If you haven’t read the story thus far, please do so before reading this.
Later, he would apologize to Rachel and explain what he did and why. She managed to forgive him after a long time, but I still haven’t found it within myself to completely let go. I think about it from time to time: the choices he said he had to make, the compelling persuasion of survival, the rebelliousness of youth. No, I could never understand the horrors that took place in Auschwitz, but who’s to say that in the right circumstances I wouldn’t make the same choices he did. It’s a thought that occasionally haunts me to this day and a question I could never answer.
Author’s comments on post 412: The end! This is a really short segment, so I might publish something later today. If not, come back tomorrow and I’ll have something.
Please read the story thus far (if you haven’t already), before continuing.
Telling someone that you found out they were a murderer is harder than you might think. I knew I was in no danger, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk to my grandfather. It was only after finding my mother’s photograph while cleaning my room one Sunday that I found the guts to say something to him. My mother’s lifeless visage and the rose-colored memories they evoked finally brought me to my senses. I never saw my mother as a person because of perfection and I felt fearful dislike for my grandfather because he wasn’t perfect. The irony motivated me to leave my room and seek him out.
I found him in the living room sweeping. A pile of dust and dirt sat next to the door and in front of the dustpan. He looked much different from the young man in the photograph and yet, as Rachel had said about her father in Auschwitz, the connection was there.
“Opa,” I started, quietly.
He turned around and smiled. “Ah, Christel. It’s good to see you back to your lovely self again.”
He meant this as a compliment, but it only made me feel slightly guilty.
“Something’s been bothering me these last few weeks.”
He sat down in a large plush armchair and I took the chair across from him. We sat in silence for a few moments before I found my voice again.
“When I last cleaned the attic I found a trunk with…some of your old things. Opa, why didn’t you tell me you were in the SS?”
My grandfather’s smile disappeared. “It’s not something I’m very proud of, Christel.”
“You seemed pretty happy about it then.”
My grandfather frowned, puzzled.
“The photograph with you and the other officer in Auschwitz in front of all those—”
“Maybe I was, at the time. It was an honor to fight for your country.”
I shook my head. “But you didn’t fight for your country.”
“Just because I wasn’t at the front lines—” He paused and took a deep breath. “I thought I was doing what was right. Now, before you get defensive, I never wanted that part of me to see the light of day again. I wasn’t happy with what I did by the time the camps were liberated and I did grow to love Rachel and her family, despite my secrets. I thought by letting you and Rachel be friends that it would make up for what I did in the past.
“I know,” he continued, cutting off my next interjection, “that nothing I do will make up for the atrocities I helped commit. But in the beginning I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. You’ll never understand what it was like. I joined the Hitler Youth and then when I got old enough, the SS. I did it because I had faith that it was the right thing to do. I couldn’t stand the Germany I grew up in. We were on top of the world before The Great War and afterward, the scum of the Earth. We watched the West take revenge on us for nothing and we watched as our friends, family, and neighbors fall to abject poverty. There was never enough money and the government did nothing about it. At least, not until Hitler came along. Hitler brought us out of the hole into which we had sunk. He gave us answers to all the questions of why. He gave us hope and gave us something to be proud of. I wanted to help my country.
“Even though I was obligated to join the Hitler Youth, it didn’t feel like an obligation. At first, it was just about leaving home for a while. School was never particularly enjoyable and home was even worse. The Hitler Youth gave me the freedom and the fun that I wanted—that I needed. I had good friends join with me and I made more while I was there. We all loved Germany and Hitler and we loved being part of the Youth and SS guard. For once, I had a direction in life. Surely, you understand the feeling of being lost in the vastness of your future. I had found my way out of the frightening unknown. Someday, you will know what that feels like.
“Once I was assigned to Auschwitz, however, I began questioning my devotion. You cannot imagine the things that I saw each day, the things I was asked to do. It quickly became a matter of survival; I followed orders because if I didn’t, I would be labeled a traitor and put in the camps. I knew more than the prisoners about what went on in the camps. Call me a coward, if you want, but you have never had to live where there was nothing but survival. That feeling where free will seems only a figment of your imagination because the alternative is worse than your current predicament. I lived for each day, hoping that I would get reassigned. But I never was.
