Book Shop Secrets

This story was written for a club contest. The assignment was to write a story for the decade 1940 to 1950. I chose to write a fictional story about a book shop owner during WWII. During the pandemic I took up the hobby of paint by numbers. This is the painting I did, which inspired this story.  I hope you enjoy reading it. 

 

Tattered book bindings, warped shelves, and uneven floorboards were a few things that made this shop memorable. Josef spent many late hours at the shop during the war, sometimes all night.

The shop was both a retreat and a meeting place where plans were made and hopes realized. It became a book exchange. Villagers took books and brought some in, sharing what little they had with others.

* * *

Late one the evening under a dim light in the back of the shop, Josef sorted books by category. He heard the bell jingle as the German Officer entered the store. The officer roamed around looking at book titles. Josef was of German descent but born and raised a Frenchman. He ignored the officer and continued his work.

            “Why are there so many books about politics?” the officer asked.

            Josef peered over the top of his glasses. “People are curious.”

            “Curiosity killed the cat.” The officer grinned. “Where’s the owner?”

            “So, I see that you are curious as well?”

            The officer picked up a book titled Crusade for Democracy. “Why would a German shop owner promote anti-German politics?”

            “I am just the clerk, but the shop sells what people want.”  

            The officer tossed the book on the floor and glared at Josef. “Tell the owner I’ll be back to talk about support for the fatherland.”

Josef kept hope alive in the town of Vire, during World War II. His town in the Normandy region of France was almost destroyed by the bombing. Four hundred townspeople died, and ninety-five percent of the buildings were left uninhabitable.

            The store survived and became a place of refuge in desperate times. It was a sanctuary. The citizens needed a distraction. No one would have guessed books would be the answer. Josef gave books away to help people believe in something. He held readings in the basement, story time for the children. They were the most vulnerable, and some were now orphans.

            The shop became a place where people shared food, stories, friendship, and books, most importantly books. The doors were left unlocked; people were welcome anytime, day or night. Josef sorted, arranged, and repaired books. It’s what he did to make sure people could find everything they needed. 

            To look at Josef, one might assume he was weak. He was a bookworm and a writer of words, but his most notable publication was the underground newspaper of the French Resistance. So, he wasn’t strong of body, but his strength came from what he believed, from his will and determination for justice. Words were the weapon. 

            The presence of the German troops in town taunted and tested the villagers trying to get information from them about the resistance movements. No one talked. The underground newspaper gave them hope that relief was on the way, and that the American and British troops would come to their aid.

            A week later, the officer came back to the shop demanding to see the owner.

            The officer pointed to Josef. “Your name Josef is German. Ja?”

            “I am French, born and raised in Vire.”

            The officer drew his Luger from its holster. “You’re a traitor to your heritage.”

            “My allegiance is to my nation and country, France.”

            Blood rushed to the angry German's face. Without another word, he fired, and Josef fell back into a bookcase. The bullet pierced a book held by the shopkeeper. His body lay motionless as blood dripped from his wound. The officer flipped the closed sign on the door as he exited the shop, leaving his victim lying on the floor.

            Within hours the German SS troops came to the shop to claim the body but found nothing. The shop was filled with people browsing through the shelves looking for treasures. They were questioned about the incident, but no one heard or knew anything. Many claimed the shop had been full of people all day and suggested the soldiers had the wrong address. 

            The soldier approached an older woman. “ I found this outside this shop. There’s an article written by Josef.” He removed the newspaper from underneath his arm and opened it, showing it was from the French Resistance.

            “Why is that important?” The old lady's eyes narrowed as she stared intently. “There’s nothing here to find, you’ve looked around, now it’s time for you to leave.”

            He smirked, “Should I leave the paper here for you to read?”

             “Why? Don’t you think I have a copy?  Besides you haven’t finished reading it.” She stood firm with her hands on her hips.

            He called the other soldiers and left the shop tossing the newspaper in the trash on his way out.

            The old woman was right. There was no evidence to be found, no blood, no body, no bullet casing, and no bullet-pierced book. It was June 1st, 1944. Five days later, US troops landed at Normandy.

* * *

            “Many years have past and many things have changed since the end of WWII.” Jules turned to look at the tourists and said, “That’s how my grandfather supported the war effort.” Then he stood and slid his chair to the table. “Now, let’s take a walk across the street to his shop. I want you to look around and tell me what you see and how it makes you feel. There are some books that date back to the war years.”

