Excerpt from The Springfield Overland Trail | by Husam Sweileh

 

From pages 165-168

 

Although Sam was on a watchfulness duty, he could not help thinking of his feelings about the American Civil War.  Since July 13, 1864, Sam had continually marched for long seven days with his regiment before he participated in battle.  Later on he would become truly weary with long marching, gun battles, and the sights of the dead and the wounded among soldiers and civilians.  He felt it essential that the war be over.  Still, he had been lucky not to have sustained a single battle wound during his service at the Civil War. 

 

Sam had been uncomfortable since he put on his Union soldier uniform. The uniform’s thick-cloth coat or jacket was dark blue buttoned up to the neck.  His thin-cloth pants were light blue with a dark-line running down along each external side.  His laced shoes were black and hard on his feet which were sour with long marching.  

 

Although the jacket and pants provided a becoming contrast in color, the uniform was wholly made of wool.  Therefore, the uniform was rather warm and was not comfortable in warmer climates like that of the State of Georgia.  As a soldier, Sam was also not permitted to appear in public in his issued cotton shirt but he had to have his jacket on.  While marching in rather warm weather towards Atlanta, Sam was constantly feeling that he was about to have a heat stroke. 

 

The Civil War had started three years before Sam was drafted into the war effort.  By that time the States had been divided between the North Union and the South Confederacy.  Many more states had however supported the Union, including the State of Illinois.  As part of the first major Union army attack on the defenses of Atlanta a week on, the Battle of Peachtree Creek would be fought in Georgia in the afternoon of the twentieth day of July, 1864. 

 

In their night watch-and-ward duty at the edge of the campsite, Sam and his veteran comrade soldier William O'Neil were privately talking about the rumor that a battle was close at hand north of Atlanta.  It later became Sam's first battle.  Unlike his comrade Sam, William had a passion for heroism and killing the enemy.  William told Sam "I should be given a hero's medal because in the last four battles, I shot and killed four enemy soldiers in the back while they were fleeing from the battlefield." 

 

Trying to make more sense, Sam said, "Under the legal and moral principle of self-defense, one may kill or injure only armed fighting soldiers, not soldiers fleeing the battlefield.  Also, war is not heroic because one army of the two armies participating in the conflict will necessarily outnumber the other." 

 

In the interest of clarity, Sam added, "Our task as soldiers is to end the war by defeating the enemy's army, not killing non-fighting fleeing soldiers." 

 

William argued, "The south has started the war." 

 

Sam promptly retorted, "A started war must be ended; who started the war is not a moral or legal justification to wage war forever.  No country has ever won a civil war; everybody loses in a civil war." 

 

Sam went on to say, "Under the self-same principle of self-defense, a country may wage a war against a foreign army which has first resorted to armed conflict." 

 

William said, "A civil war is a regular war, and a civilian must be killed if he assists an enemy soldier." 

 

Careful not to encourage civilian bloodshed, Sam retorted, "The soldier may have forced the civilian to help him at the gun's point." 

 

Having no arguments left, William confirmed, "I will hold firm and fight back no matter what happens at the frontlines." 

 

Sam believed that William thought that he was a hero because he had been marching with the victorious army and because he had killed four fleeing soldiers.  Sam thought that if the situation had been the other way round, William would have noticed that his comrades had been outnumbered.  Had William retreated before a superior force, he would not have felt heroic. 

 

On the following day to Sam’s first battle, Sam was unable to talk to William who was asleep.  When Sam asked an army surgeon about William O'Neil, the field-hospital surgeon told him that during the battle attack, William had been shot twice by a rifle in the left hand at its outer edge.  Sam figured out that William had to have been fleeing when he had been wounded. 

 

What immediately came to Sam’s mind was the possibility that William's hand was no longer usable and that his wounds might develop gangrene later on.  Also, Sam thought that after William had been shot while fleeing, he had to have changed his standing with regard to shooting fleeing soldiers. 