“When the camps were finally liberated I couldn’t get rid of my uniform fast enough. I burned all the photographs that I owned and only kept my uniform out of fear that Germany would accuse me of deserting the army. Your grandmother kept all the letters and photographs in that trunk. I refused to look at what she put in there.
“I’m not proud of what I did, Christel. Don’t think it doesn’t haunt me. Every day. But I have to move on with my life. I don’t expect you to understand. To understand is to experience and I would never wish that upon anyone. ”
There were so many other questions going through my head, but for a while, none of them were able to voice themselves. He stood up slowly and resumed his sweeping while I continued to sit trying to organize my thoughts. I couldn’t and I had nothing to say. I stood up and left the room.
Author’s comments on post 411: I feel like I can do a little explaining at this point. This was done for a class about genocide, as I already mentioned. My final project was to research why people were driven to aid in genocide. The research was difficult because there was no reason as to "why" and I don’t think anyone will ever know. I did the best I could to justify the grandfather’s position based on my research. If you want to know my sources, I’d be happy to send them to you upon request.
I also want to mention that I do not want to justify genocide in general or the Holocaust, specifically. I feel that the whole situation is very complicated and worth studying, but I do not want my words to be used as some sort of fuel for an argument when taken superficially. Thank you.
Please read the story thus far (if you haven’t already) before continuing.
If I knew Rachel’s mom, she didn’t take that as much of an answer, but she didn’t press us with the rest of the family waiting for our arrival. My grandparents gave us a bit of a puzzled look when we arrived to the table, but Rachel’s father started with the service before they could ask us any questions.
The Seder went exactly like it was supposed to even through dinner. My grandparents were sitting on the other end of the table so it was easy to avoid them and I noticed Rachel being very careful to avoid contact with my grandfather. I only caught my grandfather’s eyes once and even though he smiled at me, still oblivious, I felt just as sick and fearful, especially of the possibility that I might have to confront him in front of Rachel’s entire family, some who had gone through Auschwitz and would not react nearly as quietly as Rachel had. I felt like what I knew was completely transparent and also that there was a possibility Rachel might let slip what she knew. It felt like I was stranded on thin ice.
After dinner, while the adults continued to talk in the living room, Rachel pulled me aside and back into her room.
“I think you should tell him what you found,” she said. “He needs to know what’s bothering you.”
“What about your family?”
“Well, you won’t tell him here, silly. My family shouldn’t know. They don’t need those horrible memories coming back and they don’t need a living reminder of the horrors they experienced. I’ll eventually forgive but you need to reconcile with him. At least I have an excuse to be mad after what he helped do with my family. You just have a horrible feeling on principal.”
“Rach, it wasn’t right and even though he’s my dad, I can’t forgive him for killing people.”
“If you love him, he has a right to know what’s got you so mad. You should let him explain and then decide whether you’ll forgive him or not.”
“What about you?”
Rachel shrugged. “I don’t live with him. Besides, he can confront me one day if he wants. Otherwise, I’ll work it out on my own.”
My grandmother arrived just then and told me they were planning on leaving. I gave Rachel a final hug and she thanked my grandmother for coming. She stayed in her room while we left, probably to avoid my grandfather, while I left with my grandparents.
Author’s comments on post 410: End of part 2. The beginning of part 3 will start tomorrow. Hopefully this isn’t too heavy for some people, but if it is, there is just two more parts to the story, so in two days, you can come back for something different and skip the rest of this story all together. I’m sorry it’s not very happy, but not everything in life is and stories are more interesting with conflict, anyway.
Please read the story thus far (if you haven’t already) before continuing.
We arrived at Rachel’s house early and I followed my grandparents at a short distance while they walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. The interior was strangely warm and friendly compared to my mood. Her family was already bustling around the house, most of them trying to get into the kitchen to help her mother. Her father was in a heated discussion in the living room about baseball with her uncle and some cousins. Rachel herself managed to escape the kitchen and skipped over to me when we arrived. My grandparents, used to us going off when we arrived, were not bothered when the two of us set off for her room. I, for one, wanted to get away from my grandfather as soon as I could. For the moment, being with Rachel was a welcome diversion.
