; every continent was affected, save for the Indian subcontinent, and even there, a long history of European colonialism assured that cultures and nations who weren’t directly involved in the conflict still felt its devastating effects.
The war was a conflict between two ideologies, a fight to determine which way of life would set the tone for the remainder of the century and the decades beyond. Would fascism or democracy emerge victorious?
The conclusion of the war, with the Allies claiming victory after a long and grueling fight, set the stage for greater liberty and human potential to spread around the world. Yet now, three quarters of a century later, fascism stirs once more all across our planet. How have we forgotten so quickly what our grandfathers and great-grandfathers risked their lives to defend, what our grandmothers and great-grandmothers sacrificed to preserve?
I’ve always felt that historical fiction is akin to the “speculative fiction” genres of sci-fi and fantasy, and perhaps deserves to be included under the “speculative” umbrella. Sci-fi and fantasy provide a means for us to examine our present situation by asking “what if”, by projecting our ideas about the here-and-now into a possible future or a plausible parallel reality and watching how those ideas might play out in slightly different environments, with different technology or in the hands of different cultures. By observing these experiments in possibility, the reader comes to understand more deeply the world in which they live right now—the parameters and limitations that constrain us, the cultural quirks that shape our human natures, and by extension, what must be changed or done away with in order for humanity to grow toward its fullest and best potential.
Historical fiction provides that same service to humanity, but instead of looking to a near or distant future, or into some alternate reality, the historical novel looks into a real, factual past and allows the reader to make a diagnostic assessment of the present. The reader is compelled to ask, “Are we better off now than we were back then? Have we made the changes we needed to make in order to change our society for the better? Or are we still walking the same path, still making the same mistakes that led us into peril before?”
Historical fiction also gives us an important window on our own souls. By reviving the stories of the past and making them vivid and engaging, we can ask ourselves what we would do in similar situations. It’s painful to recognize that right now, in many places around the world—perhaps in your own country, Reader—we are still contending with populist fears and racial and xenophobic hatreds that gave rise to the same conflicts that created World War II. Perhaps we haven’t made the progress we should have made over these seventy-five years; we haven’t come as far as we ought to have come, and our feet are still on a treacherous path.
But though I honor and revere history, and will never stop asserting its importance, I also know that we are not chained to the past. We are not doomed to repeat what has gone before. Individuals like you and I can make small, seemingly insignificant choices that can shift the tone and direction of entire cultures. It is within our power—perhaps it is only in our power, we ordinary folks—to apply the lessons history has to teach and guide our world onto a gentler and more humanitarian road.
A few years back, I wrote a novel about that very idea. Like the books in this collection, The Ragged Edge of Night (which became a Washington Post bestseller, was translated into several languages, and optioned for film) was set during the height of World War II and followed the doings of some unexpected characters: ordinary small-town folks living in a tiny village in rural Germany. In Ragged Edge, I explored how small and seemingly insignificant acts of morality, mercy, and love can change the course of events for the better. I was gratified to see how eagerly readers responded to my message of hope during a dark and uncertain time. That enthusiastic response made me realize that the spirit of kindness and peace isn’t lost, even during times of turmoil—times like these. We may have to search a little harder to find the banked coals of goodness and hope, but they still exist, and with love and determination, working together, we can fan them back into a glowing flame.
In this collection, six talented authors give insights into the valuable lessons we can learn from our shared history—the history of World War II. I appreciate the fact that these collected works include a diverse range of characters and scenarios; the history of this war is one that touched almost everyone, and there are many stories to find beyond the expected adventure tales of soldiers and spies, many valuable lessons to learn so that we can become a better, more resilient, more peaceful global human family.
My wish is that you will not only enjoy these stories for the entertainment they provide, but also that you will think about the lessons these tales have to teach us here and now, in our present reality. And that you will use whatever you learn to help make the world a kinder, more loving place, through any small power that resides in your hands.
Olivia Hawker, author of The Ragged Edge of Night
Stolen Childhood
Marion Kummerow
Synopsis
When a ragged doll is your only friend…
Mindel doesn’t remember her birthday or her last name anymore. Four years old, she was separated from her older sister, Rachel, as soon as they arrived at the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp.
Left
to fend for herself with only her doll as an ally, she finds 6-year-old Lazlo and his gang of children. Because the adults can’t protect them from the SS, they take survival into their own little hands.
Rachel is old enough to work in an ammunition factory. The work is brutally hard and the living conditions are horrendous, but she wills herself to stay alive, because she needs to find her baby sister Mindel again.
Without her protection, how can Mindel stay alive?
But as the war nears its end, and the Nazis become more desperate to hide their crimes, can the two sisters survive? And will they find each other again in the chaos of liberation?
A touching story of self-sacrifice and survival from a USA Today Bestselling author.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Author’s Notes
About the Author
1
April 1944, Bergen-Belsen
Mindel pressed her doll Paula against her heart, tears flowing down her cheeks. Ever since those awful men in black uniforms had captured her and her seventeen-year-old sister Rachel, they’d been sent from camp to camp – each one worse than the one before.
After another horrible train ride, Rachel had grabbed her hand and pulled her behind her for an interminable walk until they arrived at yet another camp. Mindel knew all too well the sight of a wrought-iron gate and barbed wire around the place.
Every place those awful men in black uniforms, SS as the adults called them, had brought them looked the same. And Mindel still didn’t understand why.
Nobody, not even Rachel, had answered her questions about the why. Why am I here? What have I done? Wasn’t I good? Shame crept up her body as she remembered how she’d been fighting with her two older brothers Aron and Israel. She’d pinched Aron and broken Israel’s catapult. But the SS men couldn’t possibly know about that.