 

After a short rest, Sam went to visit William again in the field hospital ward.  Protruding from under the blanket, William's left hand was wrapped in bloody bandages, yet he was covering his head with the blanket in his bed.  So Sam went to see the army surgeon again.  The surgeon told Sam that William would most probably lose the use of his hand and could infect with gangrene. 

 

On that day the commanding officer ordered that the regiment remain in the same place for a week.  The soldiers were assigned the usual tasks of collecting equipment, guarding the encampment, burying the dead and caring for the wounded. 

 

When Sam went to see William in the afternoon of the following day, William looked sullen, pitiful, hopeless, and weak.  After all, he had been fleeing the battle field when an enemy rifle had shot him twice.  His wound proved his perceived act of cowardice while William himself advocated shooting fleeing soldiers.  His hand was now swollen and dark with gangrene. 

 

Sam consoled William with few encouraging words.  He told William to take care of himself and to prepare for his civilian life now that his fighting days were over and done. 

 

The regiment in which Sam served and the other regiments’ soldiers were ordered to prepare for marching the following day.  So Sam went to see William for the last time before leaving with the army regiments.  Sam was with William when the surgeon came to examine William before the operation. 

 

The surgeon examined the gangrene course up the forearm.  It was clear that it had to be amputated from the elbow down.  William asked, "Doctor.  Am I going to lose the arm from the elbow down?" 

 

"I'm afraid yes.  Many soldiers have lost arms," replied the surgeon. 

 

"One does not lose for his country; one sacrifices for his country," Sam corrected. 

 

The surgeon nodded his head twice in approval and said to William, "We ran out of pain-killers for the amputation.  So we must do without." 

 

William said, "The amputation will not give me pain half as much as it had after my hand was gunned." 

 

__

 Hussam Sweileh holds a Bachelor of Arts in English Language& Literature and an Associate’s Degree in Clinical Laboratory Science.  He is scheduled to study Medical Laboratory Science at the University of Illinois Springfield. 

    His book, The Springfield Overland Trail, is a single, non-series novel whose main characters are (1) Sam Hudson, a livestock rancher, (2) Ben Norton, his crop-grower friend, and (3) Georgia Hudson, the 14-year-old daughter of Sam’s cousin.  The novel’s main storyline takes place along the Chicago-Springfield Overland Trail in the early summer of 1868.  One can purchase a Kindle edition of the novel from www.amazon.com.  At present  am working on editing his 88,000-plus word collection of eighteen short stories titled Under Our Frontier Skies.  

 

 

 

Thomas Hirsch | by Carol Smallwood

Excerpt from Lily’s Odyssey, a novel, published with permission by All Things That Matter Press; its first chapter a Short List Finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award for Best New Writing.

____


One snowy afternoon when school had been closed I saw Thomas Hirsch looking for my house in the road with his coat blowing in the wind. He wore what Uncle Walt called “a damn Russian Cossack hat,” with the jutting earflaps giving him the profile of a pitcher with handles. I’d called the newspaper after reading his appeal for memorabilia on the local opera house so ran out to meet him.

Thomas rarely took the time to button the cuffs of his shirts, so he was affectionately called “Cuffs.” His wife had taught adult education art for years and was a respected northern Wisconsin portrait painter. When I took his coat and hat, I saw a pair of Mark’s underwear he’d put on a chair when I went outside and whisked them into my pocket, and heard my son snickering in his room.

Under his shirt Thomas wore a T-shirt that saidworld’s greatest grandfather. His large round eyes, and his brows shaped like inverted V’s, gave him a startled look, but he was hard of hearing. Some people said he just pretended to be, so they’d speak openly around him, and he could gather tidbits for the newspaper, at which he was a reporter. They said he could hear very well clear across a room when something was newsworthy, but if someone under his nose wanted free publicity, he’d lean forward, shake his head and tap his hearing aid.
I too, was becoming acquainted with selective hearing: Odysseus put wax in his sailors’ ears so they wouldn’t be tempted by the Sirens; I used ear plugs to not hear people talk about lost animals.