But it wasn’t long before I felt like leaving her, too. The cold fear came back when I realized that Rachel’s last name was Scheinburg. My next thought was whether I looked transparently afraid of what I knew. I tried to talk myself down. There were probably hundreds of Scheinbergs living in Germany and it felt like an odd coincidence that the person my grandfather vividly remembered from the camps would be related to my best friend. But the name sounded too familiar and I had a bad feeling that they were the same. The air felt frigid going into my lungs, but I tried to calm down by reminding myself of the probable facts.
“Oh,” Rachel said plopping down on her bed with a fatigued sigh, “I love my relatives, but man, I’m glad to get away from them. That kitchen was crowded.”
“Did you make anything for tonight?”
“I always make the matzo balls and my mom actually let me make her kugel. We’ll see how it turns out,” she said with a wink.
I mustered up a small smile.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.
“Nothing,” I lied.
“Yeah, right,” she said, snorting ever so slightly. “Come on, Chris. I can tell if something’s bothering you.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Well, all right. If you don’t want to talk about it.” Rachel lay down on her bed and stared at me, smiling. “Did you clean out the attic recently?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you find anything interesting? Any cool vintage clothes we could use as costumes?”
I paused. “Do you have any connections with the Holocaust?”
Rachel stiffened ever so slightly; anyone else who knew her less would have never caught it. She paused before saying, “Yeah, I had family who died. Why?”
“Do you know who?”
It was Rachel’s turn to pause. “My grandmother, my uncle and my aunt. Why are you asking me? What did you find in the attic?”
Nausea filled me. I thought I was going to be sick. “Do you know your uncle’s serial number by any chance?”
“What did you find in your attic, Christel?” she asked sitting up.
“Nothing,” I said, the sickness getting stronger.
“Like hell, it was nothing. What did you find about my family?”
“A trunk. My grandfather had hidden away some papers and photographs from his youth.”
Rachel looked at me critically. “I think you should just tell me. Get it out.”
“I—I don’t want to find out that it really was…” I had to stop. The excuse weren’t working and she was right. I had to say it, even if it wasn’t to her. Even if it was just to the room in general; I had to get it out in the air.
I took a deep breath. “I found a trunk with my grandfather’s old things from his time in the SS. He wrote several letters and I’ve been staying after school with Herr Andres to translate them. My grandfather mentioned a boy—Benjamin Scheinberg. I was just afraid…that he was…”
Rachel remained silent. She was looking at the floor in front of her, perfectly still. Then she looked up at the ceiling and started walking around her room. The silence was much too heavy and I started crying. It was so simple a reaction that it felt like a rain after thunder and yet, I wanted to be able to stop and I couldn’t.
I looked up briefly to see Rachel giving me a Kleenex, but her gaze was still past me. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet.
“I had an uncle named Benjamin who died in Auschwitz but that doesn’t mean your grandfather knew him.”
This statement didn’t bring any comfort to either of us. She sat back down on the bed and looked me in the eyes. Her eyes were red and glossy, but her stare was more intense than a bullet and it cut through me like paper. “Most of my family suffered in Auschwitz. My father worked in Auschwitz. He was thirteen when they were taken to the camp. He told me that was why he never had a Bar Mitzvah. That’s all I know about it, except that I shouldn’t ask anything else. I’ve read a lot, Chris. A lot about what life was like in the camps and I cannot connect my father to that place. And yet…the connection is there.” She stopped to grab a Kleenex for herself. “And now you’re telling me that the man who is practically a father to my best friend and who acted like the grandfather I never had growing up is responsible for the death of, not only my family, but hundreds, maybe thousands of other Jews? Other people, for God’s sake!”
She let out a short half laugh smoldering with anger. “God damn.”
Her mother called Rachel’s name sharply from the dining room making both of us slightly jump. Rachel looked at me a little panicked.
“Do I look like I’ve been crying?” she asked.
I had to laugh a bit at the sudden normality of the question. “A bit. How do I look?”
“Awful,” she said, smiling. “Hopefully no one will ask any questions.” She paused at her bedroom door and turned to me. “I’m not mad at you, Chris. I know you’re pretty broken up about it, too. It’s just…really hard to take in. So…help me and I’ll help you, ok?”
I reached out and hugged her hard. “Of course.”
Rachel’s mom opened the door just as we were about to leave.
“What is taking you so long?” she said, sharply. “We’re about to—Rachel, are you ok? Chris, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, mom,” Rachel said. “Let’s go.”
