By Patrick M. Fitzgerald
Esther held Raphael in her lap and rocked him as he cried. Even at the age of eight, these trying times drove him to cling to his mother. She opened her heart, and his every fear and sadness poured into her.
She smoothed his hair with a trembling hand as the tension in his muscles dissipated, and with it the sound of his sobs. The walls of the cellar seemed to close in. The light that shone through the floorboards above made stripes on their clothes like concentration-camp uniforms. Shadows like prison bars fell across the dirty, concrete floor.
Lord, take this dread from my heart.
Before the last word formed in her mind, a valve opened within her, and the terror subsided.
The hallowed heart, her mother called it. Ever since Hitler had come to power, fear and hatred surrounded her, and she felt all of it. It would seep into her, an inky miasma that threatened to stain her soul. In times like these, it felt like a curse.
She patted Raphael gently as he drifted to sleep. When she could use her gift to ease the sorrows of those she loved, she knew it to be a blessing.
Her mother was proud of her Romani heritage and loved the mystique surrounding her people. She never claimed to be a fortune teller, but it was a common stereotype. Many would come to her for advice, and she was always happy to help.
“They’ll ask me to read their palms, tea leaves, or other such nonsense,” her mother had told her. “All they really need is someone to hear their troubles and maybe give them some good old-fashioned wisdom. But you, my child… You have the hallowed heart. You don’t need to hear someone’s troubles to give them comfort.”
Her parents were in the Warsaw ghetto now. At least, they had been. She hadn’t heard from them in months, and the rumors about the concentration camps… She would pray for them, but she dared not dwell on it.
Her husband, Erich, was full-blooded German, so he was safe from persecution. At least for now. There always seemed to be new people to persecute, and having a Jewish-Romani wife and son did not bode well.
He didn’t want them to run, though, and neither did Esther. The tiny cellar was a decent hiding place, especially with the bed moved over the trapdoor.
Esther felt the soldiers arrive shortly before she heard pounding on the door.
Her son’s panic was as suffocating as the cramped quarters. Her own heart thudded against her ribcage. There was no way she could alleviate his fear when her own was so acute.
Jackboots stamped the floor overhead. Dust tumbled through the cracks, falling like ash through the streaks of light.
She sensed excitement from above, and her heart sank. Excitement for them means danger for us.
The stairs rattled as the bed above screeched across the floor. The trapdoor flew open, and a pair of polished boots stood at the top step.
“Get out, vermin!” a young man’s voice called down, demanding yet hesitant.
Esther gestured Raphael to stay back. She ascended the stairs, chilled by the cold wood pressing against the holes in her stockings.
She met the icy blue eyes of the young soldier, who could be no more than eighteen. He glared at her and raised a blocky pistol. Why do those things look like toys?
The barrel vibrated slightly. She frowned and opened her heart to him. She had almost missed it in the oppressive cloud of her and Raphael’s fear, but it was undeniable.
The young man was scared.
Poor boy’s as frightened as we are.
She smiled gently. His fear spiked. He’s afraid that we know something, some secret that plagues him. Doesn’t matter what it is, that tyrant’s always finding new ways to hate.
“Please, leave us to our hiding place. I know you, too, are in hiding in your own way.”
His eyes narrowed, and his knuckles whitened as they clenched his pistol. His panic was now stronger than her family’s. They had grown used to it. He had not.
“You… You don’t know me.” His fear grew into anger. The emotion clawed at her skin like a feral cat.
No, I can’t let it in. She closed her heart against the poisonous incursion, which could only bring more pain.
In the stillness, memories of her mother filled her with warmth. You don’t need to hear someone’s troubles to give them comfort. “I know that you’re afraid. I’m giving you the chance to do what you know in your heart to be right. Maybe it will bring you peace.”
He frowned and looked away, radiating tangles of conflicted feelings. Finally, he turned and walked back to the threshold of the bedroom. “This house is clear!”
Esther pulled the trapdoor closed and felt her son’s fear subside.
The intruder was gone, but having touched his heart, she couldn’t just forget him.
We’re safe for now, but that soldier, under constant scrutiny… Will he ever be safe?
Tonight, she would pray for a young soldier who hated her.
Such was the burden of the hallowed heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Very well-written, with such a powerful theme. Thank you for sharing this one, Patrick.
Thank you, Zachary!
This story was certainly a challenge, with the intensity of the themes.
I’m glad you appreciate it.
Very heart warming.
Thank you, that’s very good to hear!
Great story. It entertained me, and flowed smoothly as a really good story should.
Thank you so much!
I’m pleased you enjoyed it.
Wow, I loved this story! The WWII setting was incredible, and the theme–oh my goodness.
Beautifully written. I loved the subject manner and the way you deftly handled the situation.
Wow, Patrick, what a story! My poor heart, you took it through the wringer with this one. What a beautiful ending.