UNFORGIVEABLE

UNFORGIVEABLE
Friday, January 26, 2024 by I. CAROLINE CROCKER

PLEASE WELCOME

I. CAROLINE CROCKER

FICTION FRIDAY

EXCERPT FROM UNFORGIVEABLE

“Frits, stop your ridiculous tinkering!” Zuster (Sister) Dermout’s harsh voice made me jump. “We’re nearly out of firewood. Go now. Find some before it gets dark.”

I looked outside. The sun was low in the sky, but I knew better than to argue. At least later, the moon might light my way. That is if the clouds would cooperate.

“Come on, Jan.” I shoved the screwdriver into my pocket before grasping my younger brother’s hand with all the authority an eight-year-old could muster. “I’ll need your help.” I lined both of our shoes with newspaper so our toes wouldn’t freeze, then struggled into my too-small, threadbare coat. I put my hat over Jan’s rioting blond curls and pulled his coat sleeves down to cover his hands.

My spirits lifted when we reached het bosje (the forest). There was something magical about the trees pushing their long fingers into the sky; the fragrances that changed with the season; and the total isolation from the hustle and bustle of Driebergen, a little town in the center of the Netherlands.

I knew the villagers would have harvested everything from the edges of the woods, so we walked further, pushing aside snow and picking up sticks and branches. By the time we had enough firewood, we were a long way from het kindertehuis (the children’s home). We lived there with about 30 children, all of whom were overseen by two nurses, known to us as “sisters.”

“Frits, what are those booms?” My six-year-old brother’s voice trembled as his blue eyes scanned our surroundings.

“Guns! Let’s go!” I remembered the sisters warning us that, when we hear gunfire, we should go to the nearest house. Pulling our fully laden wagon with one hand and my brother with the other, I ran out of the woods and into a tree-lined lane.

The houses along the street all had tiny front gardens, each bordered by a rose hedge. My mind took flight as I briefly thought about how safe we would feel living in a home with parents. With Papa sick and Mama having to work, that wasn’t even a possibility, but there was no harm in wishing.

I opened my mouth to tell Jan we should go into the first house, where the door already stood open, but the sound of guttural shouting changed my mind. Germans! We halted abruptly.

Jan shook violently. He knew to keep quiet, but just in case, I put my icy hand over his mouth. Both of us crouched behind the hedge.

There in the front yard were three Nazi soldiers in woolen uniforms and shiny black boots, their machine guns slung over their shoulders. A stone-faced German with narrowed eyes came out of the home, dragging a rather ragged and wild-eyed Dutchman forward by his arm. All the while, the soldier shouted about de Widerstand (the Resistance). The hapless victim was forced to lie face downwards on a pile of rose clippings, while the man’s young female colleague watched. My mouth dropped open, and I nearly protested about the thorns, which I was sure would hurt him. Fortunately, the words died in my throat.

At the Zugführer’s (commander’s) snarled order, the other soldiers beat the hapless prisoner with the butts of their rifles. They continued until he was motionless and covered in blood. I didn’t see how he could be alive. Nonetheless, when the Zugführer gave the command, a pair of soldiers hauled him to his feet, propped him against the nearest tree, and they all emptied their guns into his back.

Jan gasped. The young woman’s eyes turned to us, and she quickly dropped to her knees, sobbing loudly. I pulled Jan lower, my stomach in my throat.

One of the blood-spattered soldiers spun to face the woman, and the Zugführer struck her on the ear before barking, “Schweigen Sie (be silent)!” None of them looked at us. Instead, the soldiers hoisted the man’s body up and flung it onto the rose bushes at the far side of the garden. I was aghast to see a body there already.

The wind stopped blowing, and the trees ceased rustling. The moon hid behind the clouds. Jan and I held our breath, and the woman didn’t even dare wipe the spattered blood off her face.

Raucous laughter split the dark silence before the Zugführer indicated that the young woman should go into the house. My horrified eyes were drawn to the holes in the tree trunk and the shadowy pool of blood at its base. Although that incident might be buried among everything else that happened during World War II, the tree would forever tell the tale.

We remained there, frozen, despite the screams coming from inside. Then, realizing that we shouldn’t be caught so near to what seemed to be a German base of operations, I pulled Jan to his feet. We returned to het kindertehuis via het bosje. Zuster Dermout was angry about how late we were—but not for long. Even that unfeeling woman could see that something beyond words had happened. I curled up in my bed but never told her what. She didn’t ask.

In February 2024, you can learn more about where to find the book.

ABOUT DR. CAROLIE CROCKER

Dr. Caroline Crocker is a multi-genre writer, focusing on truth written like fiction, and a blogger addressing science, faith, teaching, and other topics. In her previous life, she worked as a biologist, medical research scientist, associate professor, nonprofit founder, and CEO. Caroline lives with her husband in Northern Virginia, where she has four grown children, eight wonderful grandchildren, and a bulldog who snores very loudly.

For more of Caroline’s writing, check out https://ramblingruminations.com.

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