When I started this blog, I was reaching out for moral support after my breast cancer diagnosis. When I wanted to quit writing, my surgeon told me she thought it was helping a lot of people. So I’ve stuck with blogging. It’s been tough to do since the chemotherapy regimen began. I’ve been vertical two days out of the past ten.
I keep thinking about the main character in my novel, The Still Voice. Sophia contracts scarlet fever at a regional sports fest in 1941. Highly contagious, she winds up in the hospital over Easter. This is the scene with Sophia in the hospital during the holiday. Her mother Brigitte, and sister Petra, have come to visit. Sophia is trying not to feel sorry for herself:
They both looked so pretty, Brigitte in her blue knit suit and Petra in her apple green dress with lace collar and cuffs. Sophia squinted through the tempered glass to bring them into better focus.
“Happy Easter, honey,” said her mama. “We brought you something. The nurse will bring it in to you.” She held up a basket brimming with colorful eggs.
Squinting, Sophia could make out a stuffed rabbit and an oversized lavender bow. Easter was the second most important holiday in Germany, after Christmas, and one of her favorites. She thought of the year they’d spent it at Petra’s, sitting in a kitchen filled with crocuses and daffodils, learning how to decorate eggs with liquid wax. Afterward, when they’d dyed the eggs, the wax designs had popped out against the richly colored shells.
“Did you go to church?” she asked.
“We went to the Marktkirche,” said Petra. “We said a prayer for everyone. My prayer for Hans was already answered, of course. He’s been transferred to the campaign in Greece. Much safer. I’m so relieved. We miss you. How are . . .”
“The organ in the Marktkirche is so beautiful,” said Brigitte. “You can hear it loud, and with the choir . . .”
Petra peered through the door at her sister. “How’re you feeling, Sophia?”
“I’m getting better. Where are you having lunch?”
The answer was as she’d expected. The family would gather at the home of her brother’s in-laws. She tried to refocus, not feel sorry for herself. “We had to hide in the basement when the bomb fell. Did you see where it landed?”
Brigitte pinched her lips together. “Near the train station. Couple of houses were slightly damaged. No one was hurt.”
Sophia recognized the look in her mother’s eye. She wasn’t being truthful about no one being hurt. No matter, she doubted she was ready for the truth.
“Sis, are you listening to me?” Petra interrupted her thoughts. “When you’re released, you’ll come stay with me in Wieseck. The country air will be good for you. Would you like that?”
She nodded. “I’d like that. After I finish school.”
“Of course,” smiled her mama.
Her visitors chatted a while longer and wished her a full recovery. Then the nurse brought in her basket, and Brigitte and Petra disappeared down the long corridor to the stairs.
Sophia set her gift on a tray at the foot of her bed and walked to the window. Four floors below, she saw her mother and sister standing on the patio near the hospital fountain. They waved and blew kisses. She waved in return, her cheeks wet with tears. It was Easter, and they both looked so pretty.
I keep thinking about the main character in my novel, The Still Voice. Sophia contracts scarlet fever at a regional sports fest in 1941. Highly contagious, she winds up in the hospital over Easter. This is the scene with Sophia in the hospital during the holiday. Her mother Brigitte, and sister Petra, have come to visit. Sophia is trying not to feel sorry for herself:
They both looked so pretty, Brigitte in her blue knit suit and Petra in her apple green dress with lace collar and cuffs. Sophia squinted through the tempered glass to bring them into better focus.
“Happy Easter, honey,” said her mama. “We brought you something. The nurse will bring it in to you.” She held up a basket brimming with colorful eggs.
Squinting, Sophia could make out a stuffed rabbit and an oversized lavender bow. Easter was the second most important holiday in Germany, after Christmas, and one of her favorites. She thought of the year they’d spent it at Petra’s, sitting in a kitchen filled with crocuses and daffodils, learning how to decorate eggs with liquid wax. Afterward, when they’d dyed the eggs, the wax designs had popped out against the richly colored shells.
“Did you go to church?” she asked.
“We went to the Marktkirche,” said Petra. “We said a prayer for everyone. My prayer for Hans was already answered, of course. He’s been transferred to the campaign in Greece. Much safer. I’m so relieved. We miss you. How are . . .”
“The organ in the Marktkirche is so beautiful,” said Brigitte. “You can hear it loud, and with the choir . . .”
Petra peered through the door at her sister. “How’re you feeling, Sophia?”
“I’m getting better. Where are you having lunch?”
The answer was as she’d expected. The family would gather at the home of her brother’s in-laws. She tried to refocus, not feel sorry for herself. “We had to hide in the basement when the bomb fell. Did you see where it landed?”
Brigitte pinched her lips together. “Near the train station. Couple of houses were slightly damaged. No one was hurt.”
Sophia recognized the look in her mother’s eye. She wasn’t being truthful about no one being hurt. No matter, she doubted she was ready for the truth.
“Sis, are you listening to me?” Petra interrupted her thoughts. “When you’re released, you’ll come stay with me in Wieseck. The country air will be good for you. Would you like that?”
She nodded. “I’d like that. After I finish school.”
“Of course,” smiled her mama.
Her visitors chatted a while longer and wished her a full recovery. Then the nurse brought in her basket, and Brigitte and Petra disappeared down the long corridor to the stairs.
Sophia set her gift on a tray at the foot of her bed and walked to the window. Four floors below, she saw her mother and sister standing on the patio near the hospital fountain. They waved and blew kisses. She waved in return, her cheeks wet with tears. It was Easter, and they both looked so pretty.
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