After Thomas smoothed back his hair and dried his glasses, I showed him my grandfather’s plate. He was delighted, took a few pictures, and then asked, “Have you been doing any more writing since your book on Wisconsin geology?” He smiled encouragingly.

He seemed sincerely interested, so I showed him some of the boxes of source material I’d gathered.

He shook his head and said, “I’m amazed at all that hard work you do. It takes you hours upon hours just to collect the material. How do you do it when you work too?”

“Because of cutbacks at Nicolet City,” I told him, “I’m only working part-time now, and I like to keep busy.”

Even as I said it, I realized I felt guilty for talking about my work, as if I was flaunting my independence. In fact, my writing was security for me. Whatever else was happening, however frightened or terror-stricken I felt, I knew it was something I could do. But now, asked to talk about it, it seemed that if I acknowledged the success I’d had, I’d be saying that my adoptive father and my ex hadn’t measured up, that I didn’t properly regard men as the head of a household, as Christ was the head of the Church. I could still hear Aunt Hester’s hushed church voice telling me about the Catholic girl’s role in helping men get to Heaven. And how could I be competent when I wasn’t able to protect myself from Uncle Walt growing up--nor had I been able to keep my family together?

According to the Church, Cal, Uncle Walt, and Aunt Hester, and most others, the blame was mine; cutting up my old clothes and those of the children’s and sewing them together to make quilts was one way of going back to my proper role as a woman. Maybe the Church had been right in saying that sex/marriage was for the procreation of children, but where did love come in--or was it one of nature’s tricks?

When I gave Thomas the inch mat of compressed mosses, liverworts, and fossils I’d found when burying leaves, a specimen similar to one I studied in college, his gratitude was sincere and made me glad I was able to share my interest in geology with him. I’d held the specimen many times trying to will it to give me clues about life. Knowing that glaciers shaped the landscape around me always filled me with awe and it seemed that the gouging and relentless movement of immense sheets ice miles thick had happened only yesterday, and that Lake Michigan lapping close by still had ice under the water, fantastic secrets. Knowing how the ground I walked upon was formed made it feel more stable, less likely to split open into a black pit and swallow me. And yet, knowing that the Ice Age was caused by a change in the orbit of the earth around the sun, wasn’t very reassuring. Nor was knowing that all species die. I wasn’t ready to admit that the life force that compelled me not to give up was intertwined with the drive to love, to understand, like a ball of twine—a ball that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t unravel. Perhaps Caroline was right when she advised, “Don’t look to this world or in yourself. Lift your eyes to Heaven.”

Wisconsin was shaped by the past, a past determined long before man. To help ground me, I got out my childhood atlas and once again was reassured that Wisconsin was surrounded by Lake Superior on the north and Lake Michigan on the east; its western boundary was Minnesota, Iowa; the southern was Illinois. By the way the roads converge, you could tell Milwaukee and Madison were the main cities.

The Great Lakes was dwarfed by Hudson Bay on a map of Canada. Milwaukee was the only city noted in Wisconsin and straight red veins (railroads) radiated from it.

On my globe, Wisconsin is an orange spot surrounded by green Minnesota, yellow Iowa, pink Illinois; the Upper Peninsula of Michigan is sandwiched between the blue of Lakes Michigan and Superior. The globe squeaked when I turned it to French West Africa. The name Anglo-Egyptian reminded me of a hyphenated name of a modern bride.

The globe was made in Chicago but had no date; an eagle with outspread wings clutched branches over the LEGEND showing three dots for Ruins and others. The Population Classification for Cities was indicated by the size of the dots, and the capitals by stars. The LEGEND was between the North Pacific Ocean and the South Pacific Ocean, the Marquesas Islands (Fr.) on the left, and the expanse of blue water on the right.

Under the stand I’d written: “Lily Alger, Grade 6, Age 11, 3/11/51, Sunday.” There were traces of rose decals I applied long ago below Alaska to make the expanse of the North Pacific Ocean less empty.