Author’s comments on post 409: A little more drama. Ok, a lot of drama. Here is the main problem of the story: forgiveness. You’ll see more later and whatnot.
Please read Part 1 (if you haven’t already) before continuing.
A few weeks passed and my German was only slightly better than it had been before. But I was determined and I managed to translate most of the letters into English with the help of the German teacher at school. They told a narrative that I was too angry to identify with: my grandfather decided to leave his home, with the blessings of his parents, to become a soldier for Hitler’s army. He became an SS officer assigned to Auschwitz. I wasn’t too interested in any more details; his long praises of Hitler made me feel sicker and angrier and the nonchalant tone he adopted to talk about the camps was horrifying.
I knew that most of my disgust was because of Rachel. She was Jewish and my best friend; we met in elementary school and had never been apart since. I went to church every Sunday and holiday mass, but some people thought I was just as Jewish as she because I knew when and what all the Jewish holidays were as we always celebrated with her family. It particularly hurt to imagine people like Rachel being tortured and killed like animals.
The current letter I was translating, though, was different. It was a later letter to my grandmother describing one particular boy. My grandfather went to great lengths to find out the boy’s name; he claims he was obsessed with this child—no more than ten years old by my grandfather’s estimate. But, orders being orders, as my grandfather wrote, the boy was sent to the gas chamber with his younger sister and mother.
“Christel, are you ready to go?” my grandmother called to me. “We’re going to be late if we don’t leave soon.”
We were supposed to go to my Rachel’s house that evening for Passover. I had completely forgotten, I was so engrossed in the letters. I frantically gathered them and stuffed them under my bed. So far, no one had found them there.
“I’m coming!”
I picked up the translation, however and ran to stuff it into my desk before catching near the end of the letter that my grandfather had found out the boy’s name. I barely glanced at the page, afraid that my grandmother would come into the room to see what was taking me so long, before running out of the room and bounding down the stairs. My grandfather was already in the car outside while my grandmother gently escorted me to it.
The ride felt longer than usual. Maybe it was my mind focusing on the letters I had just translated or maybe it was the tension of confrontation that I felt with my family. I tried to remember the boy’s name. Benjamin Scheinberg, that’s what it was. But something about it didn’t feel right, like it was familiar. The name fit together much too easily for comfort.
“You’re awfully quiet, Chris. What’s wrong?” my grandfather asked from the driver’s seat. I couldn’t see his face and I was grateful.
“Nothing.”
I caught my grandmother glance at her husband with a worried look, but she stayed silent.
“Did you get a lot of work done on your homework today?” he asked.
“Some.”
“What are you working on?”
“I’ve got a couple of papers due. Some reading.”
He glanced back at me in the rear view mirror. “Are you sure you’re ok?”
“Yeah. Just tired.”
He looked back at the road, though I could tell my grandmother did not buy that answer.
“What papers do you have to do?” she asked.
“Nothing much, Oma, just something for the Industrial Revolution and another one for English.”
“What’s your English paper about?” she asked.
“Nothing important.”
The irritation in my voice was not intentional, but it was enough for her to stop asking questions. My grandfather opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it.
Author’s comments on post 408: Part 2 begins. I stopped here because this portion is the longest part of the story and I needed to split it up. More tomorrow.
Please read the story from the beginning, if you haven’t already.
I knew the trunk was buried underneath boxes, I just wasn’t sure which ones. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the pile and opened up the rusted locks that I realized I had found the wrong one. I didn’t recognize it, either, which intrigued me even more. I found it odd that something I had never seen was the first one I opened; I would have thought a trunk I handled often would be in the front.
The top layer was mostly papers strewn haphazardly and they had shifted to reveal a carefully folded tan uniform. I pulled it out, curious, and my heart skipped a small beat as the Swastika-decorated arm swung into my view. Surprise turned to anger; it didn’t belong in the house, the attic, to my grandparents or friends, and certainly not in my life.
I folded the shirt up quickly and flung it into the trunk. The papers made a crackling sound underneath, reminding me of my initial task of organization, so I quickly swept up them to one pile. In my haste, however, I uncovered more and more documents until a black and white photograph came into view. Two men in uniform stood smiling and posing in front of a pile of chaotic large, long, white, floppy objects. Until I caught a distinct face of a short-haired woman near the bottom of the pile, I didn’t know they were humans. Suddenly, the limbs, hands, feet, and heads of thousands of corpses in the pile were so apparent I felt like I would be sick. They were so emaciated, it looked as if they had partially decomposed already and even worse was the tractor in the corner of the photograph shoveling more bodies into the pile.
