CINDERELLA & HER SISTERS

A READING BY THE AUTHOR...the FINAL section of my novella.

George is driving; Novak sits beside him, in the middle, and Anastasia is pressed up against the door, trying not to look at Novak’s missing leg. She rolls the window down almost as soon as she sits, voicing a gentle complaint about the smell of the goat and the chicken. The children laugh, and soon she begins singing a song with them, encouraging them to join her, and George smiles at the sound of their laughter.

The air feels good coming in through the open windows. It’s a welcome relief from the smell of the goat and the chicken George thinks, and he reminds Dieter to watch the goat and not let it eat any more of the seat. The leaves and smaller brushes whip against both sides of the automobile — scratching against the doors with a violent purpose — sounding for all the world like a penitent sinner, George thinks. Anastasia rolls the window up and tells the children to roll the windows up as well; reminding them not to press their faces against the window glass, and to keep their hands inside, for God’s sake you might lose an eye—and Novak tells them that’s how he lost his leg: sitting on the side of a truck with his legs hanging out. The children move in closer as he spins his yarn.

They make it to the old woman’s hovel in less than an hour, and only have to walk a short distance. The children run ahead, skipping across the rocks and climbing over fallen trees, running to the stream and looking for tiny fish, or tadpoles. George and Anastasia unpack everything, while Novak makes a small fire and does what he can.

"Look," George says as the three of them rest around the fire after. "Why don't you two stay out here with the children — try and get to know each other again — and I'll go back to the house and take care of things there? I'd rather be with Annette anyway. She might need a good shoulder to cry on."

"The children will certainly like it," Anastasia points out.

"And you?" Novak asked.

She smiles and nods.

“It sounds like an idea, George," Novak laughs. “And you’re right, we can use the time together."

George says good-bye to the children, and tells Dieter he’s in charge. They’ll have to do a lot to help, he says, and they have to make sure the sod is down in front of the door every night. They also have to hide as soon as they see the first sign of anyone — no matter how far away the man is. George leaves the rifle and makes sure Novak has more than enough ammunition. He feels better leaving them with the children, rather than staying himself. It makes more sense this way, he tells himself.

xi

He knows there is something wrong the moment he turns off the main road and goes up the path to the house. It’s not anything he sees, or hears — as if he can hear anything out of place while driving the automobile with the windows rolled down — but a premonition he has; a feeling of uneasiness and uncertainty that creeps up his spine and crawls under his flesh. He’s felt this way before — and it usually signifies danger. He learned a long time ago to pay attention to his hunches, but he’s out of the war now, and there’s nothing to fear anymore, is there?

Collette’s in the yard as he approaches, and he can see a look of shocked recognition as he drives up; she looks as if she’s surprised to see him. She runs into the house, and he thinks she’s determined to avoid him at all costs.

He recognizes all the warning signs, and tells himself it would be easier if he turned around and left. Whatever it is that’s warning him, he’s too close to do anything about it now.

"Are you Dieter Jakob?" a voice asks as soon as he opens the door and steps into the house.

He looks around quickly. There are seven men in the room. Annette and the Countess are sitting at the table; Collette is off to one side.

"I might be," George smiles. "If you want me to be," he says, looking at Annette. She nods once — a tiny, imperceptible motion that is no more than a drop of her chin and a lowering of her eyes. He looks up at the man speaking again.

"Are you Dieter Jakob?"

"Why?"

"You're under arrest," the man says.

"Arrest? For what? I haven't done anything. I've been recuperating from wounds I suffered in a train crash last winter."

"We're aware of that," the man says. He’s a short man, thin and wiry, with wire rimmed spectacles and a habit of rubbing his fingers together as he speaks. Walking through the entrance way, he looks at the paintings on the walls with a critical eye — as if he is a patron of the Louvre, George tells himself.

"You're a traitor to your country; worse than that, even. A deserter hiding out in the company of women," the man says suddenly.

"A deserter?" George asks quickly. "I've been in a hospital convalescing. How can you say I'm a deserter?"

"And before that? Before the train accident? It was sabotage I might as well tell you — sabotage you probably engaged in yourself, I might add —”

"And if you did, you'd be a fool. How would I do that? In my sleep?" George laughs.

He sees the man turn red, pausing, hesitating in his step just long enough to shoot a sharp look at George.

"Are you mocking me?"

"Are you trying to tell me that I'm a deserter for having left the hospital?"

