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No Other

By Shawna K. Williams

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Stop shaking.
Crouched next to his small oak desk, Jacob clenched its side to steady himself, and took
in a deep breath. Then he reached into the narrow space between the desk and the wall, and
pulled the envelope from its hiding place and fell back onto his bed. The paper was folded into a
square the size of a matchbook. Jakob studied it as he turned it in his fingers, but didn't open it.
Instead, he held out his still-trembling hand, holding the paper in his palm.
What was wrong with him? Now, after everything, he had the jitters? Good heavens, he
was supposed to be the strong one, the provider. Thank goodness his brother, Joe had come back
and assumed those duties. Jakob could drop the façade before he managed to ruin what was left
of his family.
Letting out a sigh, Jakob unfolded the envelope -- little by little -- revealing the bold
words stamped onto its surface. The knot in his stomach tightened with the unbending of paper,
forcing the last remnants of breath from his lungs.
He knew every bleed of the scarlet ink, every wrinkle made from angry, crushing hands,
but the letters still served their purpose.
Within him hatred stirred. It paced and tested, like a caged animal sensing opportunity.
Soon it would try to maul its way loose -- unless he stopped agitating it with this thing he held in
his hands.
CENSORED ENEMY ALIEN MAIL.
A snarl pulled at the corner of his mouth. Why not stamp traitor? Or to be more specific:
Nazi. With a last name like Wilheimer, the internment camp address, and the giant label 'enemy
alien' -- what other assumption could be made?
It's what everyone thought. And if there were a few who weren't convinced, plenty of
town folk would attest.
The FBI don't snatch people from their home without good cause. No siree, I tell ya. A
person gotta be downright dangerous to drag'm away like that, leaving all those little Hitler
lovin' Krauts behind. Serves'm right, being booted from their house. Otta chase'm all out town
while we're at it.
Jakob's lungs burned with the need of air, and heat flamed in his cheeks. His nostrils
flared, expanding his chest, only for his lungs to seize again. The envelope was doing its job.
But wasn't that why he kept it?
As a reminder? One he could use -- when needed -- to justify, fuel his rage. Hadn't the
emotion been his faithful companion for the past five years? Motivating him. Pushing him to
work harder, endure more. Didn't he need it for the sake of his family who depended on him? He
owed them.
It was your fault.
Ah, the little voice. Why couldn't it just leave him with his anger? That's all he wanted.
Because it's the truth.
"I know!" Jakob's voice boomed in the confined, windowless space that was his room. He
sank back against the wall, exhausted. "I know," he repeated in a whisper, remembering a time
before, when he'd loved this place, his home. When his family was happy -- and whole.
The hatred turned inward. It bit into his flesh, tore slowly and began to gnaw, threatening
to devour him from the inside out.
Jakob released his breath slowly and swallowed, trying to push it all away. He didn't want
to do this anymore. Couldn't.
He pulled up his knees and traced the envelope's fuzzy edges, as if petting it, attempting
to sooth the beast before it kept him from doing what he needed to do.
The war was over, his family home -- sort of.
He looked up and around his closet sized room. Not quite the home he remembered, but
they were together. He had to move forward, and God help him; forgive.
Jakob squeezed his eyes shut. Help me Lord. Then he turned to the Bible laid open beside
him and read the verse again.
Ephesians 4:31-32 "Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and
evil speaking, be put away from you: with all malice. And be ye kind to another,
tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven
you."
With a heavy sigh, he took the wisdom to heart and scooted forward, pulling the tin ash
bucket to the side of his bed. The match booklet was in it, so he picked it up and tore one loose,
giving it a long look before striking it.
"No more," he said, and lifted the envelope to the flame.
The corner ignited and Jakob watched as the paper blackened and curled. Could it be this
easy? Would all the pain and frustration vanish with the envelope?
Smoke drifted upward as ashes fell.
No. But there was something powerful in the symbolism -- more than he'd expected.
