Straw & Rafters

“Shh…”

The woman froze, wide-eyed. Alex lowered his finger from over his lips.

“Please,” he mouthed.

“I-” The woman began, her voice breaking slightly before she once again fell mute.

“Did you get the eggs yet?” Another voice called from the distance.

The woman started; so did Alex. She put her hand up as if to say calm down. “No, not yet!” was her reply. “Why don’t you do that for me, dear?”

“Alright!” The screen door of the house shut with a thud and footsteps went off in the opposite direction. The woman, whose eyes had never left him, refocused. She squared her shoulders, her grip on the pitchfork tightening. She was at least 30 years his senior. Her hair, salt-and-pepper gray, was piled on her head with the style of someone who couldn’t be bothered to do it and the precision of someone who had done it a million times.

“Who are you?” She asked, her voice low. Her discerning eyes combed over him, searching for answers.

“My name is Alex.”

“That’s nice,” she said, mockingly. “But who are you?”

He could tell she was looking at his clothes- the ragged remnants of his uniform. “I’m a commander in the regiment.”

“And why are you,” she asked, her eyes narrowing and the creases in her forehead deepening, “a commander in my enemy’s army, here? At my house? Did you come to steal from us?”

“No! Please, I have... I have come for mercy. Only for mercy.”

He could see the flame of anger ignite in her eyes. “And what mercy was shown to my boy when he was dragged away to God knows where?” Her voice started to rise. “Why should I show mercy to you?”

“Even if there is none for me, then for my brother, please. He- he’s sick and injured,” he implored. She looked upon him, her face skeptical, but her eyes questioning. Alex stepped to the side and began moving the hay that was piled behind him. From beneath she could see another form emerging. A man- no, hardly a man, but a boy- lay there, unconscious but breathing.

“There’s been no battlefield near here,” she said.

“No, you’re right. There hasn’t been and there isn’t. But there is a camp.”

“A camp?”

“A POW camp. We were captured last spring. My brother fell ill and they refused to treat him.” Alex’s eyes began welling with tears, and he wiped angrily at them. “We decided to take our chances. Die on the run or die in the camp. He was shot on the way out.” He thought of the endless cold, damp night, the trek through the forest, the weight of his brother on his shoulders, and the sense of relief at the site of the barn at the end. It was barely more than a tall, dark shadow in the trickling light of early dawn, but it was shelter. It was hope.

When he met the old woman’s gaze again, her face was no longer so stern. Her eyes were distant and lost, searching. Her grip on the pitchfork had loosened. He wondered when she might speak again and what she would say when she did.

“Mercy, you wanted?” she asked, breaking the silence after some time.

“My brother is too sick to walk on his own, but I- I’ll carry him out, right now, on my back, and I’ll leave you now. Just, please, just don’t turn us in. I promised...” His voice caught in his throat and he stopped.

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“David.”

“Alex and David…” She began to slowly nod her head, her eyes still lost in the distance. The seconds passed in agonizing silence. “Alright,” the woman finally said, returning to her former stature after a moment of thought. “You can stay here until he’s well enough to walk.”

“What?” Alex asked, the disbelief clear on his face.

“You heard me,” she responded gruffly. “Until he can walk- and not a day longer. He don’t even have to walk good. Just so long as he can walk, you better be leaving.” Alex nodded, his eyes wide. “You best sleep in the day. Get up at night. Not a soul can know you’re here- not even my own flesh and blood. You got that?” He nodded again, this time with more ferocity. “You can stay down here for now, but just as soon as we put out the lights in the house you come on out, wash you and your brother off. There’s a trough right out that door with a spigot you can get water from. Then you two go up that ladder and stay up in the rafters. There’s hay up there too, so you should be comfortable enough. You’ll be out of our way up there. I’ll leave you dinner outside the door before I go to sleep.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“Mhm.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ha! Listen, boy. If anyone finds you here, you were just passing through, unbeknownst to anybody. I won’t know your name and you won’t know mine. Understood?”

Alex nodded, his blood running cold at the idea of being discovered.

Footsteps could be heard approaching in the distance, squishing through the mud left by the evening’s rain. The woman tensed.

“Hide. There in the hay. Cover your brother,” she directed. He obeyed, and she helped pull the hay over him.

“Grandma,” the voice called. She was still outside, but the sound of her voice was crisp, as if she was standing just outside the barn door. “Grandma, where are you?”

“Here! In the barn, dear,” the old woman replied. “What’s wrong, honey?”

The girl stepped inside. Alex held his breath. All he could see through the straw was a hemline and a pair of shoes.

“Nothing’s wrong. But are you still working on the hay?”

“Are you trying to rush an old woman?”

Her granddaughter sighed. “Of course not. Why don’t you take the eggs in and start the breakfast? I’ll feed the animals.”

“Now, now, I’m not in my grave yet. So long as I’m alive, I’m strong enough to move hay, you hear?”

“Goodness,” the girl said with a chuckle. “Someone’s in a mood this morning.”

“Can I help it? Can’t even get myself some coffee these days. Thank God we've still got some chickens. Go start boiling the eggs. And feed the dogs.”

“Yes ma’am,” she replied sweetly before turning out of the barn. When the door to the house shut, the old woman stepped back toward the pile of hay. Alex began digging his way out of the pile. The woman stood with the pitchfork in one hand. With her free hand she was rubbing her temple. Her eyes were closed in concentration, and she was mumbling to herself. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked around. Alex came back into view.

“You said he was shot?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am. Here in the shoulder.”

“Did you get the bullet out yet?”

“It came right out the other side.”

“Did you sew the wound up?”

“Not yet, ma’am. I didn’t have the chance.”

“I’ll bring out some vodka and the sewing kit with your dinner. Clean him up and suture him as best you can. Leave it under the porch when you’re done. I’ll get it in the morning.” She looked around, her mind running. “Stay here and I’ll get you some breakfast.”

The old woman left and Alex sat where she left him, unmoving, with molded straw stuck in his hair and its scent in his nostrils. Barely a minute passed before she returned, apples and pears filling her apron. She released the corners of her apron from her grip, dumping the apples out in the hay beside him.

“This should be enough to hold you.”

Alex nodded. It seemed he was doing more nodding than speaking this morning. He tried to muster some words to say, but he couldn’t manage 'I haven’t seen this much food at one time since I left home for this war', so instead he choked out another dry 'thank you'.

“Mhm,” was her reply. He bit into an apple and she nodded her head approvingly, then set to work moving hay until her granddaughter’s voice could be heard calling her for breakfast. She set the pitchfork against the barn wall and left to go inside. Before she shut the door, she poked her head in and locked eyes with him. The old woman put one finger up in front of her lips.

“Shh…”

The barn door shut.