The north pole had a sunrise, sunset, high noon, mid-night moveable circle so you could tell time all around the world once you pointed the current time where you were: I found that the sun was setting in Ireland, and it was rising over the Territory of Hawaii.

The amount of water covering the earth was so overwhelming I still thought that fish should’ve evolved and ruled everything: as the globe revolved I could’ve been looking at the very spot humans evolved. The continental drift had once sounded too fantastic, but then I saw how the coast of eastern South American fit into the western coast of Africa like an old married couple, it was unreasonable not to accept it.


___
Carol Smallwood co-edited Women on Poetry: Writing, Revising, Publishing and Teaching (McFarland, 2012) on the list of "Best Books for Writers" by Poets & Writers Magazine; Women Writing on Family: Tips on Writing, Teaching and Publishing (Key Publishing House, 2012); Compartments: Poems on Nature, Femininity, and Other Realms (Anaphora Literary Press, 2011) received a Pushcart nomination. Carol has founded, supports humane societies.

　

The Face on the Table, excerpted from "Le Lampe A Quitter" | by Emily Shevenock

 

 

 

On removing the watch, the restriction lifts.

Encounter what is known as the light embrace or
sensation cornering dialectical intercourse,
omission of orated instance.

 

The watch is placed on the desk,

bearing resembling features that
counteract any signifier or personal taboo status.


However difficult now the bare wrist is—
it’s clean, impaled seemingly by nothing.
The visual lines ticking, black sticks:
Insects closing in singular actions,
the rotated seeking
but never justified in any particular alignment.

___
Emily Shevenock is a graduate student of writing and poetry. Her work has been published in Burn Magazine, The 2River Review and Primavera. Her full-length work, "Le Lampe a Quitter," is under consideration for publication.

What Any Mother Would Do | by E. Lane Keller Excerpted from COVENANT OF POPPIES

 1991 Krdn, Croatia

The train to Belgrade was departing early the following morning, and guessing that he would not be returning to Krdn for some time, Duke meandered about while giving his grandmother’s house a final look. The sound of playing children reached in to him from the street, limbs like sticks and clutching bikes, chalky and wobbly, their faces happy, chiding, heedless; they were somehow aware that this moment in time was not to be squandered. It was hard to comprehend that his father had grown up in this place, with Baka Sofi, in this gritty little house and neighborhood, where little boys played made-up games without thought to lives that might one day be consumed with bitter, useless acrimony.

He found his youngest cousin in the barn shoveling feed into a bucket, and she balanced it on her head like Zeus, the Elephant Trainer, before handing it over to him. He told her he was leaving the following morning and she leveled her quiet gaze at him with her usual lack of comment. No doubt she perceived the truth, that he was functionally inadequate and could no sooner find words for his questions than she could form words to answer them.

"It's difficult for me as an outsider, you know." He said this stupidly, as it seemed all his words were coming out these days, noting that despite his cousin's silence she seemed acutely attuned to his thoughts. She was far too wise for a girl of fourteen years, he decided.

His cousin skipped and moved them forward, her skirts flapping as she wound them through dirt-packed lanes and crisscrossed through backyards, until veering off onto a small gravel path leading to the far end of town. Beyond what appeared to be a dumping ground for decaying farm equipment, and before the golden tracts of arable land splayed out with nary a shopping mall, paved road or McDonalds in sight, arose a lone, two-storied, vacant-looking house.

As they neared the structure he saw it betrayed the Croatians' usual love affair with Austrian architecture. But instead of gaily blossomed terraces and bright stucco facades, tiers of barren flower boxes adorned a smoke-darkened fascia with sooty window eyes. He followed Petra to a semi-path behind the house, wondering what they were doing in this God-forsaken place, and then, why they were wading through choking weeds and broken crockery. They stopped at a disused stable some fifty yards from the house, where, instead of cows and horses, several dozen mounds of lazing fur sprung to feral life as they entered, frenzied cries mingling with frenzied purring as ragtag felines raged for a good spot against Petra's legs. He helped her spoon food into bowls while marveling at her crooning, which sounded to him just like a real mother cat's.