            This small group of tourists walked through the shop doors and searched the bookcases. Each person was looking for the perfect souvenir. Reproductions of the French Resistance newspaper with an article written by Josef turned out to be a big seller. A gentleman from the group was standing at the checkout counter when his eyes were drawn to a book on display behind the counter. With a fixed stare, the man peered at the book encased in plastic. The bullet hole was clearly visible, as were the blood-stained pages. The title of the book was Crusade for Democracy.  

            He turned toward Jules and said. “So, Josef died a hero?”

            “Yes . . . but not in 1944.” Jules paused. “He passed away in 2018, on his one-hundredth birthday. He spent his later years at the bookshop, many days sitting on the bench in the front of the store reading and reminiscing.”

Teddy's Nightmare

 

Teddy’s Nightmare

 

A framed bear’s arm adorned the wall like a trophy, honoring the human spirit and the struggle to survive. 

* * * 

I looked down the hallway in this old abandoned building in Detroit where I grew up. The paint was chipped and a few scraps of wallpaper still clung to the wall. Sad to think this now noiseless complex was once a vibrant apartment building filled with children’s laughter. 

            I spent time here as a child visiting my cousin Connor. We ran through the halls playing hide-n-seek or tag. Connor had a Teddy Bear. He was seven and despite his age he carried his bear wherever he went. The birth of the Teddy bear had been propelled into popularity by President Teddy Roosevelt’s refusal to shoot a bear tied to a tree. It was unsportsmanlike. Kids outnumbered adults and ruled this building. No one paid attention until Connor went missing on June 14, 1903. They found his Teddy bear with one missing arm, lying on the ground next to the dumpster. We knew it was Connor’s because his name was on the bottom of the bear’s foot.

            He claimed his Teddy protected him. We believed him until he vanished on that warm summer day. Kids played outside all day, only checking in when they got hungry. Sometimes they went home for lunch. Other times they ate at a friend place. No one became concerned unless you weren’t home for dinner. Connor never came home that night. 

            A missing boy was shocking news but quickly faded away when the Wright brothers made their first successful flight on December 17, 1903. Like many decades there was bad news and good news and whether it’s right or not, the big news, always took the limelight. The Wright brothers flight was really big news.

            I never forgot my cousin but learned to live with hope for the future. His mom gave me his ragged Teddy bear. I kept it in a chest in my room that was opened once a year on Connor’s birthday.  

            It was 1908 when Henry Ford’s first production Model-T was built. I lived in Detroit and was only fifteen years old when I went to the plant to get a job as a runner. It was a long shot but it paid off. They hired me that day to run parts from one line to another. I didn’t make a lot, but it was an opportunity that couldn’t be passed up. 

            It was hard living in those days, so I took every opportunity to make money. I learned to paint houses. It was easy work but took time. I offered my services to many of the full time workers who preferred drinking in the local bars rather than maintaining their homes. 

A foreman hired me to do some painting and everything was going well until I showed up to get paid, and he brushed me off with a promise. I wasn’t about to work for nothing, so I pestered him for payment, but he angrily resisted and threatened me. He told me he would have me fired at Ford if I didn’t back off. Getting fired would have been devastating, but I also wanted him to pay me for the job I did. 

I followed him home from the bar many nights, but without any plan on what I needed to do in order to get paid. I planned to talk to his wife about the money he owed me, but found out she’d left months ago. Then one night, I watched him stumble on to the porch and into the house. He left the door ajar, so it wasn’t locked. He was dead drunk with no wife in the house. 

I knew it wasn’t right but it also wasn’t right for him to stiff me out of the money he owed me, so I snuck in the front door. He hadn’t made it more than three steps into the house before he collapsed on the floor. I tiptoed past him and as quietly as possible searched through the kitchen, looking in the cookie jar, refrigerator, on top of the cabinets, wherever I thought he would hide money. Then I went to the desk in the living room and reached in the bottom drawer. I felt something fuzzy and yanked my hand back thinking it was a dead mouse, but peered into the drawer and saw that it was a Teddy bear’s arm. The shock of seeing it made my head spin and fall to the floor. Lucky for me, the drunk didn’t even flinch. 

I sat there for a few minutes trying to piece this together. It could be nothing but a weird coincidence. I reached back in the drawer and took the bear’s arm. I wanted to see if it matched Connor’s bear at home. Once I regained my composure I left quickly and quietly through the front door.

