The Barbed Crown by Rick Jones

Author:Rick Jones [Jones, Rick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-09-30T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Frederic Becher, for lack of a better term, had always been an insomniac. He was one of the rare few who could get by with little sleep, and be fully energized on the following day. So when the day evolved into night, when the card games were over and the stories told, the guards went to their respective bunks at ‘lights out.’

As Becher lay there staring at the ceiling with his fingers interlaced across his abdomen, his thoughts centered on Ayana. In his eyes he had never seen anyone so perfect, a person who could do no wrong no matter what. She was polite and beautiful and perfect in every way, with eyes so dazzling and pure, they were perhaps the windows of her inner self, which was strong and courageous, all the measures he wished he had.

In his life as a Jungvolk and then as a member of Hitler’s Youth Organization, he had been groomed to hate a Jew and was led to believe that they were a subspecies to the Aryan race; therefore, prejudice had been born without reason, as far as he was concerned. Ayana had taught him that much.

It’s not a crime to be a Jew, he thought. And yet he had treated them as a lesser class, nevertheless, killing two in the process. And because his conscience had not completely absorbed the teachings of hatred, he sensed a measure of guilt rather than pride and bloodlust.

And then deep in his mind, a hollow ringing of a single word: Ayana.

Frederic Becher smiled at the thought of her name.

Ayana.

He was German. She was a Jew. And the only division between them was the divide of prejudice, a strong and sometimes unyielding wall to breach.

Ayana.

Becher smiled, could see her face clearly in his mind’s eye.

And he dreamed of her, while awake, of what life would be like if things were different. He saw them in Paris, the two hand-in-hand while walking the streets in a world without war. She was beautiful, as always, wearing a dress, one without stripes or bands, perhaps a color with a dusting of soft green or blue, his favorites, while her long hair hung down and shined against the sunlight. This thought was a perfect moment in an imperfect time, however. Something that was idealistic rather than realistic.

Slowly, Becher’s smile slipped away.

…Ayana…

He was a German.

She was a Jew.

And never the twain shall meet. At least not in this lifetime.

He turned over on his cot, wide awake. And still he thought of Ayana.

All the way until a dismal gray light began to surface along the edges of a distant horizon.

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