Grantville Gazette, Volume 40 Read Online Free

tried to adjust. I've tried making friends with down-timers. Some have even moved in nearby and are very friendly. But this is not my world, not my place. My husband has died. Five of our children were left up-time. All that remains is my son Clyde and his wife, my memories, and this." She picked up the heirloom and held it close. "Before I die, I want to honor the memory of my husband and the time that we had together. I want to make an altruistic gesture, as my son would say. I want to find the ancestors of the German soldier this heirloom belonged to . . . and give it back to them. Can you help me do that?"
    There was a long pause as Mary Jo and Sandra Sue exchanged weary glances. Sandra Sue exhaled as if she has just finished off a good bowel movement. Mary Jo finished her tea in one gulp, crossed her legs, and said, "Well, Mrs. Rice. Ella? Can you tell us a little about this German soldier? What do you know about him and his family?"
    Ella Lou placed the heirloom on the table and nodded. "I'll tell you what I know."
    December, 1944
    Oh, dear God, I've killed a child.
    The thought raced through Rice's muddled, confused mind. The shot echoed through the trees and put the German boy down. Yet, despite the ever growing clangor of approaching armor and enemy soldiers, he could not run. He had to know for sure.
    Rice fell to his knees and crawled through the snow to the boy. He pulled the boy close, tugged at his thick clothing and ripped the white coat open at the chest. The bullet had gone clean through the coat, leaving a moldering black hole of torn and scorched fibers. Rice's numb fingers clawed at the coat, tearing through it, seeking the place where the bullet hit.
    He found it to the left of the heart, a neat wound, blood running down the boy's pale white skin. Rice pushed aside a medallion that hung from a chain around the boy's neck, whipped away the blood, and found the bullet lodged in a rib bone, just below the skin. He breathed relief. Not dead. Not yet, anyway. The boy moaned and tried moving. Rice held him still and cupped a hand over his mouth.
    "Shut up! Don't move."
    Gunfire erupted somewhere up ahead in the forest. Diesel engines, yelling, screaming, orders barked in German. Rice thought he could see a line of figures moving towards them. He turned and looked the other way. Perhaps if he ran, he could outrun the advance. Perhaps . . . if he were lucky. But life had never dealt John Thomas Rice a winning hand. There was nowhere to go.
    He grabbed the boy's arm and dragged him toward a pile of brush and broken tree trunks. The boy winced in pain and yelled something indiscernible. Rice ignored him, fell back to his knees, and pushed his way underneath the debris.
    Another push and they fell into the remains of an old foxhole, wet and muddy, stinking with shit. It stunk like death and dried blood too. Rice swallowed hard to hold down the nausea. He shook his head clear. There would be time later for getting sick, if he survived.
    He pulled the boy in all the way and pressed his hand over his mouth. The boy's eyes were open, wide with fear and pain. Rice looked into those eyes. This wasn't a soldier, he thought. This was nothing more than a boy.
    "Keep quiet."
    For the next several minutes, all he could hear was breathing, heavy with exhaustion, heavy with doubt and terror. Rice found that he was just as anxious as the boy; perhaps more so, for above them, line after line of German soldiers passed by. One slip of his hand and the boy would cry out, and he'd be dead. Rice realized he was pushing down on the boy's mouth too tightly, pushing too hard against his nose. "Sorry," he whispered. He loosened his grip.
    The boy gasped for air but kept quiet.
    The German soldiers filed away and all that remained were echoes of firefights and far-off artillery fire. Rice removed his hand and lay back. If the boy screamed, it would hardly matter, and he couldn't very well keep his hand in place forever. Rice was behind enemy