In Memory, page 1
In Memory
Heather Graham
Slush Pile
Copyright © 2026 Heather Graham
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Connie Perry
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
In Memory
Even in the darkest hours, a ray of light might slip through.
The second great world war—World War II--is coming to an end. Russian forces are closing in from the east, Allied forces from the west.
But those in concentration camps still live in terror; they fear their fate as those who would save them press to reach them. Yes, there is hope on the horizon, too, but for those still prisoners, their fate is unknown. Will their captors merely run, or will they do all the damage that they might before that time?
When eighteen-year-old Rachel Levy is called by her mentor within the camp, Hank Fisk, to slip quickly through the broken electrified fence he has been ordered to repair, she is torn. Since she and many other children and teens had been brought into the camp, Hank had given them his own food when they were all but starved, warned them what to do and not do, and been far more than a friend. Her own father and mother and she had been torn apart. But Hank is insisting she slip away and run, hide in the forests and move westward, always westward. If she was caught, she mustn’t lie—that might be a death sentence. But if she could reach the American or any of the Allied forces . . .
She just might survive.
Rachel runs.
And runs.
Ever westward! Surviving in the forest. Until the day the grass and shrubbery part before her and she knows she’s been found.
But Hank had warned her.
The truth. Blurt out the truth.
And somehow, the truth will change her world.
In Memory
Heather Graham
“You must go, hurry, now, while there’s a chance!”
Rachel Levy looked at Hank Fisk and shook her head.
Since she’d been herded into the camp about four years ago, Hank had been everything to her, father, friend, and advisor. He was an incredible man, taking harsh punishments himself rather than letting them fall to any of the children at the camp. Labor could mean hauling boxes and equipment; some of the men were culled to work on construction expansions or repairs. There was work in the kitchen, though the food that reached the prisoners was scarce.
Hank wasn’t even Jewish. He’d been brought here—and you didn’t need to charge a person with anything, with any kind of a crime—because he’d hidden a Jewish family in his basement.
And been caught.
Somehow, he was still an amazing human being, accepting whatever befell him as he continued to try to help others.
He was almost a skeleton of a man because he would give his tiny food allotment to a child.
Hank was a German. He just wasn’t a Nazi. And they talked sometimes so Rachel knew there were many good German people and maybe, just maybe, with help they could rise against the horror that was Hitler’s regime.
For the meantime, he accepted his lot. Took what came to him.
Often, because he was still determined to help others. He had given her his food when she’d first been brought here, a terrified sixteen-year-old, just separated from her parents. And he advised her on how to stay low, how to avoid the assaults and the beatings that might come too easily to a young girl becoming a woman.
And punishments could be harsh—except, of course, for what could be much worse. Being sent to the gas chamber or lined up in the yard for a mass shooting.
And that might happen at any time no matter what a prisoner’s behavior. Rachel had been forced to dig mass gravesites for one of her labors, after being made to watch the executions of dozens of Russian prisoners.
But even here, news could travel.
And there was word the Allied forces were moving in, Americans, Brits, and others from the west, Russians from the east.
The camp was surrounded by electrified barbed wire and high towers.
But things were finally going badly for the Nazi regime. It was April, Rachel believed, in 1945. And they heard their captors talking to one another sometimes. Maybe, just maybe, the horror could come to an end.
One of the electric fences was down and there were prisoners designated to fix it.
Hank was among them. And she had been on water duty.
The workers were being given water.
They didn’t get a task done if they simply fell flat and died from dehydration.
“Go! Go now! Get into the brush and head toward the west. Stay down, stay low, hide in the weeds. Don’t let insects or other creatures freak you out. And . . .”
Hank paused for a minute.
“Hank?”
“And if you’re caught, admit it. Admit that you’re Jewish. Lying apparently is the worst thing you can do. You can be a great actress, I know. If they catch you, admit that you’re Jewish; say that you got all confused and lost when you were trying to help at the fence. They . . . well, if you’re caught, be honest that you’re Jewish, and lie like hell about being lost. And now, go! You must go!”
“But I can’t leave you, Hank! I can’t—”
“You must! And we will find one another, one day!” he told her.
She still wasn’t moving. He smiled and gave her a shove, pushing her out where there were trees and a mass of shrubbery just feet away.
It wasn’t something that usually bothered anyone in charge.
The electric fence usually took care of those who thought they might escape. One zap and . . .
It was an electric fence. An escaping prisoner was electrified.
But not today.
She was outside of the fence; she could see Hank was dutifully working as he’d been ordered.
And guards were coming. If she was caught there, then Hank would be blamed.
And at this point of the war . . .
Hank would probably be shot right where he stood, right by the fence. Now.
And so, she ran.
She ran hard and quickly dipped low and hurried into the thick grasses, the ferns, shrubs, and towering trees.
West.
Which way was west.
She tried to remember the layout of the camp to get her bearings. Things wouldn’t go well for her, she knew, if she was seen, if she was caught. She was just eighteen now, very slim, naturally, but strong, she reminded herself—forced manual labor made one strong. But she was wearing a prison uniform. If she was found as she was . . .
She couldn’t be found. And because Hank had managed to show her so much, she looked up to the sky.
She looked at the sun and at its position. And she even managed to smile to herself. Everyone knew that the sun set in the west. And it was going lower in the sky now; she was lucky. It would soon be dusk and then darkness would fall in earnest, and she could keep going west, west, west!
But if she was seen in this clothing, would anyone who saw her shoot her on sight?
Well, she couldn’t run around naked, either.
Prisoners didn’t have names, as far as command was concerned.
