Undying Love Books 1 and 2 - Brian Hesse (books on motivation .TXT) 📗

her 9MM pistol and threw it to the side. He whispered in her ear, just as a loud explosion came from far above their heads. To Eldric it sounded as if a Stuka dive bomber dropped a small bomb on their position. But he knew what made the terrific sound. Rudolf was throwing stick grenades on the roof of the home, just above the second-floor windows. The roof completely collapsed, obliterating the entire second floor of the home.

   “Shall we go my Jewish impersonating bitch, he whispered in her ear, as he held a pistol to her head. As he was walked to the barn, he watched from the corner of his eye Rudolf and Hermann, now walking together toward him with their MP 40’s lowered. Before he had time to scold them for their stupidity, a rifle shot rang out from above, in the direction of the top floor rubble. Eldric watched as Hermann’s head exploded in a mixture of large bloody clumps of hair, bone, and brain matter. Rudolf swung around, but it was too late. He was shot in the chest with a second round and killed instantly. Eldric watched as Gustav’s bloody face emerged from the rubble, peering over the side of what was left of the building. Gustav looked for just an instant at Anastazja with an expression, only, just before he dropped his rifle over the broken ledge to the ground below. He lowered his head as visible streams of blood slid down a smoldering splintered support beam, only changing direction as the stream hit dents and grooves in the wood.

   “Leave her go you pig,” came the voice of Aleksander to his front.

    “Ah, the other Jew impersonator. So glad you made it to the promised land of Auschwitz,” he stated, laughing wildly at the irony of the situation.

     “Let her go, and I will come with you. Please sir.”

     “As much as I love to hear people beg, I have to decline your offer. You will both come with me back to your home, Auschwitz.”

     Aleksander could see that there was only one alternative. Anastazja must live, to raise her child in a world that, he now believed with all his heart, would see peace again. Without another thought, he rushed head first at Eldric, like a bull ramming his matador tormentor. This was one of the only times in Eldric’s life that he was ever thrown off guard. The gesture had the desired effect. Eldric loosened his grip on Anastazja’s throat. He raised his pistol, and shot Aleksander through the top of his head.

    He pointed the gun to his side, where Anastazja’s head should have been positioned, but she was able to break free. Before he could focus on where she had gone, he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head, causing the world to spin in brilliant colors of browns, reds, and greens. He felt a wave of nausea attack his stomach just before falling to his knees.

    Anastazja brought the heavy boulder down on his head a second, third, fourth, and fifth time. The rock was heavy but just the right size to fit into her hands, and became lighter with each blow to the monster’s head. Warm sticky droplets of blood splattered on her face with each blow. She continued to hit him even as her anger subsided. She just needed to keep from having to see her Aleksander, dead and silent lying prone in the grass.

Journeys Beginning

  In the very center of the village of Targale, rests a small schoolhouse made of nothing more than the wood of bombed homes, and the lowest grade cement that could be bought on the black market. The school is rumored to be founded by a young woman who, as elderly residents could remember, just appeared sometime in 1943. Old timers still discuss the strangely quiet woman, nine months pregnant with child, small and pale, but with a fire in her eyes. A fire that told a tale of love, loss, and survival. As quickly as she could, she brought the village together to build a school for all orphans left parentless by a war responsible for the death of sixty million souls. The old timers will often sit with great grandchildren on their laps, telling of the horror and sacrifice of a war that never should have happened. The tales sometimes go on into the night, but never end without mentioning the strange disappearance of the nameless founder of the lifesaving school. A school that withstood the retreat and re invasion of the Soviet Army. The school for orphaned children that seemed impervious to endless nights of artillery and air bombardment. A school which stood as a beacon of hope, love, and selfless sacrifice. The name of the school is The Aleksander School for War Orphans. The school is a symbol of undying love.

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Imprint

Text: Brian Hesse
Publication Date: 10-22-2017

All Rights Reserved