Fireweed by Terry Montague

Author:Terry Montague
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published: 2015-07-30T00:00:00+00:00

12

The scream tore from Lisel’s throat. She jerked upright, wide-eyed. Her heart hammered inside her chest with such force she had to fight for each breath, dragging it in and out of her lungs. Then her eyes focused. She was no longer crammed under Herr Hahn’s desk. She was at home, in her own bed. Her glance went to the alarm clock on the night stand. Lisel had only slept four hours.

She squeezed her eyes shut and fell back onto her pillow, but she knew she would not be able to go to sleep again. Ever since the dream terrors had begun two weeks ago, when she had been assigned window warden, she had been existing on less than five hours of sleep a day. Now her hands shook almost all of the time, and frequently she found herself crying for no reason. Loud noises brought out a cold, sticky sweat on her skin. Then there were the nightmares—confused, terror-filled episodes of bursting lights, explosions, and shattering glass that catapulted her into a shaking consciousness.

Lisel shivered under her quilt and pulled it closer. Despite its warmth she could not stop trembling. Not for a while anyway. She told herself she was beginning to get used to it. She would cry a little, then she would stop shaking enough to get out of bed, wash her face, dress, braid her hair, and pull her mouth into enough of a smile so she could convince Papa she was not sick body, heart, and soul. “I guess I am just a little tired,” she would say when he frowned his concern at her.

She stepped out into the living room, quiet but for the ticking of the clock. The flat was dim in the winter light. Lisel frowned, trying to think where Papa might be. Then she remembered. Today was Friedrich Wrobel’s funeral.

She did not understand why Papa wanted to attend. Not after what the Wrobels had done. When she asked, he had looked at her with great sadness. “Because they are mourning, little one. They need us to mourn with them. They need us with them now.”

Lisel did not say it, but she had thought how she needed her sister with her now. The Wrobels had taken Marta away. She was not sorry Friedrich Wrobel had been shot down by the British. She was not sorry they would not even have his body for the funeral. Was that not what she wished for them? Her only regret was she was too tired to enjoy the vengeance.

She went to the tiny window above the kitchen sink and took, from the outside sill, a bottle of rhubarb juice. It was cold and bitter stuff, but it suited Lisel’s mood. Her fingers were numb as she tipped the bottle forward. She tried to hold it tighter. Her hand began to tremble. The stream of juice snaked in the air and splashed across the cabinet top. Lisel gripped the bottle tighter. The smooth glass slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor.

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