Upon arriving home I was anxious and apprehensive about taking the bear out of the chest. I sat for an hour before I reached in and pulled out Connor’s teddy. Surprised and shocked, it was a perfect match. It had the same tear pattern. Now, what was I going to do?

            Going to the police wasn’t an option. I had no proof of anything. I was just a kid with a wild imagination—that's what they would think. Plus, if I told them how I got the bear’s arm I’d be charged with breaking and entering. I needed more proof that this guy was involved in my cousin’s disappearance. I had to go back and find something to show the police, proving he was a kidnapper. 

On the next trip I planned to take a flashlight and pry bar. Turning the house lights on might give me away so the flashlight would be needed when I went into the basement. I didn’t know it at the time, but the pry bar turned out to be invaluable. 

I stalked the guy for five days before another opportunity came along to enter his house. It was a Friday night, a big night for him since he didn’t go to work Saturday. He drank more at the start of a weekend. He was a consistent and reliable drunk, so I felt any blunders I made that night would go unnoticed.

The front door was open so I entered as I did the first time. He was again sprawled out on the floor, but this time he had knocked over an oil lamp, that spilled onto the rug. He had a bloody gash in his head from the broken glass.

I stepped around his body and immediately went down the stairs into the basement. Each tread creaked, growing louder with every step. I paused to listen for movement upstairs, but when I heard none I proceeded to the bottom. 

As I searched through the rubbish, I tripped over a piece of plywood lying on the floor. My ears buzzed when I heard moaning. I listened closely and used the pry bar to move the plywood, exposing a pit. The moaning got louder.

            When I looked into the pit, I saw a withered body, barely clothed. It was Connor, left for dead, and struggling to live. I found an old wooden ladder and used it to climb down into the pit and lifted him on my back. When I reached down and picked him up, I was shocked how little he weighed, no more than five gallon buckets of paint I carried to job sites. I hoisted him over my shoulder and climbed the rickety ladder.

I was so focused on getting my cousin out of the pit, I hadn’t noticed the drunk was now awake and in the basement. He didn’t see us climb out of the pit. With Connor on my back, we quietly made our way to the steps. When the drunk heard the steps creak, he charged us. I threw the pry bar at him. It bounced off his knee and landed on the ground in front of him. He stepped on it and stumbled backwards into the open pit. 

When we got upstairs, flames leaped and smoke filled the room, blocking our exit. We barely escaped through the back door with our lives.

The fire department later determined a lit cigarette started the blaze. The oil soaked rug was the wick that fed the fire. We left through the back door. 

The drunk died that night. The fire department found human bones, small underdeveloped bones, like those of children in the basement. Some had been used to make lamp bases and ashtrays. There was also a bone wind chime. What went on in this house was beyond belief. The circumstances compelled the police to try to locate the wife, until they discovered bones from an adult woman in the basement.  

We celebrated Connor’s thirteenth birthday on August 30, 1909, two weeks after I pulled him out of the cellar pit. 

My life changed after that traumatic experience. I worked as a forensic investigator for the city of Detroit until retirement. Connor gave me his Teddy bear, which I proudly displayed it in my office.

It took Connor many years to recover from his five years in captivity, but with the help of his family and friends, he not only survived, but also excelled in everyway. He became a prosecuting attorney for the city of Detroit.

The Teddy bear’s arm proudly hung on the wall of Connor’s office. It was a perpetual reminder of his past never to be forgotten. A memory that led him to a career he never imagined. 

Robots, Drones, and Flying Cars

Carl dreamed of the future his whole life. There was nothing wrong with being a teenager in the 60s, but predictions about robots and flying cars made him yearn for more. Every time a fantasy space movie was released, he stood first in line to buy a ticket.

            As Carl aged, he lost some of his passion for what the future might bring. He still loved to watch Star Trek and Star Wars, but he knew he would never be around to experience similar adventures. His dreams were really fantasies, something he could enjoy but would never actually realize. 

            Achievements and inventions such as the Internet, smartphones, self-driving cars, and of course, the moon landing fueled his fantasies. He was getting older with his sixty-fifth birthday just around the corner. He knew the likelihood of jetting around the world in his flying car was highly improbable. 

            Drones were available to the everyday man. Carl owned one and it was fun, but it fell short of his vision. Robots existed as well, but they could do so much more than deliver pizzas and packages. Carl knew the future would show their true potential,

            The predictions and expectations for the future were exaggerated, maybe unintentionally, but the outcome was the same. Born too early, he did not yet live in a Jetson world.

