(Mine)
He was always watching the sky, hoping for a sign that the war had ended, but again the faint flashes of light in the distance told of exploding bombs and dying people. He rested his head in his hands and silently prayed. Again, his sister was out there in the war-torn mess of Denmark, flirting with the strict border patrol, every night bringing more innocent Jewish children out, over the border to their little farmhouse in Sweden. Every time the distant booming sounded, his hands clenched -- he saw, in mind's eye the lovely long brown hair of his twin sister being thrown against some shattered skeleton of a building.
She had been a model, back in the days of peace. Never quite famous enough to be the first targeted by the Nazi forces, but pretty enough to entice some young recruit, fresh out of German propaganda schools to let her and her "baking" over to the other side. She had a nurse's uniform and on the return trip, she actually had a nice little warm loaf of bread for the kind soldier (and it rotated daily) so that he'd let her through with more "flour" on the next run. So far it'd worked perfectly, and he'd been surrounded by now seven young Jewish kids, all squeezed in the one nice warm bed up in the loft. They were sleeping soundly, but he waited, for her and for the eighth.
She was running late. He was going to be worried; there was nothing she could do to help that, but the baby wouldn't stop crying. She'd fed him, from her own breast, but it wouldn't quiet. She certainly couldn't smuggle a crying bag of flour over the border; no amount of eyelash batting would allow that. At the strike of ten, the gates closed and she'd have to spend the night on the wrong side of the barbed wire fence. Spending the night with a crying child and the hollow faces of the imprisoned, the people trapped in the ghetto, yellow stars sewn to their shirts. It was almost too much to bear, how many people she couldn't save. It was nine-thirty… she'd have to do this the hard way.
She swaddled the months old boy, still whimpering, as warmly as she could, and tied it securely to her chest. She may have to run, even if she'd hoped it wouldn't come to that. She left her building, seeming to come from the hospital, to keep up appearances, and headed for the guard tower. The new guard was young in his teens, that at least made it easier. She put on the sobbing nurse story.
"Look, junger Sohn, please… I pulled the baby from his mother, a fellow nurse. She'd been hurt by one of them," she spat, her disgust not for the Jews but for the Germans, but he'd never know that. "I have a grandmother in the farmhouse on the other side, she's got milk; and you know how hard that is to actually come by here in Denmark. You've got to let me out and get this baby some food."
She noticed how his eyes lit up at the mention of the word milk and pressed it further, "She may even have chocolate," she whispered. That did it; at the promise of sweets, the boy, he was barely sixteen, opened the gate. "I'll be back," she said, blowing him a kiss. He looked longingly after her.
It was almost midnight by the time she got back. She sank down into her cozy easy chair and sighed. "That was far harder a mission than I'd ever hope to do again."