My gaze moved slowly to the two men.
I didn’t recognize one; he looked like a healthy brown-haired, boisterous young man that in a different photograph I might have been attracted to. The other…the other man I recognized almost instantly. The photograph was not as clear as the other family portraits I had seen of my grandfather, but there was no denying that the second smiling man in the picture had to be him.
I threw the papers down to the ground and ran towards the door, feeling everything in my stomach rise to the surface. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the stairs and stood panting in the middle of the hall on the second floor that I felt like I could breathe again. Thankfully, I was alone and for a few moments, I stood there staring at the family photographs on the adjacent wall as they stared disapprovingly back at me. Every single photograph looked like a murderer, looked Aryan, looked like me.
“Christel, are you ok?” my grandmother called from downstairs. “I heard the attic door slam.”
“I’m fine.”
I went back up to the attic, seeing the room in a completely different way. It was no longer mysterious. It was frightening. I picked up the letters from where they fell after I threw them and gathered them into a pile once more. The trunk didn’t have much else in it besides the uniform and photo. There was one other photograph of my grandfather in his uniform, but there was nothing left in me to react. I turned to the letters, but I didn’t know German. I knew it was in my blood, but my grandparents never spoke the language. I felt angry at this and I resolved to learn it myself. I needed to know what secrets these words were hiding and I felt that there was nothing else that could be more shocking than the photograph. I closed the trunk and replaced the boxes on top of it, marking the place where I put it carefully in my head. Then I snuck the letters into my bedroom on the second floor before returning to the attic for a third time and resuming my reorganization of the new boxes.
Author’s comments on post 407: Yes, well. Hopefully this doesn’t freak too many people out, but if you haven’t figured it out by now, this story is not for children. Don’t worry, it doesn’t get worse, but it does get complicated.
It started on a cold day sometime in April. It must have been a Sunday because I was told to spend the day cleaning the house, which usually only happened after church. I usually went up the attic at times like these, so that I could “clean” while spending most of the day searching through old trunks and looking at family heirlooms. You would think my grandmother would notice that I always reorganized the attic when she ordered cleaning days, but if she had, she never spoke up about it.
I lived with my grandparents ever since my mother died when I was a baby. My father disappeared shortly after. He couldn’t handle raising a child alone, I suppose. All I know about my parents is the stories my grandparents told. Well, they would talk about my mother, anyway, their daughter, especially since any relative at a family gathering would say:
“Look at you, all grown up! You look exactly like your mother. Especially your eyes.”
But whenever I look at photographs of her, I never see myself. Yes, I see the same silver blond hair, the same blue eyes, but my face doesn’t look like hers. I’m not sure if its wisdom, love, or a sense of life’s hardship that shadows her face, but I can’t seem to find a likeness. Perhaps because she will always be to me a lifeless photograph with rose-colored memories and not very human at all. No one seemed to remember her mistakes or know her secrets and, to me, that’s what makes a person human. That’s what makes you able to love them—the chance to overlook their faults, even though you know they are there. To me, my mother is perfection and utterly cold.
My father I have never seen, photograph or otherwise. I think I look for his photograph when I visit the attic just to find the other part of me. This potential for discovery is probably why I enjoy the attic so much. The space itself is not very inviting: dusty floorboards lie underneath dirty, peeling leather trunks and sagging cardboard boxes littered with insect corpses while spiders linger in the corner, their webs gently swaying in the drafts of my movement. There are two windows on either end of the house and a single, naked light bulb in the center of the ceiling. Every time I go into the attic I am both surprised by the amount of dust and mesmerized by the mystery of silent, static boxes.
I noticed that there were a few other boxes thrown upstairs, most likely brought into the attic after my grandmother had finished packing them the last cleaning day and ordered my grandfather to bring them here. They were labeled in German, which I barely understood, and probably mislabeled as well, so I opened them and glanced at the old clothes and papers strewn inside. Somewhere in the attic was a trunk where I compiled all of my grandmother’s old clothes, so I set off to find it.