What Petra was doing here was a mystery, but he forced his questions down, turning to fill a basin from a stiff, barely-working pump before following her into a dusky kitchen. From there they proceeded into a high-ceilinged sitting room, where, upon on an ornate chair sat the apparent object of their quest, a woman as old as Baka Sofi, as dusty and dejected as the home in which they found themselves.

At the sight of Duke the woman jolted back with a cry. "Who's that with you, Petra?" The woman's tone crackled from disuse, and as he set down the basin in front of her Duke stole a look at her faded dress and long, jeweled earrings, which he deemed to be circa 1947 at best.

The woman's expression was sour. "This is not one of your brothers, Petra," she hissed while continuing her assessment of the intruder.

"He’s my cousin, Mrs. Huddel," Petra answered in a clear tone, causing Duke's head to whip around.

She could speak! It was the first time he'd heard Petra utter a word. What a conniver. But no, she was not of that ilk. There was undoubtedly some deep mystery behind her silence that she would withhold from him until his death. Petra returned to the kitchen, leaving him with an entirely upgraded opinion of her.

He turned back to Mrs. Huddel and her protracted scorn. “Humph,” the old woman pronounced. “So this is the great American grandson.” She dipped a rag into the basin, drew it over her crevassed face, then darted expertly around the earrings. “Rude boy!" she snapped. "Don't stare so."

As Duke faced away Mrs. Huddel's voice lost its edge. "It's a long time since I have had anyone to talk to. Your aunt used to come. Do I look dead to you?"

He turned back slightly abashed, and answered with sympathy. “Sofi’s ill. But at least she's got family near her."

Mrs. Huddel rasped as if she held the ghosts of a thousand mourners within her chest. "Yes, she's a good mother, isn't she?" She added, "Yet Sofi Vrakuvic will always be by herself, make no mistake about it." She motioned towards a faded stepstool and as Duke pulled it near he disturbed a nest of soldier ants that preceded to rush his way. "Has your grandmother told you anything?" Mrs. Huddel's bony fingers clenched the worn brocade of her chair as Duke fought off the ants.

"One or two things," he responded, shaking out a pant leg, then another. Her wounds were undoubtedly abysmal, but at that moment he was challenged more by the idea of ants in his nether regions than he was by hearing ancient stories.

"Only one or two? There are some stories your ‘Baka’ will never tell you." Mrs. Huddel raised her head as Petra entered and placed a bowl of steaming dumplings in her hands. Petra cast a worried look at Duke as she did so, and Duke cast her an assured smile.

"Duke and I are friends now, Petra," the old woman explained. "Wait inside like a good little bird. " But Petra lingered and Mrs. Huddel pierced a dumpling with her fork, wielding it in her direction. "I said, I want to talk to the grandson!"

Petra scurried away and Mrs. Huddel aimed the dumpling at Duke. "Have you heard of Ustashe?"

Duke grew silent. Ustashe. The word was like a disease.

Before he could respond she answered, "We saw it happen in this village." Mrs. Huddel lowered her fork. "Our own turned. My boys were taken from me, my eldest killed. It was '43 when they came to round up my boys. The other two put in camps. All three dead." She settled back in her chair, and Duke got the feeling he was about to hear a tale she had been waiting a very long time to tell, waiting maybe, for him. He thought he should take notes, but then thought better of it as she might be dissuaded from talking. He decided to commit her words to　memory instead. The gist would be fine, and might just make a good personal interest piece.

“I had no husband by then,” she explained. “But Sofi's husband? Josip Vrakuvic was brave Krajinisci. He was going to protect us.”

She referred to the grandfather he never knew. As the tale unfolded the village of 1940‘s Krdn arose upon the room's walls, the shadows fell away, and Duke forgot about taking notes.