"Eine Verletzung kann nicht heilen, wenn man dauernd daran kratzt."
His mother had spoken the words to him over and over throughout his years -- A wound
can't heal if you keep scratching it -- and saying them brought a smile to his lips. As a man of
twenty he was beginning to understand. He'd never heal if he couldn't forgive.
"Hey, Jakob." His sister, Ruth, pounded on his door. "What are you doing in there? I
smell smoke."
"N-nothing." He searched for a way to put out the fire before--
Ruth pushed the door open and poked her head in. Jakob jumped to his feet, knocking
over the ash bucket as he dropped the envelope. It hit the side and bounced, sending embers
flying onto the cotton blanket hanging off the side of his bed.
"Crud!"
Frantically, he pulled the blanket off, but the waving fabric only fanned the flames. And
when he dropped it, it landed on the burning envelope and ignited a second fire.
"Crud!"
Jakob grabbed the ash bucket and turned it upside down over the first fire, then stomped
like he was folk dancing on the second until he'd snuffed it out.
"Nothing, huh?" said Ruth.
Jakob narrowed his eyes at her as he tossed the tin bucket aside, then he bent down to roll
up the blanket, paying little mind to the blackened holes. An unburned portion of the envelope
lay underneath.
Ruth came in and closed the door. "Better not wear those in the house," she said,
indicating his boots. "You'll mark up the carpet."
Jakob pulled off his right boot to inspect the sole. It was already dry and brittle from
years of wear, and now black soot covered the bottom. He rubbed it with his palm, and then
turned his hand over to look.
"Don't you think it about time you got a new pair?"
"Nah," said Jakob, pulling it back on. "Just got these broken in."
Ruth shook her head and plopped onto the bed, its springs creaking beneath her. Her eyes
grazed the floor. "What was it, an old love letter?"
Jakob kicked the unburned piece under his bed. Ruth had never seen the envelopes their
parents' letters arrived in, and he wanted to keep it that way. That had been Granny's intention for
all of them. It was by accident that he found one.
"You aren't gonna tell me, are ya?" she said in response to his silence.
"Nope." He smiled and sat beside her, then pushed against the bed frame with his foot,
scooting himself back against the wall. "Why are you still up?" he asked through a yawn.
"I wanted to talk to you. I didn't expect to catch you burning stuff. I thought you learned
your lesson after lighting up Momma's curtains with your magnifying glass."
"I was ten, and it was an accident. Joe and I were aiming for the spider. We weren't
thinkin' about what was underneath."
"You weren't thinkin' period."
He wrinkled his brow. "Did you come to talk to me, Ruthie, or just give me grief?"
Ruth sighed and dropped her head. "Can't help it. It's so easy." She lifted her eyes and
smiled. "So, are ya nervous?"
"What do you think?" His lips spread into a thin line.
"It's just one year. Shoot, not even that. Just nine months."
Jakob had been telling himself the same thing most of the day. He'd been through tougher
times -- far more humiliating. Still, he didn't relish the idea of being a grown man stuck in a
room full of teenagers day in and day out -- with the exception of Ruthie, who he was stuck with
on a daily basis anyway.
Not that she couldn't be downright irritating, but he gave it right back. That's how they
got along.
"I just want to hurry and get it over with. Then I can get out of here."
"Well pardon me, Mr. High-hat. Didn't realize we were making you so miserable."
"That's not what I meant, Ruthie." He gazed at her through tired eyes. "Aren't you soured
on this place?"
Ruth scooted back next to him. She pressed her lips together, taking time to answer. "It's
home. Always has been, always will be."
"I don't see how it's ever gonna be the same."
"There's been a war, Jakob. Nothin's the same." She shrugged. "For anyone."
Faces flickered in his mind; crying, grieving, angry -- especially angry. But how's a
person supposed to act when they lose a loved one in war? And when folks who look and sound
a lot like the enemy live close by?