"No!" the man says quickly, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. He wipes his lips, calming himself. "I think that train wreck must have knocked what little sense you had, right out of you! For leaving your post, idiot! For killing your commanding officer, and robbing him. Does any of what I’m saying remind you of anything?" the man says with a flippant wave of his hand.

"Murder?" Annette asks, the blood leaving her face a pale mask as she realizes what’s happening.

"Yes," the man laughs. "It's hard to imagine a man can be charged with murder in the middle of a war, isn't it? One of the ironies of life I think; the proper end to the perfect crime."

"Irony?" George says with a smile, looking at Annette. "I'd have to say that's an understatement."

Annette jumps to her feet and runs to him, throwing her arms around him. George tries to pry her arms from around his neck and winces in pain, voicing a sharp intake of breath.

"You can't take him! He's not who he says he is!" Annette says quickly, spinning around to look at the officer.

"He's not? Then who is he?"

"Tell him, George," Annette says looking up at him. "Tell him the truth."

"I doubt it will do any good," he says with a forced smile. "But we can settle it when he takes me to his commanding officer back at headquarters, wherever that is."

"What will you do to him then? After I mean?" the Countess asks the officer.

"He's going to be shot! What do you think they do to men like him?"

"Shot?" Annette says, her voice failing her, as the Countess echoes her cry. Annette falls back into a faint, and George catches her as the Countess runs to her side.

"Put her in a chair," the officer says to one of the soldiers, snapping his fingers at the man impatiently.

"You can't shoot him," the Countess says quickly, anxious as the soldier helps Annette to a chair. She crouches beside Annette, and looks up at the officer. "He's not the man you’re looking for."

"Yes, she said that once all ready," the officer says, pointing at Annette.

"Why don't you just shoot him here?" Collette asks.

"Collette!" the Countess cries out harshly.

"Yes," George laughs. "Why don't you?"

"We have to follow the proper procedures," the officer says as he pulls his tunic down with a self-important snap. “We're not barbarians."

"And what do your procedures say about shooting the wrong man?"

“C’est le vie?" the officer says to George.

"He's an English spy," Collette says quickly. "His name's George Wesley."

"Collette!" the Countess asks in a weak voice.

"It's true!" she insists. "Go ahead and ask him! He blows up trains and kills Imperial soldiers! He's a spy!"

"Collette! Why?"

"Oh Mama, there's still a war going on in case you didn't know. He's the enemy, no matter how you feel about him," she says, pointing at George. "He comes into our life and you receive him with open arms because he used to be someone else before the war. Well, he's not that same person."

"You knew this man as an Englishman?" the officer asks, his tone changing.

"I did," the Countess says weakly.

"And you harboured him under your roof? A known English spy?"

"He's not a spy!" the Countess says gently.

"He's not?" the officer laughs, his voice mocking her. "Then pray tell madam, why would an Englishman be behind enemy lines during a war pretending to be an Austrian soldier? If that’s not the definition of a spy, I don't know what is. Take him outside!"

George throws his stumped arm up and hits the guards, running across the yard almost as soon as the door opens. He hears them yelling at him to stop, but he tells himself he can’t. Not now. He feels a stab in his back, and the pain is more intense than anything he’s felt before. He forces himself to go on. He can almost imagine the glass shard splintering like dust as it grinds into his bones, and he stumbles, falling, getting back up when he hears a shot as it whistles above his head. The second shot slams into his side and he topples as a third one takes him between the shoulder blades. He crumples to the ground, looking at the blood as it oozes out from beneath him. For a moment, he thinks he can feel it seeping out of him.

He looks up at the sky, forces a smile, thinking this is the way it’s supposed to be; this is the way he's meant to go out. There’s a bird floating lazily above him, effortless in its flight, and he thinks how wonderful it must be to be able to fly like that. Floating on the air—like floating on nothing, hanging suspended on invisible wires—like it’s detached. Like he feels himself.

"George!" Annette screams out. She runs to him and cradles his head in her lap. He looks up at her and sees tears in her eyes, as other voices and other shadows creep into his vision. "Don't you die on me!" she screams at him, and he forces a smile. "I love you George! Do you hear me! I love you!

"Ironic," he says.

The officer steps up and pulls his revolver out, pointing it at George. Annette looks up and cradles George in her arms.

“Let me finish him,” the man says.

“He’s not a dog you shoot in the field.”

“Why let him suffer?” he asks.

“Why do you care? Let him die in my arms, if he’s going to die,” she says through tears. The man hesitates for a moment, considering, and then holstering the pistol, walks away.