"The Huddels and Vrakuvics were excellent friends,” she said.

“Josip Vrakuvic was godfather to my Vetska. Her baptism was a beautiful ceremony. Every villager came, our Orthodox Priest as well as the Catholic one. Vetska was a beautiful girl, as sweet and wise as Petra. Several boys in the village asked for her hand. But she was only fourteen and so I told them it was too early." Mrs. Huddel laughed and clasped a hand to her breast. "Oh Vetska! My girl!" She clamped her eyes shut.

"As I said," she explained, "Josip Vrakuvic was our dear friend. He would protect us if the time came. Many of the Serbs had already left for they were afraid their neighbors would turn on them like they had in other villages. But Josip Vrakuvic was head of Krajinisci and not only did we trust him, he had influence.

Soon enough, the Serbs in Krdn began to disappear. Some were shot in front of us. Our dear priest Father Kurkovic, and Obrad, our doctor. Eventually we wondered how Serbs came to be identified. Everyone had similar names, how did the Ustashe know who was whom? Was someone in our village pointing them out?

On the night my boys were taken away, my faith slipped. I believed I sent them to their deaths by remaining in the village and not fleeing while we had the chance. From then on I was tied here. I couldn't leave while my boys were in danger. I clung to Vetska, vowing to protect her with my last breath. Josip and Sofi promised they would do everything they could. They took us in and hid us. Because of this, I believed them.

Eventually the remaining village boys were rounded up like so many pawns, drafted into the Ustashe or killed by them. Only the old people and women and children were left. Your grandfather, Josip, was too old to be drafted. He was twenty years older than Sofi. They used him to train the soldiers, and Sofi was happy to see him in the favor of the Ustashe for this would keep them safe. She loved Josip fiercely, as much as she loved her boys and certainly more than herself. As much as my Vetska was to me, Josip was to Sofi.

Josip was on the farm the day the Ustashe came to our village. They cornered him and demanded he point out the houses of Serbs. Most were gone by then, so he had no trouble doing this. Mrs. Huddel jabbed a boney finger at Duke. "Would you have turned on those who depended upon you?'

Duke whispered that no, he wouldn't have, and she continued.

“That Ustashe officer knew more than he was telling. What he wanted was for Josip to identify the Serbs staying in his home. The officer was toying with your grandfather. If the Ustashe hated one thing it was a man who felt he was morally above them. Josip Vrakuvic was a better man and the officer knew it. He repeated his question, asking Josip to point out the houses that Serbs still lived in.

The officer knew the houses and he also knew that Vetska and I were inside the Vrakuvic home. But he wanted to hear Josip say it. Your grandfather didn’t respond and a soldier cracked him across the face with his rifle. That's when they came after us and dragged us out. The officer wanted a show, you see. He wanted to observe what a man of substance would do in the situation he was about to create.

Sofi arrived then, flailing her arms and hair flying from under her kerchief as if she was Medusa. I threw Vetska behind me, praying the Ustashe wouldn’t see my action, for some reason still believing we might be saved. Maybe the Ustashe had all been like Josip Vrakuvic once. Why else would they have spent so much time torturing him? To them, moral courage had become a big joke.

He resisted what they asked him to do, but I knew Josip couldn't hold out forever. They beat him with their guns while Sofi screamed, her hair wild like snakes. She flew at the soldiers, scratching and biting with all her strength, which, despite her height, was considerable. The soldiers threw her aside as she screamed, ‘It is not supposed to happen to us!’

That was when I knew that something terrible was going to transpire and that I was helpless to stop it. The Krajinisci were brave fighters, but they weren't trained to be inhuman like the Ustashe. I knew that once Sofi became desperate all would be lost. I pushed Vetska backwards, motioning that she should run away. It was a feeble action and one of them grabbed my arm and sliced it through."

