Fiction: The Courier

“Mama Astrid,” Noemi said quietly. “Am I old enough now to learn more about my Mama Sabine?”

Astrid didn’t look up. Noemi had turned 15 the week before and this was expected.

“Go sit on the couch,” Astrid said. “Let me get us some tea.”

Astrid set the simple tea service on the table. She poured a cup for Noemi and one for herself before sitting down on the sofa with the younger woman.

“You cannot, of course, remember your mother,” Astrid said. “My heart breaks every time I think of that, and I want to scream. The first time I fully realized it, I kept my poor husband awake all night with my crying. But it has changed nothing.” She sipped the hot tea as a tear fell down her right cheek. “Filthy boche.”

Astrid cleared her throat. “We were in the same unit in the Resistance. We were the only women, and women were not looked upon warriors or politicians or thinkers or anything other than wives and mothers. But the men in the unit learned that sometimes a woman attracts less attention doing certain things than a man would, so we were tolerated. I was about 22 and Sabine was almost 30.

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