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Rated: E · Short Story · History · #1967700
It was just a normal day in Poland, 1939. A Jewish child is sleeping silently at dawn.
"Isaac, wake up!"

I stirred sleepily on the soft fabric of the cotton sheets, but before I could complain I felt myself being pulled sharply off the bed and on dad's arms. The pain nearly made me cry, but after seeing dad's face I couldn't. Dirt, sweat, and blood filled his face, and his clothes were ripped halfway across.

"What happened to you?" I cried as he ran across our farm, trampling the crops.

He did not answer, but merely shook his head drearily, as though he was trying to forget something. He kept on running, his soft leather shoes crashing against the hard dirt. He seemed close to crying as well. After a while, he put me down and spoke.

"Evil men are coming, Chris." I was confused. Dad had always told me that people were usually kind and friendly.

"Evil men?"

"You must stay away from people wearing the inverse swastika. Promise me you will not approach them." Again I was confused. Didn't the swastika mean peace?

"Isn't the swastika a sign of peace?"

"Your mother is sleeping because of them, Promise me."

At this sentence, I realized the truth.

But when I turned, it was too late.

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