Mrs. Huddel showed Duke her wrist. There was a jagged gash, still garish after forty-five years. "They nearly cut my hand off," she explained. “Still, I threw myself on Vetska as they dragged her forward. They wrung her from me and tossed her on the ground before Josip. I wedged myself between them, but they clubbed me.

They could have killed me, but didn't. They wanted me alive for what was going to happen.

'Is this girl a Serb?' the officer demanded. I could see from Josip's eyes that he would not betray Vetska for all the world. But Sofi was another matter. Her words ring in my ears fifty years later.

‘Tell them Josip, or I will,’ Sofi cried. Then, ‘She is Serb!’

And even still your grandfather tried to save Vetska. 'No, she is Muslim,’ Josip cried as the Ustashe laughed in his face.

Mrs. Huddel's breathing was ragged and her eyes were wide, as if the Ustashe were chasing her through the years. With a wrenched sigh she brought forth the rest of the story. "They threw Vetska down. I can not say the filthy words they used to tell Josip what they wanted him to do.

‘She is my godchild,' Josip tried to explain. But to these monsters feelings like love and trust can not be explained. The prospect thrilled them further. 'You are her godfather?' the officer asked with amusement. The other soldiers raised their bottles, looking forward to the show. I kept myself from falling into unconsciousness, forcing myself to stay alert for Vetska's sake. Sofi was prostrate on the ground, pleading with Josip to do what the soldiers wanted.

The soldiers held me as I watched Josip Vrakuvic rape my little girl. As he took her, she stared up at him as if trying to understand why he was hurting her. Then the soldiers followed suit.

Mrs. Huddel's chest was heaving, and the images she'd conjured spun about the room. When he could no longer stand his thoughts he choked out, "My grandfather. What happened to him?"

She shot him a look, as if surprised Duke didn't know the answer. She made no response as Duke shook his head and arose. He had asked too much and was sorry he'd come. He regretted ever trying to find answers to his questions. Once he reached the air outside he would forget everything he'd heard and leave his answers to what he'd imagined, his childish stories and half-baked rational that covered his parents' lies. Mrs. Huddel's stone-cold tone caused him to halt at the door.

"They broke his leg bones first. Your grandfather's screams faded as they moved to the rest of his body. He was still alive as they carved a cross into his forehead. Then they finished them both off with a knife across their necks." Mrs. Huddel's gaze was turned to the wall. "I'm glad she is dead. I am very glad. And I'm glad that Sofi Vrakuvic lives with the memory of what she did."

"My grandmother," Duke burst out, "Why did they leave her alive?"

Mrs. Huddel's lips drew up in irony. "Why, because she did what any good mother of four boys would do. She was the informant who spied on our village. That was how they knew the houses.

Duke stood motionless. His thoughts whirled. Sofi was an informant for the Ustashe? His uncles, Uncle Phillip, his own father--were they bought by the Ustashe too? He blurted out, “You said you 'believed’ Josip and Sofi. What did you mean by it?” The cracks of her smile were as ghastly as his thoughts.

A gleam entered Mrs. Huddel’s eyes, one filled with unmistakable malice. “I meant I believed when they told me we were family. Do you want to know the truth?”

No, he didn't want to know. Not anymore. He kept going.

"We are dogs to them and always were."

As he exited the kitchen her words followed him out.

“Myself, I would have urinated on my children's corpses rather than see them turned into the devil seed Ustashe.”

Petra was sitting on a barrel with her head on her arms as he entered the yard. Duke sat beside her and after awhile he decided that the choice to remain silent amidst the evil of the world might be a very sound idea at that.

___

E. Lane Keller's novel, Covenant of Poppies, unravels 1000 years of Yugoslav history while shedding light on the media bias that helped take the country down. Published in non-fiction with Reed Elsevier, her plays have been produced in Maryland, two short screenplays were produced with Sundance Award-winning filmmaker, Steve Yeager, and the stage version of Covenant of Poppies appeared at the NY Fringe Festival. A recipient of the Maryland State grant for writing, graduate of NYU, member of the Author's Guild.