4 November 2022

Published November 2, 2022 by rochellewisoff

The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.

PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox

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November 9–10, 1938, Nazi leaders unleashed a series of pogroms against the Jewish population in Germany and recently incorporated territories. This event became known as Kristallnacht (The Night of Broken Glass) because of the shattered glass that littered the streets after the vandalism and destruction of Jewish-owned businesses, synagogues, and homes. This was only the beginning of one of the most barbaric and vicious times in recent history.

We say “never again.” But...

Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100

THE SPIRIT NEVER DIES

With eyes that pierced her soul, Dr. Mengele told 16-year-old Edith, “You’ll see your mother soon. She’s just going to take a shower.”

That same evening, he forced her to dance for him.

For decades she grappled with guilt. “Why me? Why did I live?”

When her patients, Vietnam veterans, would ask her the same question she realized, as a clinical psychologist, she’d never found the answer for herself.

In 1990 she returned to Auschwitz where she allowed her mother’s final words to heal her soul. “No one can take away from you what you put in your own mind.”

If you have a few minutes to spare, you can listen to Dr. Eger’s story in her own words. HERE

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HAPPY NEWS!

My work in progress, LAST DANCE WITH ANNIE, is under contract with Ozark Hollow Press!

Short Summary

Elise, a military spouse and mom in the throes of midlife, dances three times a day with the most relentless partner, her secret nemesis she’s nicknamed “Annie Wrecks-Ya.” Will Elise’s strive for perfection kill her, or will she learn to let go and face the truth: she’s an addict. At the same time, her devoted husband Tony feels helpless to save her as he battles demons of his own that followed him home from war.

Can Elise and Tony join forces and defeat these threats to their lives and their marriage? And can Elise learn to dance again, this time with the carefree joy she experienced as a child.

23 September 2022

Published September 21, 2022 by rochellewisoff

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The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.

Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100

THE MEASURE OF A LIFE

“The space was no bigger than a closet,” said Hannah. “Only room for six of us to hide at once.”

“Were you scared, Bubbie?” asked eleven-year-old Corrie.

“Oy! So scared! I had claustrophobia. But as much as small spaces scared me, the Gestapo scared me more.”

“Did you have to stay there for hours at a time?”

“Only when the family had—visitors. Other times we children were free to play and sing. We even celebrated Hanukkah with potato latkes and presents. The Ten-Booms, such wonderful people.”

“I’m named after Corrie Ten-Boom, aren’t I?”

“Ja. May her memory be blessed.”

To learn about this very special lady and her family CLICK HERE

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This past week I’ve finally gotten around to opening an Etsy shop to market my note cards. Please CLICK HERE to come by and browse. There are many more entries to upload before it the shop’s “complete.” 😉

11 March 2022

Published March 9, 2022 by rochellewisoff

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The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.

Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
A tribute to all the “Uncles and Aunts” who risked their own lives to save others.

SAFEKEEPING

Shira slipped a worn photo of a smiling two-year-old from her pocket that, like she, had managed to survive hell. Had Hans kept his promise? Trembling, she knocked on the cottage door.

It opened. “Danke Gott!” A stout man with ruddy cheeks embraced her. “Ilsa, who is this lady?”

A five-year-old clung to his leg. “I don’t know, Uncle Hans.”

Shira knelt. “Don’t you remember me?”

Ilsa shook her head and stared at the numbers on Shira’s forearm.

Shira’s heart sank. “Oy, meyn kleyn ketzl.”

“Momma katz?” Ilsa threw her arms around Shira’s neck. “I knew you’d come for me.”

*Oy meyn kleyn ketzl – Oh, my little kitten”

CLICK HERE to learn more.

12 February 2021

Published February 10, 2021 by rochellewisoff

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The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.

PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas

Click the Frog to Add Your Link

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

JUNE 12, 1943

“My little girl is a young woman.” Papa kissed Rutka’s cheek. “Happy fourteenth birthday!”

“I’ll never see my fifteenth.”

His reassuring smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Our God will protect you.”

“Will He? He allows innocent babies to have their heads smashed in while grandmothers are deported to the death camps.”

Rutka longed to go outside without a yellow star on her dress—to romp among fragrant flowers and trees.

