Fire Came in the Night
#88.7 Storm
The fire burned brightly and Papa sat as close as he dared while he held his prized violin. He played softly, he did everything softly these days. No Romani in his right mind would want to draw even the slightest attention if he could help it, not with Nazi soldiers roaming the country side gathering up Gypsy's, Jews and other "undesirables." Our family was at even greater risk, since we were Urmen Gypsy, descended from the Sidhe.
Most of us, Urmen and our Fae cousins knew to avoid the Germans as, rumor had it, Hitler would pay good money for any Fae or Fae Blooded taken alive. That's why Papa and I were pushing so hard to get to Spain. We had pushed for weeks, through snow and poor weather, from northern France where we normally wintered. My Pepe and my two Uncles had settled there maintaining a small homestead for the still mobile cousins to rest at over the winters.
Pepe had declined to come with us, saying that he was too old to travel, Petreco and Lazaros would not leave him to the Nazi wolves and said they would stay. Neither of them had families and urged Papa to take us south, out of the reach of the labor camps. Papa had agreed and we had left mid November, not the best time to travel in a horse drawn wagon that had a small coal heater but no coal thanks to the war. Not with Mama pregnant. We had meant to stay the winter with Pepe so Mama wouldn't have to give birth on the road, now however, that wasn't an option.
Finally we were just outside of Toulouse, maybe fifty miles from the boarder, the most dangerous place we could be. The Germans were searching the country side looking for people trying to slip in to unoccupied territories. But we were almost in Spain, sweet sunny Spain, free and away from the Nazi's that menaced us in this year of 1942. Despite the danger Papa had decided that we needed a decent fire for heat for the new born, my new little brother, Fabien, he had been born December 15, a month before my birthday. Mama called him early birthday present. For my birthday I received from Papa the knife that he had received from his Papa for his sixteenth birthday and from Mama a little brother. It was the happiest time in my life, even with the winter flight for safety
Mama nursed and my little sister dozed in the crook of my arm. Our mule munched quietly next to the vardo wagon we traveled in, the dog huddled under the wagon in the snow, trying to escape the the mild winter wind. Mama smiled at Papa and rose, carrying the tiny bundle of tightly wrapped blankets that was my baby brother towards the wagon. Papa stopped playing suddenly as the dog jumped up and started barking.
"Achtung, legen Sie Ihre Hände in die Luft und bewegen sich nicht!" a harsh voice called out in the cold night air. Papa and I froze as three German men wearing regular army uniforms and one man in the uniform of an SS Officer stepped into the circle of our fire. They had found us, despite everything we had done thus far, they found us. Papa and I looked at each other and had a moment of silent understanding. It had been the fire, we built it to high, too bright. All our months of hard work ruined in a single evening of foolishness.
Papa was older and more powerful in the Blood, so I waited for his sign. Every fiber of my being told me to reach out strike down the wolves at our door, to pull my knife and start cutting at their stony faces. But I waited for Papa.
He reached out slowly placing the violin on the ground and as he began to straiten, raising his hands, he plucked the knife from his belt. He lunged forward, burying the knife in the throat of soldier, beginning and ancient dance of our people, the Dance of Knives. It sung in our blood like the sweet strains of a distant song, beating a steady rhythm in our ears.
I started after him, second slower and with less grace, but no less determined, we would not go quietly into bondage. My knife struck out and a trail of blood followed as I passed by a soldier, only a little older then myself. His faced looked shocked and frightened as I slid my knife across his unprotected throat, around and down into his kidney. Then he screamed. Papa had killed the man in front of him so quickly he had not even cried out, but neither of us were quite quick enough. The SS officer raised a machine pistol and opened fire.
A storm of hot lead and fire filled the night. It cut through our little camp without remorse, neatly punching two identical holes into our dog and tracing a line of red holes down the side of the mule. Mama screamed, falling as a bullet took her in the calf; the baby cried and Papa died still holding his knife, a bloody wound punched over his chest and heart. I felt hot tears on my face and a burning pain stab through my shoulder and left arm. I fell backward with the force of impact, watching the stars shift crazily in the night sky.
I tried desperately to stand, rolling to my knees and pushing with my hands, but my left arm crumpled beneath my weight. I could still hear Mama and the baby crying behind me, near the wagon, and the sound of jack boots crunching snow to my right. I turned to look as the unknown man walked toward my mother and raised the pistol again. He shot her twice in the stomach, raised his foot and kicked my little brother. The babe never cried after. I thrust down with my right arm and forced myself into a sitting position and fumbled for my knife.
"Nicht so schnell Gypsie Papierkorb " he rounded on me, covering the ground between us in two quick strides. The barrel of his gun snaked out and struck across the jaw, making my vision swim. I fell backward into the snow and he kicked me in the face. Hot blood burst in my mouth and out of my nose, tasting of copper and salt. I didn't quite pass out, but everything seemed to exist in an abstract fashion. As the beating continued my mind had plenty of time to wander and question events. Where was my sister?
I lay bleeding on the snow, my head flopping around like a worn out rag doll as the blows continues. Towards the end I saw the third infantryman kneeling down by my sister, doing something to her with his bayonet. I lost consciousness soon after. As I slipped into blessed darkness I kept asking myself, how could he do that to her? She wasn't even eleven.