            Would there ever be a way to become a part of the future? Carl doubted his vision to be part of the future would be fulfilled. Cryogenics! The word crept into his head and turned an idea into an obsession. That could be the answer he needed. He had no doubt it was possible to freeze his brain and come back to a new body one hundred years from today.The technology was available now. Carl was sure all his dreams would be reality by then. He did extensive research about cryogenics and recognized the possibilities. Sure, there would be risks but with advancements in technology, he felt any issues that developed could easily be rectified by the year 2120. 

He had two brothers and a sister but no wife or children. He believed his desire for a new life wouldn’t be a burden on anyone. This new path to his future was his destiny, one he dreamed about since he was a child. Carl was well fixed financially and with 100 years of interest compounded on his account, he knew there would be no worries. He did research on cryogenics for months, listing all the pros and cons and finally convinced himself this was what he wanted to do. A Russian firm has developed a procedure to freeze people before they die. Scientists believe that by freezing a brain before death they can avoid extensive brain damage. He didn’t want to wait until he was on his deathbed before he started this procedure, so he would fly to Switzerland where euthanasia was legal and have the procedure. 

Carl had one last visit with his family for a celebratory dinner and to say their last goodbyes. There would be no turning back once he entered the lab.

* * * 

Now in the year 2120, Carl’s new life was about to begin. Life was drastically different than he once knew. No one could have predicted the financial disaster devastating the country. So many things changed. Carl didn’t know it yet, but he would need to go back to school to learn about this new world. His brain was outdated, and he would have to get a job to live. The golden parachute he expected to have was almost worthless.

Just as imagined, drones and flying machines filled the skies, almost blocking the sun. Droids did the housework leaving people with more free time. Pet robots replaced the cuddly unpredictable puppies and kittens from the past. It was nearly impossible to tell them apart from the real ones, except the robot pets never ate and never pooped.

            Carl saw things he always imagined and some he never believed possible. Everything was miniaturized and also expensive. You could carry a complete dinner in your pocket that could be rehydrated in seconds. The taste was good but the presentation was lacking. 

People worked from home with little contact from their co-workers. Physical stores were non-existent since everything was bought on-line and delivered to your door.

Virtual reality (VR) was a boom to the entertainment industry. People still took vacations but never left their homes. VR took them on trips around the world. It replaced true reality in every way. There was something wrong about going on a hike without leaving your family room.   

Murders and mass shootings were down because no one went anywhere in mass.

Cyber attacks were up which contributed to the increase in suicides. Technology helped with some things but created new problems. He should have known there was no guarantee that progress would make his life better.

The only things left unchanged were the politicians. They were still crooked. People didn’t talk or connect with others, especially strangers. It was as if their lips were fused together. The new world had robots, drones and flying cars, but instead of bringing people closer, it kept them apart.

When Carl walked into the new world, his dreams were realized, but surprises surfaced as well. After his brain was put into his new body he exited the chamber and realized he was no longer Carl. His chest was bigger and his body more curvy. Carl had become Carla. 

He should’ve read the fine print.

* * * 

            Crash! The lamp fell onto his head and startled him. His body lurched forward from deep sleep to an instant awareness when his nephew’s drone buzzed around his head and crashed into his lap.

            “Hey Uncle Carl! Do you want to watch Lost in Space with me?” Setting the remote control on the table. “It’s the old one from the ‘60s.” 

The first thing Carl did was reach down and feel his chest. It was flat. He smiled because he realized it was still 2019.

            Carl shook the cobwebs out of his head and said, “Yes, Ben, I’d love to.”

            With that Ben grabbed his uncle by the hand to lead him to the basement where they had the gigantic TV. “It’s kinda lame but it makes you fantasize about the future.”

            He looked at his nephew. “Movies inspire your dreams but don’t let them keep you from living today.” 

Our Gut Reaction

Have you noticed the first reaction of many people is negative? I read a post on Nextdoor just this morning. They were wondering about the sirens they heard on Highway 94. They asked if they were related to the shooting on Main Street in St. Charles. This lead to a series of response about a shooting that can’t be verified and how sad and dangerous it is to do normal things like going to a bar or restaurant.