“I’m young in age but old in experience,” she wrote in her diary. “The rope around us is getting tighter and tighter. Despite all these atrocities, I want to live…”

2 October 2020

Published September 30, 2020 by rochellewisoff

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PHOTO PROMPT © Rowena Curtin

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A reminder that the Holocaust did happen. Dare we forget? This is a shortened version of a story I posted almost 4 years ago for What Pegman Saw. (Thank you, Josh and Karen). I feel it’s one that bears repeating.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

PERCHANCE TO DREAM

Bedtime was Eva’s chance to escape. Tonight, she flew close to the dazzling sun. Below water cavorted over glittering shells. A mermaid with gleaming fins sat on a crystal throne in the midst of the waves. Her eyes glowed like candles, beckoning Eva. Sea spray veiled her shining violet hair that cascaded over her shoulders like a silken cape.

She sang an enticing melody. “Eva, sweet Eva, come swim with me.”

***

“Eva, wake up!”

Shira grasped her sister’s narrow shoulders. Grey light through the barrack’s filthy window illuminated Eva’s skeletal face and serene smile.

Weeping, Shira whispered, “Arbeit macht frei.”

25 September 2020

Published September 23, 2020 by rochellewisoff

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PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

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As fewer and fewer Holocaust survivors remain in our midst, it seems easier to forget. It’s not taught in schools and increasing numbers of misinformed believe the Holocaust never happened.

INTERVIEW WITH PRISONER A5714

Remember Robert Clary as LeBeau of Stalag 13? Hogan’s shortest hero? The connoisseur of French cuisine.

He reminisces about the rabbi who helped him study for his Bar Mitzvah. “He smelled of schmaltz, herring, onion and garlic.”

“Ah food.”

He shrugs. “In Buchenwald we had little to eat. I sang for the prisoners and sometimes the chef in the kitchen gave me an extra piece of bread.”

“What’s your greatest achievement? Performing?”

“No. I’m most proud to have spent twenty years keeping the memory of the Holocaust alive. Warning against man’s inhumanity. While I am living, I have to tell.”

With Dream Awakened Eyes

Published July 22, 2020 by rochellewisoff

I feel that more of Charlotte’s story needs to be told. So bear with me as I double dip this week.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Click on the frog picture to add your link.

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

WITH DREAM AWAKENED EYES

Following her grandparents’ deaths, a doctor suggested Charlotte take up painting to ease her depression. She lost herself in gouache. Every day her paintbrushes illustrated her life story. Humming, she rendered herself as a child waiting for her angel mother to return from heaven. Sketching by the sea. The Wehrmacht marching through the streets.

“I become them all,” she said. “I travel their paths. No power on earth can stop me.”

One night, she handed Dr. Moridis her hundreds of masterpieces. “Keep these safe, they are my whole life.”

Months later Charlotte Salomon and her unborn child perished in Auschwitz.

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Charlotte_Salomon_-_JHM_4762_-Kristallnacht

250px-Charlotte_Salomon_painting_in_the_garden_about_1939

Charlotte Salomon with her grandparents

24 July 2020

Published July 22, 2020 by rochellewisoff

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PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

INHERITANCE

“Your mother committed suicide, and her sister before her.” Grandfather sneered. “Now your grandmother. You’re all cursed.”

The night before, he’d forced Charlotte to share his bed “to ease his sorrow.”

She whipped and poured eggs into a skillet. “Influenza killed Mama.”

“Your papa lied. Mark my words, you’re next.”

She plopped an omelet onto his plate. “Bon apetit.”

“Aren’t you going to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.” She propped her drawing board on her lap.

“What are you drawing now?”

“You, Grandfather. I want to remember this moment.”

“What did you put in this?”

“Not much. Salt, pepper and Veronal.”

*Did she murder her grandfather? Historians are divided.

Charlotte Salomon with her grandparents

31 January 2020

Published January 29, 2020 by rochellewisoff

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JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT, CLICK THE FROG

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

In the Talmud it is written, “To save the life of one man is to save the world.”

TO SAVE ONE LIFE

Pain seared through the fifteen-year-old’s leg. “I’m so clumsy.”

“The snow is slippery. Needless to say, you won’t be dancing for a while, ma chérie.” The doctor’s kind eyes brimmed. “It’s a severe break. You need to be in hospital.”

“No, the SS—”

“Without medical care, one leg will end up shorter than the other.”

“Better to limp than be dead.” Huguette moaned.

“Then you’ll stay here—in my chalet.”

