Until He's Gone

Chapter Four

"I felt scared and guilty
And my heart began to throb
As my hand reached to open
The golden doorknob"
•●•●•●•●•

I reached for my clarinet and started playing my mother's favorite melody. Drifting along with the soft music, I remembered the first time I asked mom if I could try playing the clarinet.

At first, she taught me the correct way to position the clarinet and myself. When I followed her instructions and started playing, I didn't like the melody I was producing. Hers was much better.

  I asked her about the reason and she answered, "Play the clarinet like you're feeling the music, not hearing it."

And how on earth was I going to feel music?

I followed her instructions once again trying to feel the music, but it wasn't getting any better. She'd keep on telling me, "The melody doesn't come from your clarinet, Lily. It comes from your heart."

Did that mean I didn't have a heart, or was there something wrong with it?

I remembered bursting into tears. And like always, I felt her tender touch on my cheek as she wiped the droplets away.

  "This needs time dear. Just don't give up soon," she would tell me in the softest voice ever.

I guess the time she had meant had passed already, but I hoped it didn't. My mother had taught me everything, but she hadn't taught me how to live without her.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I stopped mid-note and suddenly self-conscious. I waited for dad to open the door. After mom's tragic death, my father was fully responsible of dealing with strangers who needed serious help, and those who usually wouldn't deal with me from the window.

The doorbell rang again, and only that time it was a long urgent one. Then it struck me that dad was at the French taxes office that day - he worked there as a translator - and went to work early that morning. Even though he was supposed to stay with me on that fearful day, he left to work when he had received an urgent letter from his co-workers that they had crucial duties to be done.

He said he wasn't going to be late.

Eventually, fear and anxiety triggered my senses. I had no idea what to do, for it wasn't of my business to open for strangers. Only from my window, I recalled. I couldn't be breaking my promise.

Suddenly, I felt the urge to alter my decision. Perhaps they were the Nazi soldiers wishing to search our house. Well, I couldn't be violating the law either. I was in loss, but I drifted to a more peaceful prediction that it could be a messenger, or maybe someone in need of urgent help. However, even if so, what could I do?

The doorbell rang for the third time. Fine, I'll open no matter what!

Finally, I hurried downstairs. A sense of fear ran through my blood as I placed my shivering hand on the doorknob, hesitated, and then opened the door. Cold air swept in as I wrapped my arms around myself for warmth. The air smelled like damp earth, moldy concrete, burned tanks, and diesel fuel.

My eyes widened in disarray as they met the sparkling green eyes of a tall and lean boy about my age or even elder, standing right in front of me. He had dark bronze-colored hair, high cheekbones and deep green shadowed eyes fringed with long lashes.

He seemed strangely familiar.

Then I realized he was trembling as he looked at me with tearful eyes and begged, "Please let me in; Monsieur Elliot may get hold of me at any minute."

Then my jaw dropped open, the escapee was an eighteen-year-old boy! And Monsieur Elliot, a commissioned officer under Adolf Hitler's orders, was searching for him.

I hadn't had any thought what to do, let him in, or report him?

Eventually, the young man sensed the confusion in my eyes and muttered, "Please". I almost sensed he was fighting the urge to burst into tears and scream.

The situation felt too awkward.

I couldn't help but think about the oppressed people mother used to tell me about, and the importance of lending a helping hand in their time of need. Finally, I decided to let him in, although I knew well that it was very unlikely for a prisoner to be innocent.

I opened the door a little wider and gestured at him to come in. Despite his proper and strangely confident manner as he slowly walked in, I felt scared and guilty.

How could I hide a guilty prisoner from where he had to be?

I imagined my father's reaction if he had known I was acting against the law; and that actually was the German law because Normandy was under its orders. Perhaps that guy knew that Monsieur Elliot wouldn't search our house and was taking advantage of that.

But no, he couldn't be.

Even though my father had a high position, and we were always on the safe side and in good terms with the German soldiers as well as the French ones, it had always been a secret to be hidden. I feared a lot of thoughts, and honestly, I feared him. After all, he was just a prisoner, a bad person, and maybe a murderer. I shivered at that thought, and tried not uttering any word until dad came home. Meanwhile, the guy went in and sat on the sofa, resting his head in between his hands.

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What feelings do you have regarding this guy?

Vote & Comment please ♡
~Mira xx