More tears flowed as she thought of her brothers, whom she hadn’t seen in such a long time. At seven and ten years of age, she adored and admired them immensely – at least most of the time. Would they find her, knock down the SS men and rescue her and Rachel? She hoped so.
But then desperation tore at her again. Her sister was gone. Gone. Upon arrival at the camp one of the guards had separated them and put her into another line, ignoring Rachel’s protests and Mindel’s frantic cries.
By now she’d been searching this desolate place for hours, but there was no trace of Rachel, anywhere.
“Now it’s only you and me, Paula,” she said to her doll between sobs. “But I will take care of you, don’t you worry.”
Paula nodded and pressed herself tighter against Mindel. Desperate to protect her doll, the girl squeezed her beneath the long-sleeved dress she’d been given in the last camp, when her own summer dress had fallen apart. More women arrived, the crowd pushing and shoving. Mindel stumbled against a young woman and in her effort not to get trampled by the mass of bodies, she clasped her hands around the woman’s skirt.
Either the stranger didn’t notice or didn’t mind, because she kept on walking, dragging Mindel behind.
“Nationality?” the guard asked the woman.
“Dutch.”
“Star Camp, over there.” He pointed to another line and then looked down at Mindel and up at the woman. “The child, too.”
The crowd organized itself, everyone falling into different lines of five people wide each. Mindel kept clinging to the stranger, because she had no idea what else to do.
Hours later, when her ever-grumbling stomach gave vicious stabs and she barely noticed her legs anymore, the line came to a stop and the woman turned around. “Now, get away from me, you filthy urchin!”
Mindel had become used to being called names, and filthy urchin was one of the nicest things people had thrown at her during the past months. Nevertheless, she let go of the woman’s skirt and moments later found herself standing all alone.
“I’m hungry,” Paula said from beneath Mindel’s dress.
“I’ll go and look for something to eat. Usually they have soup somewhere.” Mindel trotted off to where she saw another line forming, and just like she had hoped, there was a pot at the end that was even bigger than she.
With renewed energy she took her place at the end of the line, forewarning her doll, “Paula. I know you don’t like the soup, but you have to eat every drop of it, because it will keep you strong. Promise?”
Valiantly she kept her eyes dry as she repeated the words that Rachel had told her so many times. If only she could find her sister again.
When she finally arrived at the soup pot, the food bearer, an old and emaciated woman with hollow eyes, filled the ladle and was about to pour the soup for Mindel, when her arm stopped mid-way. “Where’s your bowl?”
“I…don’t have one.”
“No bowl, no soup.” The woman said and beckoned with her arm to the person behind Mindel. “Next one.”
Mindel was shoved out of the way, stumbling along the dusty ground. She watched with envy as others filed past, each and every person holding up a cup or bowl of some sort. Up until now she’d never given it a thought, but it became all too clear that Rachel had both of their cups, and without one, Mindel wouldn’t eat.
She felt like screaming out loud. But if she had learned one thing in these past months, it was that nothing good ever came of screaming. Most of the times it resulted in nothing but kicks, lashes with a whip or punches. Therefore, she ran off, her only goal to find her sister.
Gathering up all of her courage she asked one of the friendlier-looking guards, “Do you know where my sister is?”
“What do I care, you filthy Jew!”
He made a movement as if to hit her and she ran as quick as her feet would carry her, bumping into a small group of women with shaved heads. “Please, I need to find my sister!”
“Good luck with that.”
“You’ll never find your sister. Get over it.”
“But…” Mindel was about to sit down right there and wait until she died, because at least then she’d be able to fly to the clouds and spot Rachel from up there.
An older woman who spoke with a peculiar accent said, “Go back to your barracks, I’m sure your sister is waiting for you there.”
Barracks? “But…I don’t…” Mindel’s mind raced. Usually she and Rachel had been assigned to a barracks together and her sister had handled everything, from choosing a bunk for them, to getting blankets, to grabbing soup when it was time to do so. “Nobody told me where my barracks are.”
The woman looked slightly incredulous, but patiently asked, “You just arrived here?”
“Yes. Today.”
“Alone?”
“No, but my sister was taken to some other line and I was left here.”
“How old is your sister?”
Mindel furrowed her brows, thinking. “Really old. She’s been taking care of me.”
“That would explain it,” the woman murmured before she said in a louder voice, “They probably took her to a sub-camp to work in one of their factories.”
Big tears rolled down Mindel’s cheeks, but she didn’t utter a single sound.
“Oh, hell,” the woman cursed. “You can sleep in our barra
cks, but don’t think I’ll take care of you! I have enough on my hands to survive myself.”
Mindel nodded. At least she’d have a place to sleep tonight. Feeling for Paula nestled beneath her dress, she followed the woman to one of the ugly barracks. It wasn’t much different from those she’d slept in before – a one-story white building with tiny windows just big enough for her to crawl through, and one door at each end.
As soon as the woman opened the door, an atrocious smell wafted into Mindel’s nostrils and she involuntarily gagged. Once her eyes had adapted to the dim light inside, she noticed the three-story bunk beds lining the walls.
“Take the last bunk in the back,” the woman said and turned on her heel to leave. If it weren’t for Paula, Mindel would be all alone and miserable.
She did as she was told. Most of the people were outside, but some had stayed in their beds, filling the hut with groans, sniffs, coughs and farts.
Dear God, I will never be mean to my brothers again if you help me find Rachel, she promised before she reached the last bunk. It was right next to the buckets used at night when the inmates weren’t allowed outside to the latrine. The stench of urine and feces was horrific. She gagged several times, but since she hadn’t eaten for ages, nothing came up.
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