     I’ve heard many sirens in my life and most were related to a traffic accident or incident. Why would someone assume hearing a siren equates to a shooting? It’s possible, but unlikely. Maybe it’s the times we live in that attributes to us expecting the worst. 

     The world is filled with glass half empty and glass half full people. There always was and always will be, but right now there seems to be a growing trend for our gut reaction to be negative. And many times there’s no facts to support the negative response.

     Let me say one thing, it doesn’t help to look at every situation in a negative light. Just my opinion, but I think it damages your attitude. At the same time looking at life through rose-colored glasses isn’t without fault. Having the facts about a situation would be helpful before you throw out a random warning. “Just Saying . . .”

 

Word Count Pressure

I am a writer who developed an interest in writing late in life. I’ve written many short stories and a few very long short stories, but never a novel.

     Putting together an entertaining story for the reader is my main goal. Having read many novels and books shorter in length, there is one thing I discovered. The length is unimportant to me, the story has the center of my attention. I know publishers will argue that both are important, but they seem to put a great emphasis on word count. 

     A goal of many writers is to write a novel. Maybe it checks off a box that validates your writing chops, but should stringing together 70,000 words be the goal. What happens if you’ve written a great story but it’s less than novel length, should you add more words? You could end up making a great story a good story. For me that’s not the goal. I am satisfied with writing the best story I can in as many words as it takes, no matter the word count.

     I know there are many types of readers with a vast array of interest, which gives credence to the many genres. There is something out there for everyone and I believe in every case the story should be the star not the number of words. 

     So, I will continue to write stories to the best of my abilities, but there may never be a novel. There is a good chance I can create a book of short stories and I’m just fine with that.

What would you do?

This post is written to make you think about how you react to others who have a different viewpoint.

The election for the President of the United States is getting close. Are you excited to cast your vote? Not so much. Yeah! Me either.

Let’s pretend for a minute. A Democrat and Republican walked into different bars. Each was approached by a stranger that needed a ride to the polls on Election Day and ask if they would be so kind as to give them a ride. Each of the strangers mentioned that wanted to vote for the opposing party. So both the Democrat and the Republican know they would each be taking a person to vote for a candidate that they didn’t support. Would they give the strangers a ride?
     What if the scenario was slightly different? Let’s say the people in the bar weren’t strangers, but friends with a different political belief. Would that make a difference? Does your answer reflect your character? I don’t have an answer. It’s for you to decide.
     Now let’s take it one more step. Suppose it was Trump and Biden that we’re in the bar when someone asks for a ride to the polls. Each knew the rider would be voting for the other candidate. Would either get a ride? And what would they say to the strangers?
     I can think of a few responses Trump and Biden might have.  “No, I won’t take you because you are going to vote for the wrong candidate.” I can picture Trump making that statement. They could be more positive and say, “Yes I’ll take you.” but then never stop by to pick them up. That’s a response I imagine from a seasoned politician, like Biden telling you what you want to hear and doing the opposite.
     In both cases, I suspect neither voter will get a ride from Trump or Biden. So these are our choices a candidate who does whatever he wants but openly states his intentions and another that tells you what you want to hear but does whatever he wants. See the similarities. It makes you wonder if what they want is good for the country and its people or only good for them. Choose wisely. “Just Saying . . . .”
   
     

Opinions

It’s easy to get an opinion even when you don’t want one. If you’re unsure where to find these opinions look on any social media site. There’s nothing wrong with an opinion, but the way it’s said is questionable.
     Some post I’ve read are not opinions about a topic, but more a slam to someone’s character. The statement will get your attention, but not convert anyone to your side. When I was a young boy my mom told me, “If you can’t say anything good about someone, don’t say anything at all”. That’s a nice lesson to teach a child, but it’s a difficult, almost impossible standard to live by. The truth is, it wasn’t meant to be an absolute rule as much as a guide for how I should treat others.
     In today’s world it appears no one was ever taught this lesson, which is a shame, because the world does not benefit from hateful speech. I’ve learned by experience that no one has all the answers, so it’s important to listen to other opinions, but it appears that’s antiquated thinking.
     The posts on social media show that many people believe they have all the answers and they are not interested in your opinion unless it supports theirs. Politicians are an example of this bad behavior as well as all the special interest groups and it’s not because of their beliefs but how they deliver the message.
     There is one lesson we have all retained from our childhood that explains the way the world works today. That lesson is, The squeaky wheel gets the grease.  “Just Saying . . . “