Today, Huguette is petitioning Yad V’Shem to recognize Dr. Frédéric Pétri of Val d’Isère as one of the Righteous among the Nations. Ken Y’hi Ratzon. May it be so.

To read more CLICK HERE. Thank you, Dale for sharing this with me.

No reason to include this video with this story. No reason.

1942

Published January 3, 2020 by rochellewisoff

The following story is written for the following photo prompt provided by Writers Unite! for their Write the Story short story challenge. All photos used by WU are public domain and require to attribution. However the story is © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 😉

1942

When Sylvia uttered, “Hail Mary full of Grace…,” she saw Sister Honorina. With her white veil, blue eyes and round face, she resembled the paintings of the Blessed Virgin with Baby Jesus hanging on the wall of the dormitory Sylvia shared with seven other girls.

After praying the Rosary with Sylvia in her gentle Viennese-accented voice, Sister Honorina added the shema. “I promised to your father never to let you forget the words of your ancestors. We say them together now.”

Sylvia recited the prayer in unison with Sister Honorina both in Hebrew and English exactly the way Papa did. “‘Shema yis’ra’el, Adonai Eloheynu, Adonai echad. Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.’”

“Sehr gut. Your Papa, he would be so proud.”

“When are he and Momma coming back for me?”

Tears welled up in the nun’s eyes. She dabbed them with her sleeve. “We must leave it in God’s hands.” Tucking Sylvia’s Teddy bear in beside her, Sister Honorina kissed the child’s forehead. “Sleep now, kleine schvester.”

Sylvia curled up on her side, hugging her bear. Frost formed intricate patterns on the window. The way the streetlight outside the convent illuminated them fascinated the eight-year-old. She remembered Papa’s stories about frost-faeries with icicle paint brushes. Closing her eyes, she heard Momma and Papa.

Momma sounded angry. “You’re filling her head with stuff and nonsense. How’s this equipping her to face a world filled with discord and oppression, Aaron? How?”

“Esther, she’s only six.”

“You don’t hear the news? Six-year-olds are being slaughtered in their beds. Babies murdered in their mothers’ arms. No synagogue is safe. No Jewish market. Just like my grandparents in Poland. How long before they throw rocks through our windows?”

“We’re an enlightened society, Esther. Consider our technological advances. Never again. The pogroms aren’t going to happen here.”

“My Aaron, the scientist. My Prince Charming who still believes in fairytales. I love you, but you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”

Sylvia shivered and pulled the covers over her head. It happened a year ago. A year after her parents’ argument. Momma’s frightening predictions came true. Sylvia saw their beloved cantor beaten to death—right in the shul, the words of the Kaddish Shalem on his lips. She could still smell the sulfur odor that hung in the air—hear the screams and moans of the dying.

By some miracle, Sylvia and her parents escaped that Shabbos day, the day the Shoah began in earnest. Many of their neighbors had already gone into hiding. Momma and Papa decided it would be safer for Sylvia to place her with Christians. With her blonde hair and blue eyes, she might escape being pegged as a Jew.

Papa carried her in his strong arms. He smelled of aftershave and chocolate. His heart thumped against her chest. “You will do what the sisters tell you, Silver Girl, do you understand? Even when you think it’s strange.”

“We will take good care of her, Mr. and Mrs. Green.” Sister Honorina reached for Sylvia. “We’ll allow no harm to come to her.”

“How can you say that?” Momma stroked Sylvia’s hair. “How can anyone in this godforsaken country make such a promise?”

Tears streamed down Papa’s stubbled cheek. “Never forget who you are, my daughter.” He placed her in Sister Honorina’s arms. “We’ll be back soon, sweetheart.”

Momma covered her mouth with her gloved hand. “Oh Aaron.”

Sylvia reached for Papa. “Pinkie swear?”

His lips trembled. He engulfed her pinkie finger in his. “As the frost-faeries are my witness.”

March wind swooshed outside the convent. In the beds across the aisle Elizabeth Nusbaum and Naomi Resnick who were both twelve spoke in stage whispers.

“Naomi, do you think they took our parents to the death camps?”

“Probably.”

“Girls, shh.” Sister Honorina shone her flashlight on them. “This is not the time to speak of such things.”

“Seriously? When do we talk about it? After another six million have perished?” Elizabeth bolted upright. “It’s 1942 all over again. I saw it on CNN. There are camps in Colorado and Arizona and more being constructed in New Mexico.”