Author’s comments on post 406: I wrote this last year, actually, for a class studying genocide. I won’t say anymore so I don’t spoil the story, but I will be publishing this in parts for the next several days. I also won’t have a computer for a while, so after this story, I probably won’t have anything for a little while.
Adam Berkley, 17 year old runaway, stopped at the fork in the road. But it wasn’t which path to choose that caught his eye, it was the smashed white cardboard box in the middle of the two paths that had his attention. He bent down, careful not to touch the orange mud with anything but his feet and poked it. It didn’t move.
It was wrapped carefully in gold elastic, which probably formed a bow on the bottom as the single string was being pulled on the top to create an even cross. He gingerly flipped the box over so that the bow was on top and proceeded to untie the knot.
Inside was a very smashed cake. If it was decorated in any special way, it was impossible to tell that now. All of the top frosting and most of the top layer of cake was stuck to the top of the box. The rest of the white frosting and cake were demolished. Both halves of the cake were crawling with ants and other insects, but Adam’s stomach growled at the smell of butter cream all the same.
He wasn’t sure how long this cake had been sitting there, though he imagined it couldn’t have been long. Wagon ruts continued to the right path whereas the left diminished into grass worn by falling feet. Adam stood up and looked back down at the cake. He closed the box and noticed as he did so the insignia of the bakery downtown that specialized in wedding cakes. It was a small wedding cake, to be sure, but someone was going to be upset to find it missing. Just like someone would be upset at finding their 17 year old son missing. The thought sobered and sickened him. The sour memories came back but instead of feeling angry, he felt numb and a little guilty. His mother’s weathered face and teary eyes came back to him from that argument.
He looked at the footpath and took a step forward. His stomach growled, but he refused to entertain the idea of eating the cake. The cake that someone would miss. He turned back along the main path and went back to town towards home.
Author’s comments on post 405: An interlude! Just a very short one and I am very happy with this one. It’s short, but I think the symbolism is pretty apparent and endless. Tomorrow I will start publishing a story I already wrote for a class but today, a little story I love. Thanks to http://fictionwriting.about.com/od/writingexercises/qt/feb2010writingprompt.htm for the prompt.
If you need to refresh yourself on the story, please read the story thus far.
The first thing to strike him was the vastness of the clearing. The space was large enough for a swimming pool, though the fountain in the center wasn’t that large. Around the circular space were benches facing towards the center and most were next to another entrance in the maze. The fountain in the center was smaller than the other ones he had seen and true to Gervais’ word depicted the Minotaur and Theseus locked in battle. Ariadne was nowhere to be found, but that was the least of Nick’s worries.
Sitting in a bench across from him was a tall, lanky man that looked much like Gervais but younger, although equally as ageless. He was reading a book but looked up when Nick approached the clearing and smiled when his green eyes locked with Nick’s.
“Good morning, Mr. Fuentes.”
“Mr. Fontaine.”
“You’re welcome to sit down, if you like. I often like to come here to think.”
“No, thank you. I won’t disturb you anymore.”
“You’re not disturbing me,” the younger Fontaine stood up and pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket, wasting no time in pointing it at Nick. “In fact, I would prefer the company.”
Nick turned and ran, thankful that a turn in the maze was nearby. He sprinted through straight paths and flung himself around corners all the while being able to hear the younger Fontaine right behind him. Clouds rolled overhead blanketing the world in gray and making it harder to see, but Nick knew he was lost every turn that he took. Once, he heard the clicking of the safety being turned off, but that was the only clue as to how close his pursuer was. His lungs felt like they were going to burst and the end of the maze was nowhere in sight.
All at once, a turn around a corner led to open lawn. Nick stopped and breathed, listening to any sound that might tell him how close danger was. Thunder rumbled making any sound invisible. Deciding that a zigzag dash across the lawn was safer than staying hidden in a straight path, Nick took a deep breath and sprinted across the lawn only reaching halfway before he fell, his legs pinned to the ground.
The younger Fontaine scrambled up from behind him and stamped on Nick’s chest as he cocked the gun and paused. It would have been a magnificent sight in different circumstances; the silhouette of a dignified man against a glowing, churning sky. Nick tried to pull his attacker’s leg off his chest, but to no avail.
“Sorry to do this,” Fontaine said, still breathing hard, “but money is money.”
