A Message Home
Dear Charlie.
The day had started like so many others. It was early winter, all too often cold and grey, but today, twenty miles beyond the north-western outskirts of Paris, the small, stone village of Baschel basked in the afternoon sun, warmed as it nestled within the winding nook of the Seine. A light breeze drifted through the village, wafting the aroma of coffee from cafés surrounding the main square.
Seated outside, making the most of this beautiful, almost spring-like day, a half-dozen finely dressed society women were enjoying a bottle of red wine. They were celebrating, for one of them was due to give birth. She rose before her friends, her swollen belly pressing tightly against her light green woollen dress. With the taste of wine on her lips, she bid her friends farewell with kisses on each cheek, then made her way from the café across the village square, toward a small alleyway leading into the winding backstreets and her opulent home.
There are so many moments I wish to cherish, those with your father I wish we could live again.
After leaving her friends, the pregnant woman walked through the market square, past the cafés on the far side, her thoughts focused on the life forming inside her. She turned into the alley, holding her belly with pride, dreaming of the life her daughter would lead once this foolish war was over.
With each passing day, more villagers tell me how much you changed their lives, even the young ones who thought their future was gone.
Behind her, a troop of German soldiers entered the square. They did not march. Theirs was a casual stroll, resembling a gang of young men entering Baschel for an evening out, albeit with machine guns slung casually over their shoulders. Ignoring the villagers, the soldiers made their way without fuss through the market and turned into the narrow alley, not far behind the woman in the green dress.
When I look back, there were moments I would change, regrets I would correct, but you would not be who you are if our lives drifted upon a different path.
Her mind on her unborn child, the pregnant woman ambled along the stone alley, unaware of the soldiers until she began to be overtaken. She slowed, absentmindedly clutching her belly, pressing tightly against the stone wall as the young German soldiers strolled by. They stopped not that far ahead at a large, double door. Once the entrance to an opulent home overlooking the river, the owner had been forced to live elsewhere. Now, it was used as barracks for the young German men. As they waited for the doors to be opened, they blocked the pregnant woman’s path, forcing her to either wait or weave her way through.
Though you don’t know, you are a true hero to so many of Baschel, and I often tell your tale to all who wish to listen.
Determined not to let the Germans control her life any more than they already had, she entered the throng of men. The first few saw her pregnant belly and stood graciously aside, but one young man nudged his colleague before blocking her path.
“Hallo Schöne,” he lasciviously called out. Then he laughed, clutching his groin. “I hope that baby’s German–.”
The explosion rocked the village.
There is so much to tell, so many paths crossed. Yet, to do so, for others to truly understand, I must start from the beginning, for what created the heroic adventures of Charlie Willows began long before you were born.
A bomb set inside a false stone at the edge of the door blew the barracks apart, the explosion scattering chunks of men in all directions. Wood and stone tore into the soldiers still alive, shredding both them and the woman to pieces. Those closest to the doors were instantly killed, with dozens of others crushed by the collapsing walls. Protected little by the throng of men, the woman lay dazed, her body stinging all over, but when she raised her hands after protectively holding her swollen belly, she began screaming at the sight of thick, syrupy blood oozing between her shaking fingers.