The Cellar In Springtime
She did try. But the Jew died anyway. She never knew his name, never asked, just spoke in the little broken German she’d learned. Take. Move. Eat. Bucket. Blanket. No. And he nodded or shook his head. His cracked lips never parted. Outside, the old people spoke of the winter more than the war; inside, the frozen ground poured its cold into her cellar. She had to kick him awake, a little harder each morning. Then in February he did not stir. She had not wanted him, but she’d taken him in, for the small price of everything he had to give. And in the end he had given her his corpse, too. For that, she hated him, but now, at least, without guilt.
Bio: Adam Jernigan was born in Asheville, North Carolina, and lives just east of there in Black Mountain, where he is the herdsman on a dairy goat farm.