Name; Alexandre Pestrala
Fandom; OC / WOD
Words; 1178
The fire burned brightly and Papa sat as close as he dared while he held his prized violin. He played softly, he did everything softly these days. No Romani in his right mind would want to draw even the slightest attention if he could help it, not with Nazi soldiers roaming the country side gathering up Gypsy's, Jews and other "undesirables." Our family was at even greater risk, since we were Urmen Gypsy, descended from the Sidhe.
Most of us, Urmen and our Fae cousins knew to avoid the Germans as, rumor had it, Hitler would pay good money for any Fae or Fae Blooded taken alive. That's why Papa and I were pushing so hard to get to Spain. We had pushed for weeks, through snow and poor weather, from northern France where we normally wintered. My Pepe and my two Uncles had settled there maintaining a small homestead for the still mobile cousins to rest at over the winters.
Pepe had declined to come with us, saying that he was too old to travel, Petreco and Lazaros would not leave him to the Nazi wolves and said they would stay. Neither of them had families and urged Papa to take us south, out of the reach of the labor camps. Papa had agreed and we had left mid November, not the best time to travel in a horse drawn wagon that had a small coal heater but no coal thanks to the war. Not with Mama pregnant. We had meant to stay the winter with Pepe so Mama wouldn't have to give birth on the road, now however, that wasn't an option.
Finally we were just outside of Toulouse, maybe fifty miles from the boarder, the most dangerous place we could be. The Germans were searching the country side looking for people trying to slip in to unoccupied territories. But we were almost in Spain, sweet sunny Spain, free and away from the Nazi's that menaced us in this year of 1942. Despite the danger Papa had decided that we needed a decent fire for heat for the new born, my new little brother, Fabien, he had been born December 15, a month before my birthday. Mama called him early birthday present. For my birthday I received from Papa the knife that he had received from his Papa for his sixteenth birthday and from Mama a little brother. It was the happiest time in my life, even with the winter flight for safety
Mama nursed and my little sister dozed in the crook of my arm. Our mule munched quietly next to the vardo wagon we traveled in, the dog huddled under the wagon in the snow, trying to escape the the mild winter wind. Mama smiled at Papa and rose, carrying the tiny bundle of tightly wrapped blankets that was my baby brother towards the wagon. Papa stopped playing suddenly as the dog jumped up and started barking.
"Achtung, legen Sie Ihre Hände in die Luft und bewegen sich nicht!" a harsh voice called out in the cold night air. Papa and I froze as three German men wearing regular army uniforms and one man in the uniform of an SS Officer stepped into the circle of our fire. They had found us, despite everything we had done thus far, they found us. Papa and I looked at each other and had a moment of silent understanding. It had been the fire, we built it to high, too bright. All our months of hard work ruined in a single evening of foolishness.
Papa was older and more powerful in the Blood, so I waited for his sign. Every fiber of my being told me to reach out strike down the wolves at our door, to pull my knife and start cutting at their stony faces. But I waited for Papa.
He reached out slowly placing the violin on the ground and as he began to straiten, raising his hands, he plucked the knife from his belt. He lunged forward, burying the knife in the throat of soldier, beginning and ancient dance of our people, the Dance of Knives. It sung in our blood like the sweet strains of a distant song, beating a steady rhythm in our ears.
I started after him, second slower and with less grace, but no less determined, we would not go quietly into bondage. My knife struck out and a trail of blood followed as I passed by a soldier, only a little older then myself. His faced looked shocked and frightened as I slid my knife across his unprotected throat, around and down into his kidney. Then he screamed. Papa had killed the man in front of him so quickly he had not even cried out, but neither of us were quite quick enough. The SS officer raised a machine pistol and opened fire.
A storm of hot lead and fire filled the night. It cut through our little camp without remorse, neatly punching two identical holes into our dog and tracing a line of red holes down the side of the mule. Mama screamed, falling as a bullet took her in the calf; the baby cried and Papa died still holding his knife, a bloody wound punched over his chest and heart. I felt hot tears on my face and a burning pain stab through my shoulder and left arm. I fell backward with the force of impact, watching the stars shift crazily in the night sky.
I tried desperately to stand, rolling to my knees and pushing with my hands, but my left arm crumpled beneath my weight. I could still hear Mama and the baby crying behind me, near the wagon, and the sound of jack boots crunching snow to my right. I turned to look as the unknown man walked toward my mother and raised the pistol again. He shot her twice in the stomach, raised his foot and kicked my little brother. The babe never cried after. I thrust down with my right arm and forced myself into a sitting position and fumbled for my knife.
"Nicht so schnell Gypsie Papierkorb " he rounded on me, covering the ground between us in two quick strides. The barrel of his gun snaked out and struck across the jaw, making my vision swim. I fell backward into the snow and he kicked me in the face. Hot blood burst in my mouth and out of my nose, tasting of copper and salt. I didn't quite pass out, but everything seemed to exist in an abstract fashion. As the beating continued my mind had plenty of time to wander and question events. Where was my sister?
I lay bleeding on the snow, my head flopping around like a worn out rag doll as the blows continues. Towards the end I saw the third infantryman kneeling down by my sister, doing something to her with his bayonet. I lost consciousness soon after. As I slipped into blessed darkness I kept asking myself, how could he do that to her? She wasn't even eleven.
Name; Alexandre Pestrala
Fandom; OC / WOD
Words; 1178