The Boy in the Box -- award-winning short story

Earlier this year, I entered a short story contest held by the Firecracker Department. https://www.facebook.com/firecrackerdept

The task was to write a story about heroes with a maximum of 500 words. The story had to include either a potato or a license plate, and it could be in any genre.

I almost didn't enter because I thought I had no chance of winning against professional screenwriters and the like. The day before the deadline, I decided to go for it. And I'm glad I did, because I won! The results came out months ago, but I only now thought about posting it because I’m so good at self-promotion. (Sarcasm)

Presenting The Boy in the Box, based on the real life heroics of Irena Sendler.

Shivering, the mother hugged herself, her bony fingers digging into the white armband, her ragged nails scratching at the blue star. “He will be safe?” Tears cut riverbeds along her sunken cheeks. Vessels of sadness.

The infant felt impossibly light in Janina’s arms. “Not if he remains here. This I guarantee.” How many times had Janina uttered these words? To how many desperate families? She wished she could assure them of the infallibility of the forged paperwork, identifying their children as Catholic, but she would not lie.

His face grim, the father placed an arm around his wife’s frail shoulders, a sack of smuggled potatoes gripped tightly in his other hand. Even the peels would be eaten. “Lidia. Before we are missed.”

    Janina remained stoic as the Orlevs gave their son a final kiss and slipped out the door into the misery of the ghetto. A gust of icy wind carried their sobs, overcoming the sedative in the baby’s system long enough for his lashes to flutter and a brief wail to escape his blue-tinged lips. Janina’s tears would come later, in the safety of her home. “I am sorry, little one.” She placed him at the bottom of the same box in which she’d concealed the potatoes, covered him with medical supplies and files, and closed the lid. Beside her, Simcha whined, tapped her with a paw. “I know, boy. It never gets easier.”

Janina wound her scarf around her neck, slid her gloves on her hands, and opened the door, bracing herself for the swirling snow. At least the weather tempered the stench of disease and decay.

With Simcha’s lead in one hand, she pushed the trolley into the alley and began the trek towards the gate, past starving orphans and dead bodies. Her heart raced as the wall loomed ever closer, its barbed wire like bared teeth, swastika flags snapping. There was shouting as she joined the queue. A man, arguing with the guards.

“Enough.” A gunshot rang out.

    As the man crumpled, the child stirred, the faint whimper sounding to Janina as loud as an air raid siren. A whispered command, and Simcha began barking.

“You.” Gun in hand, the murderous guard strode towards her. “What have you got there?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over Simcha.

Somehow, Janina’s hand remained steady as she handed him her papers. “Medical supplies and records.”

He took a step closer to the trolley. “Health Department?”

“Epidemic Control.”

He froze, glanced again at the box. Took a step back. “What is wrong with your dog?”

“My apologies. He is excitable and eager to leave.”

The guard snorted. “Lucky dog.” He returned Janina’s papers, his eyes already roving over the next person in line. “Straight home now, miss.”

Janina forced a smile. “Of course.” She pushed the boy past the dead man, through the scarlet on white, and into what she could only pray would be a long life.