He, and his brothers and sisters sounded Texan through and through, but the German
language poured from his parents' mouths without thought. They couldn't help it. It was their
native tongue. Even when they spoke English, their accents gave them away.
Ruthie was right. Nothing was the same. And everyone was trying to heal.
"I know what's bugging ya," Ruth said. "But don't be so proud. Lots of GIs came back
and had to finish high school."
"War's been over for two years. I think they're done."
"Well not all of them came home the next day. Marsha Henderson's brother just
graduated last May. Of course, he was kind of a blockhead. Failed a couple of years. I guess they
felt that handing him a diploma was a little too generous. They did let him skip a grade." Ruth
pulled up a knee and interlaced her fingers around it. "But her cousin shipped out half way
through his senior year, and he didn't have to finish at all. They just handed him a diploma for
serving."
"Too bad I didn't serve." Jakob bit at his lower lip, his gaze wondering. "Ya think I'll be
the oldest one in our class?"
"Out for three years?" Ruth exclaimed. "Yeah. But don't worry big brother, you don't
look your age."
"Very funny."
"Well, look at it this way," Ruth said. "None of the girls will remember what a goon you
were."
"Thanks for the moral support."
"You're welcome."
"So you came to give me a pep talk, huh?"
"Well," Ruth shrugged, "not really."
Her expression became solemn, withdrawn, and Jakob knew she was contemplating her
words of concern. Don't start this again...please!
"I just wanted to tell you that we're okay. You can stop worrying."
"I'm not worried, Ruthie."
"Liar."
"I'm not. At least I'm tryin' not to." He leaned his head against the wall. "You're right. I
know you're right. It's over. Everything is going good now, thanks to Joe."
Ruth shook her head. "Why won't you let me do this?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm trying to thank you, Jakob. I know what you gave up."
"Aw Ruthie, stop it." He pushed himself off the wall toward the edge of the bed. "Don't
go getting all sissy on me. Joe's the hero. Thank him."
"I know he's a hero, Jakob. Good grief, who doesn't? He's not the one who stayed,
though. He didn't keep a roof over our heads, so I'm thankin' you. If you'll let me." She scooted
next to him. "Will you let me?"
Jakob sighed. There wasn't much point in protesting. She'd just keep on. He gave her a
gentle nod.
"Thank you." She quickly sat back and grinned, looking way too pleased at her victory.
"It's late. You need to go to bed," he said.
Ruth chuckled. "Okay, but I have one request?"
"What's that?"
"Now that we're both seniors in high school, will you quit acting like you're my dad?"
Ruthie was too much, but Jakob knew how to best his sister in a battle of wits. Brute
force. "Well, that does it!" He took his pillow from beside him and smacked her in the side of the
head.
Ruth eyes bulged, and then she grabbed it and started tugging. "Okay... okay," she said,
laughing. "I'm going."
He relaxed his grip on the pillow, expecting her to let go. But instead she pulled it away,
and swatted him right back in the face -- hard. Ouch. Then she dashed for the door, squealing.
Jakob stood with a lean, like he was going after her, but as soon as the door closed he slumped
back onto his bed.
He had unfinished business.
Jakob placed a palm on the splintery floor, and knelt from the edge of his bed to peer
underneath. The envelope rested just beyond the bed's frame. Burnt pieces flaked away as he
lifted it. It was only a third of its original size. He turned it over to see what was left.
AIL, in bold red letters -- most of the M was missing. It was suddenly so... meaningless.
AIL? That could be anything. He ran through the alphabet, listing possibilities: ail, bail, fail, hail,
jail -- skip mail -- nail, pail. He could go on for awhile -- especially if he went for two-syllable
words. Jakob found himself laughing.
He picked up the ash bucket and set it beside him. Then he went searching for the
matches. They were lying on the floor. Thank goodness they hadn't got wrapped up in the
blanket and ignited all at once. That would have been bad. He pulled one out and struck it.
"Good riddance," he said, and finished what he'd set out to do.

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