Swimming Lessons

The last candle had burned down to a pool of wax.  There was a small wick but no matches to allow even the few minutes of light the remaining wick could have provided.  Some daylight filtered into the basement room from a narrow window near  the ceiling.

            The red and white striped shoe box lay in the darkest corner of the room, behind the dried stalks of a large plant in a clay pot, concealed, Anna and David hoped, in case of a search.  The box could have been on the table in the middle of the nearly bare room, so conscious of its presence were the man and woman who lived there.

            The woman, Anna, not  young, but not as old as she looked, was pale, dull-eyed, her skin waxy.  She had lost a great deal of blood giving birth.  The baby died and she told David it was for the best.  He'd agreed and they'd shed no tears in each other's presence. 

            David found the shoe box in a trash bin, an unusually lovely box, and brought it to Anna.

            "It's the right size," she said.

            They talked of nothing but the shoe box.  Where to take it.  It must not fall into the hands of the Gestapo.

            They would have to decide, soon, what to do.