Beneath the Silence

Dressed in black, I crouch in the shadows, watching the cabin with a sense of déjà vu. The resistance called for a secret meeting. Peter and I are tasked with relocating homeless children. But our orders do not mention a solitary candle burning in the window.

Peter and I joined the resistance with other teenagers three years ago, our innocent faces masking spies.

Now, crouched in the dark behind trees, peering at the flame, I slide my pistol from the holster, firm and steady. The last time I held this pistol, I was training in precision shooting. A hush had fallen when I hit every target, though I hadn’t realized then it was a harbinger.

Remembering my initial target had been an enemy troop who executed neighbors for hiding resistance fighters; I still see an infant smashed into stone.

I recall the enemy huddled in the cold, surrounded by woods, which hide a labyrinth of beaten paths, one of which leads to this cabin. Francisca, another teenager, and I had approached the group. She waved a scarf, letting it slip from her fingers, a setup. Two enemy troops ran to retrieve the scarf and pushed each other until one snatched it.

I had watched Francisca snuggle against him. As they strolled into the woods, I followed.

Our leader stepped from the shadows and shot him. I never wanted to return to these woods, but here I am, hiding behind trees, watching the flame.

I must find Peter and the children. They may be trapped.

I move toward the cabin, pistol in hand—the back door creeks as I push it open.

My heart feels like a sledgehammer.

A rancid odor of decaying wood fills my nostrils.

A screech: “If you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you.”

Holding my shaking pistol, I pivot toward the voice.

“You should have saved the infant,” it shrieks.

Buckling from a flash image of the infant, I scream, “Show yourself.”

“I’m in front of you.”

I catch sight of the movement of a black goat's head on the mantle. I fire the pistol, but it doesn’t faze the thing.

Mocking laughter lingers.

“Where’s Peter,” I yell.

“Dead, like you.”

“I'm not dead," I scream.

"You've been dead for 80 years and still looking for Peter!"

Its mocking laughter pushes me over the edge. I snatch the goat's head from the mantle, crush it with my boots, and drop to my knees, realizing I will never rest. How can I rest while the children suffer?

A ray of light fills the room, blinding me.

As I lift my head, the cabin fades and is replaced by a towering lady of stone with my name etched into the base and an ornate tablet reads: 'Throughout the occupation during World War II, she risked her life to protect the innocent.'

Justice echoes eternally.