Cecilia laid awake staring at the ceiling. All night she tossed and turned. All night she had shut her weary eyes and begged sleep to take her. All night she tried but to no avail. Occasionally she would drift off, but only for a half hour or so. She had even went to bed early that night - she felt she deserved it. After all, she got practically no sleep yesterday. She had figured she would be exhausted. And she was. Yet still sleep would not come.
Even though she promised herself she'd ignore it - pretend like it didn't even happen - she just couldn't get that man's face out of her head. Bloody, bruised, begging. Pitiful sight. Pathetic, even. Hateful.
How she wanted to hate him. She really tried. He was the enemy after all. A German. A Nazi. Probably a Luftwaffe pilot. Possibly a spy. He most likely had helped to bomb London. Kill her own countrymen! He was a murderer and he did not deserve her pity. He could die all alone in that barn for all she cared. She didn't want anything to do with him.
Cecilia's stomach felt numb. How she wished she meant that. She really wanted to. She was English, wasn't she? Wasn't she supposed to feel that way. It was only natural. He is the enemy after all. She moaned and rolled over once more.
No! She told herself, No! I won't think about this anymore! It never happened, he doesn't exist.
The more Cecilia thought about it, the more she came back to that same conclusion. She couldn't just pretend a man didn't exist, especially when he. . . asked for her help.
That was what bothered her the most, that was what she was trying to forget. He was the enemy, yet he asked for her help. Because he was hurt and bleeding and hungry. She wished he had never said that. If he threatened to kill her she would feel better. But unfortunately, he did not. No, he begged for help. He even did it politely. She couldn't just pretend it never happened because it did. It did. And it happened to her. She had a choice to make.
Should she or should she not help the enemy?
Under normal circumstances, this would brand her as a traitor, yet these were hardly normal circumstances. Looking at it one way, there was a injured man with a funny accent in a barn who needed help. But looking at it in a different way, there was an enemy soldier, who wished to destroy everything Cecilia loved and cared about, who also happened to be injured.
"Talk about a fine line between good and evil. . ." Cecilia murmured to herself.
Regardless of the scenario, one thing remained the same: a man needed help. Her help.
Cecilia could not take it anymore. She pulled off her covers and sat up in bed.
"Well, then. I'm going to give it to him." She announced to the darkness, "I'm going to help."
Why? The darkness seemed to question.
Why? She answered, right back at it, Because I am an Englishwoman. Proud and brave and true. When someone asks for my help it's my duty to give it. I'm going to show that Nazi that we English have morals, a code of honor. Whatever others have done are their own faults, but whatever I don't do is mine.
That did it. Without another thought, whispered word, or self-argument, Cecilia leaped from her bed, grabbed her robe, her electric torch, and slowly turned her doorknob. She carefully tiptoed down the hall, jumping over the squeaky board and slid down the stair rail. She went to the kitchen and grabbed a full bottle of sheep's milk and filled an empty one up with water. She cut a slice of bread and wrapped it in a towel. As she did so, her hands shook. Her breath tasted bitter. Her knees wobbled. For good measure, she grabbed a knife, wrapping it in the towel as well.
YOU ARE READING
The English GirlHistorical Fiction
The future is what worries 15 year old Cecilia Oliver the most. With the Second World War raging across the Channel and German Luftwaffe bombing nearby London, Cecilia is quite unsure if she'll even have a future, despite her Dad's reassurance that...