Julie’s Bio:

Julie Eger is from the heart of Wisconsin. She has been accused of playing well with others. She is aware that a story unfolds every second; unfortunately she can’t type that fast. Her work has been published in numerous journals and anthologies including Green Prints Magazine, ARGIA, Free Verse, Hummingbird, Other Voices, Bar Code, and Write Away! She is a three time winner of the Wisconsin Regional Writers Association (WRWA) Jade Ring Contest.

When Julie isn’t busy with her regular job as a massage therapist she acts as coordinator for The Original Voice, a local venue she founded to help highlight some of Wisconsin’s most hidden talent including seasoned and unseasoned poets, writers, musicians, and artists through feature presentations and open mike events.

Julie lives with her wood-splitting/fisherman/plumber husband, a chocolate lab named Aggie, and a black Golden Doodle named Estr. She has two grown sons and two beautiful grandchildren. She didn’t start to take writing seriously until 2004 when she became a member of a local writing group, claiming she had finally found her ‘tribe.’ Much of her writing stems from group assignments but she would love a side job where she gets paid for her writing. It’s true she’s a dreamer, and even though she often gets lost in the words, she always finds her way home.

You can learn more about Julie by visiting www.julieceger.com or http://theoriginalvoice.blogspot.com.

Mama’s Wish Comes True

By Julie C. Eger

 

"Hurry," he says. My kidneys quiver as the military rifle jabs my back. "Now, we need your shoes."

I squeeze Mama's fingers. The reason they need our shoes is because we will no longer need them. My body goes limp as I think about never needing my shoes again. I untie my ragged laces. The soldier jabs again. I wince as I step through the snow. I feel Mama's arm brace against my back. She is helping me while steadying herself. It is hard to walk on legs of rubber, whether you are one person or many.

We walk, two abreast, a patchwork of rags and strange odors, urine among them, liquid fear we call it. I pick my way down the bank, my head swinging back and forth, searching for a safe path. If I fall, the person next to me will fall. I cannot see clearly through my left eye, it has always been my bad eye, until they forced the hot poker into the center of my right eye. It is the first time I experienced such pain. I was held by many hands. A thin layer of eyelid is no match for a rod of hot steel. It cauterized itself immediately. I felt no blood run down my cheek as the sight left my eye, and the things of sight in my brain were replaced with the smell of burning flesh. The sizzle echoes inside my head as I step into the ditch. The snowflakes are the only thing gentle about the day.

I estimate thirty of us, with at least one soldier per prisoner, sixty or more in all. Clods of dirt thunk against my heels, kicked from the boots of the soldier behind me. When we come to the bottom of the ditch we are jerked to a halt by the leader's voice.

I feel a rifle press against the back of my head as Mama's hand presses against my ribs. I feel her mumbling. It is her way of wishing, of praying. I cannot pray as I hear the leader's word cut the air, "Feuer."

And then, I am on the ground with my seared eye up. Snowflakes fall in my eye but I cannot feel them. Mama's hand is on my back. It is cold. I hear talking, laughing, words from a language I don't understand. I want to lift my head to see, but then they will know I am not dead.

I hear pounding. They are throwing our shoes in a truck. An engine roars to life, a contradiction as the life of my people drains into the snow. I smell blood. It is an old smell. Smoke from the fired guns pinches my nostrils. I smell my urine as it cools around my legs, wet against the skirt of my dress. It feels sticky. I want to pull it away.

The truck drives off as clumps of dirt land on my face, in my seared eye. They are burying us. It will take a long time for them to do it with a shovel. I hear cursing. I know the words of cursing in their language, and then it goes quiet.

Through my good eye I see a sliver of light through the wrinkle in my dress. The light is fading. I hear no sound, not even a bird, for a long time. My ears strain to hear. I am cold and stiff. I want to move my body. I practice moving muscles, concentrating on one muscle at a time, moving it slightly, so if the men are there they will not see, and to relieve the ache so I will not scream.

I don't scream as I haul myself from the dead bodies. I feel for Mama's face, feel for her eyes, slide my fingers over them, dragging them shut. I pull myself from the pile leaving toe prints in the snow and pray for something good ahead.

***