“Don’t you have any conscience?” Nick yelled into the growing wind.
“Conscience? I lost that long ago with my sisters.”
Suddenly, something whizzed through the air and made contact with Fontaine’s head. The young man dropped the gun and staggered before toppling backwards onto the ground. Nick heard a horse’s whinny as he scrambled to his feet and grabbed the gun that Fontaine had dropped. The knight from the fountain on the patio was standing in the middle of the yard, his horse restless as it stood over young Fontaine.
“Are you all right?” the knight asked in a voice that sounded far away like it came from a telephone nowhere near anyone’s ear.
“I—I…guess so.”
The knight nodded and bent down to pick up young Fontaine by the collar. Without a word, the moving statue walked towards the fountain and with a single movement dropped Fontaine into the water face down.
“Don’t dro—”
All at once, however, the statue grabbed the Holy Grail from its belt and regained its former majestic position, Fontaine disappeared under the water, and it started to rain. Nick stared at the water, still holding the gun, and feeling guiltier than he felt he should have been. It wasn’t until he heard shouts coming from a doorway to the house that he remembered where he was and that he needed to get inside.
The maids were more than willing to help him into drier clothes, but he was still a bit shaken and couldn’t explain why. Gervais came down to the parlor at this point, concerned that Nick had decided to leave. No one asked anything about young Fontaine, although Nick found out later that everyone assumed he has just gone home or on another extended vacation. In the end, Nick inherited the house, although the other items were given to another remote cousin living in France.
It was some time after owning the house that Nick felt he could ask the fountain what happened to young Fontaine, but the satyr just laughed and the nymph said nothing substantial about the matter. She could tell it still bothered Nick so she added, “he’s not being tortured,” as if that made the entire situation better. Nick never pressed the issue anymore.
Eventually Nick had a family of his own, grew old, and died in the Blue House. He was the last of his generation to talk to the building, but every so often, the next inhabitants would hear whispers within the walls. They marked it as either auditory hallucinations, ghosts or faeries, but it was just the house laughing to itself and reminiscing about all the secrets in contained within its walls.
Author’s comments on post 404: Well, it’s been quite a ride. This is just a draft that will probably be massively edited on a future date, but for now, it’s done. I’m very pleased with how well the title fits the story, which is always something a bit iffy with longer works. But, I’ll leave it to all of you to analyze.
You’ll want to reread the story up until this point and it can be found here.
Breakfast the next day was hard to swallow, though not too hard to eat. Nick was nervous and he felt jittery, though he wasn’t completely convinced why and the fountain had no answers for him in the morning. Nick ate alone in the dining room; he had woken up earlier than most people in the house and felt like he needed to do something other than sit in his room. The cook was surprisingly obliging to his needs.
“Do you need anything else, sir?” she asked, peeking in to the dining room from the kitchen.
“Tell me,” Nick said, calmly. “What happened to Gervais’ daughters?”
The cook grew stony. “No one knows for sure, Mr. Fuentes. Mr. Fontaine was never very overt about how his daughters died. The casket was closed at the funeral, too, and though I’ve heard rumors, I’ve never been one to spread them.”
“But they did die.”
“Unfortunately. The youngest was always so nice.”
“Well…thank you. I don’t need anything else.”
“Just holler if you need me.”
Nick stood up and left the rest of his breakfast. The rest of the house was quiet and Nick wasn’t sure what else to do. He wandered around the first floor for a bit, fantasizing about what he was going to do when he was master of the house. It was too big of a building for him, though he could admit that it was a very nice house. He found himself outside on the stone patio and wandering around between chairs and neatly organized flowers. Dew still moistened the world and the sun was high enough to make the dew sparkle. The knight holding the grail stood majestic, but remained deathly still. Nick sighed and kept walking around the grounds. He reached the hedge maze and looked back at the house; it seemed asleep, but even if people were awake, they were probably just waking up.
He started walking in and around. A very small part of him felt uneasy, but he continued through the maze, confident he would reach the center. His mind was occupied, anyway, on other things: the house, his job, taxes. He was lost in thought about the size party he could throw in the Blue House when he reached the center.
Author’s comments on post 403: What’s this? An actual post? You bet your train set it is! It’s nice to get back into things. This is the beginning of the end; there will be one more post. And happy new year!
