Phil Penne Creations

They called it Kristallnacht, The Night of Broken Glass.  It was on that cool November evening when hordes of uniformed troopers swept through the hamlets of Germany like vermin through a field of grain, sledgehammers devouring house windows framed with delicate lace, and storefronts decorated with images of confections and sewing needles.  Children joined the fray, hurling convenient missiles with as much force as their limited strength could muster, squealing with delight when their efforts were rewarded with a cascade of crystalline shards that shimmered in the yellow glow of the fires. Neatly dressed mothers shouted words of encouragement, all the time admonishing their young charges not to dirty their clothes, and that there was school tomorrow and the hour was late.

 

The young woman held her infant closer.  She opened the yellow blanket, studying the inquisitive brown eyes and perfect lips just long enough to satisfy herself that the child was still safe in the folds of her fabric womb.  Searching frantically for a place of refuge, she made her way towards the black embrace of a crawl space beneath a desecrated synagogue. She writhed and twisted to fit her body and the precious bundle through an opening in the stone, cooing in a vain attempt to quiet the infant’s crying.

 

A bright cone of electric torchlight swept randomly over the worn cobbles of the street; the pattern became increasingly precise until a shaft of light illuminated the frightened eyes of the adolescent mother and those of the rats that shared her sanctum.  The crunch of boots on shattered glass ceased, and an arm brandishing a red brassard was thrust into the crawlspace.

 

“Ich sehe dich Jude und dein Schweinbaby.”

 

She retreated further into the darkness, as her terrified screams were diminished by the din of the pogrom.

 

* * * * *

 

“Anna, sweetie, I think you were having a bad dream.  Are you okay? Do you need anything for your baby?”

 

The old woman held her infant closer.  She opened the yellow blanket, studying the mechanized eyes and pink plastic lips just long enough to satisfy herself that the child was still safe in the folds of its fabric womb.

 

She looked up, her vacant eyes staring back through time.  She no longer remembered where she was, how she had come to be in this place, or even her own name.  Attendants were necessary to feed her, to comb her long gray hair, and to bathe her when she soiled herself.  But she held the surrogate flawlessly, guided by some primal imprint, as though Death itself could not pry the infant from her loving embrace.

 

“Why are you holding a…”

 

“Becky?”

 

The girl sporting pink scrubs with hearts, and a scrunchy on her wrist, was interrupted by the charge nurse.

 

“Could I see you over here for just a second?”

 

She complied apprehensively.  “Did I do something wrong?”

 

“No, no, it’s okay – you’re new.  But there are a couple of things you need to know about Anna.  We don’t really have much information about her, except that she’s led a very, very hard life.  Whenever you work with her, never refer to what she’s holding as a ‘doll’. It’s her baby.”

 

The nurse gazed in Anna’s direction pensively, in much the same manner as someone laboring over a puzzle in need of a solution.  The impatient teen looked at Anna, then at the charge nurse, and then her watch.

 

“What’s the other thing?”

 

The nurse refocused her attention on the intern and continued.

 

“Never… ever… ask her about the numbers on her arm.”

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