Free Lore by Rachel Seiffert

table and hurls it to the floor.
    They are all quiet now, except for Peter, who cries. Mutti picks him up and carries him to the chair by the far wall. She sits down with her back to them all.
    —Go to bed. You too, Lore. Sleep.
    Mutti leaves the lamp on, stays in the chair long after Peter has stopped crying. Lore lies next to Liesel and pretends to sleep. Watching through her eyelashes: her mother’s mouth smiling, murmuring to the baby, her mother’s eyes darting nervously around the room.
    Lore remembers how Mutti cried, dry-eyed, standing with Vati in the hall. Thinks,
It is coming
. The end of the waiting.
    .  .  .
    Morning, and the sun falls over the windowsill into the room. Mutti sits in shadow at the table, sorting through their things, deciding what to keep and what to burn.
    —Why? Is Vati coming? Are we moving again?
    Lore doesn’t get an answer. She washes the breakfast dishes, standing the bucket in the shaft of sun by the window, turning her back to her mother. She can see the twins playing by the pump in the yard, but she can’t hear them through the glass. Liesel is sitting outside by the window, knitting socks and rocking Peter in his pram. The glass is old and thicker at the bottom than the top. Her sister’s hands ripple as they work the wool. Behind her, Mutti’s fingers fly through pockets and schoolbags. Books and badges and uniforms piled on the table. Green wood cracks in the stove. Outside it is windy and the children play without coats. Inside it is hot.
    Lore stocks the stove from the piles on the table and watches Mutti sorting through the photo album. She pulls out the pictures too precious to lose, slipping them gently out of their white corner fastenings, lining them up on the quilt next to her. These are then tied in a clean rag and laid in a drawer, while the album is added to the pile on the table. Lore works through the morning, watching their clothes and papers burn, balancing logs around the chimney to dry for later.
    The photo album burns badly at first, too thick and full for the flames to catch hold. The blue linen cover browns and curls and Lore’s eyes dry in the heat from the open stove door. Liesel will cry when she finds her uniform gone, the twins will ask for their books. Mutti stares at the now empty tabletop, mouth slack, cigarette burning between her fingers. Lore closes the stove door and opens the vents; the pages catch and the job is done.
    .  .  .
    Later, Mutti fishes the badges out of the ashes with the sugar spoon and wraps them in a handkerchief. She keeps the children inside, sends Lore out instead. Tells her to take Peter with her and walk at least a kilometer, follow the stream, find a wide point where the current is strong.
    —Stay by the water. Away from the road, and be quick. I’ll watch for you.
    Lore walks along the water with Peter on her hip, tells him,
    —We are sitting them out here. These last days.
    The enemy will be here soon, but she will not be afraid. She will be patient and brave, certain of the
Endsieg. Vati said. It will be over soon
. Everything will be new again, and she will be ready. The armies will spill over the mountains; the valley will be filled with noise and death; and soon after that will come victory.
    She sits Peter down on the bank and throws her handful of metal into the water. The badges sink to the bottom, too near the water’s edge for the current to take them. Peter points to the nearest one with his fat, wet fingers. The enamel colors are dulled and the badge has twisted in the heat of the stove, but Lore can still make out the Party sign. She takes off her shoes and stockings and wades out into the cold water to retrieve them.
    They walk on a little farther, alone in the wet fields, Peter sitting heavy on Lore’s hip, humming in time with her steps. She empties the handkerchief into the bramble bushes at the boundary with the neighboring farm. One or two of the blackened badges spring back against the