She had a number, sewn to her dull and dirty beige shirt.
And anyone would know what that number meant.
But if she happened upon someone, would that someone start screaming and raise an alarm?
She didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Hank had told her to move west. And she was moving west.
Don’t be afraid of bugs. Think. Think. Think. Dachau was a town in Bavaria. It was about eighteen miles northwest of Munich. So, if she kept moving, moving . . .
She almost laughed out loud. She was strong, yes, but if she could remember her schooling and everything that Hank had taught her, she was only about two-hundred and twenty miles from the French border.
But even if she reached France, what was happening there? Were the allied forces and the resistance enough to help her, to . . .
To let her live?
She moved and moved and moved, crawling over tree roots, pushing her way through bushes. Down the hill, following the sun.
She found a patch of berries and hoped they weren’t poisonous.
No! Not poisonous! She didn’t know much about all the things that might grow in this wilderness she’d discovered, but she knew strawberries when she saw them! And these were wild strawberries.
She forced herself not to eat too quickly, and not to eat too much.
Thankfully, being half-starved allowed her to use self-control now.
And, thankfully, she found a little pond! She had some clean water to drink. Okay, it was a little muddy, but . . .
Refreshing, delicious!
One problem. She didn’t know how far she had come; she’d stayed clear of roads, of anything that looked like there might be a neighborhood . . . people.
And the sun was going down.
From the pond, she could see a row of dispersed houses. She needed to get past them to get back into woods where she could keep going west. Slip toward the rear, the far rear, and move . . . move . . . move . . .
She started running across the back lots. And then, to her horror, at the far end, she saw a door was open.
A woman was standing by the back door of her house with a basket, preparing to take her clothes down from a line. She appeared to be forty or so, a pretty lady with soft blond hair wearing a simple cotton day dress.
They were at a distance, but Rachel knew the woman was staring at her as she was staring at the woman.
She froze because the woman began to move. She wasn’t heading into the house, rather she dropped the basket and headed to the clothesline. She pulled down a few objects and headed to the back of the yard.
She waved, blew a kiss, and made the sign of a cross on her chest.
And she headed back into her house.
For a minute, Rachel remained frozen. And then she realized the woman might be terrified of helping an escapee from a prison camp, but she was doing what she could despite her fear.
She was leaving clothing for Rachel. Clothing so that she could discard her prisoner garb.
She started to move again.
But the back door opened and she froze.
The woman came forward and left something with the clothing before hurrying back into the house.
And when Rachel moved again, she discovered the woman had left her a long dress—a little big, but nice enough, long-sleeved against the chill of the night—a sweater, and even undergarments.
And something else.
A loaf of fresh baked bread.
She noted the house. If she lived—if the war ever came to an end and she survived she would find a way to pay back the extreme kindness.
Back in the woods!
And surrounded by trees and brushes, she discarded her horrible outfit and gratefully stepped into the clothing that had been given to her.
The sweater was especially nice.
And the bread! The deliciousness of the bread was beyond description. She made herself save a few bites for the coming morning because . . .
Because it was now so dark she didn’t dare try to get any further. There were creatures in the trees, she knew. Some friendly birds, but . . .
There might also be wolves out at night, seeking prey in the darkness.
So . . .
She searched about her surroundings as best she could and at last found a tree with heavy branches that were both high enough from the ground—and low enough in case she fell.
She crawled up to her bed for the night.
At first, of course, she didn’t sleep.
They would know now she was gone. They would wonder how.
She prayed they wouldn’t blame Hank.
And maybe . . .
Maybe they were too worried about the Allied Forces moving in from all areas so they couldn’t dwell too much about the disappearance of just one eighteen-year-old girl.
Hardly a danger to them!
They couldn’t afford to send men out looking for her!
But Hank . . .
And the others! If the Allied Forces were coming in, what would they do to the prisoners?
She couldn’t think about it; she couldn’t allow herself the luxury of worrying about friends when she so needed to rest to make her way in the morning!
Especially, of course, since she didn’t have a map.
All she knew was . . . west!
Eventually she was so exhausted she did sleep. And she woke when she first felt the sun against her eyelids and heard the chirping of birds.
Morning, yes, morning, and she needed to be on her way. Thank God for the kindly woman! She’d had been able to change to clean clothes. And her clothing wouldn’t scream “escapee” if she was seen.
The bread!
She finished the last bites of her delicious bread. And then it was time to start heading toward the west once again.
What did she do when she got somewhere?
And where was somewhere?
She needed to find American or Allied soldiers, tell them where she was from and ask them where an eighteen-year-old girl who had been in a concentration camp for the last two years should go, what she should do.
She spent so much time praying that her parents were alive.
But she had no idea where they had been taken or why their captors had determined they needed to be separated. She remembered the day when they’d been grabbed . . . a group of kids playing together with their parents just behind doors because they came from a neighborhood where all parents watched all the kids. Then . . .
Soldiers were everywhere.
Dragging parents from their homes, collecting terrified kids . . .
Finding out who was who, separating them and sending them off in different directions.
It wouldn’t help her now to dwell on the past.
Think happy thoughts! She told herself.
But she was hard pressed to come up with any.
She trailed along a stream for a while, grateful for the fresh water—and this water
better than the last and not muddy at all!
But then . . .
She heard a tremendous commotion coming from beyond the trees, from the road. Trucks, men, marching . . . shouts.
And so, she found a place to hide. There were rocks rising above the stream and a lot of the area by them heavily covered with shrubbery. She found a crevice in the rocks and pulled some of the grass and brush around her.
And she held still.
So still.
But she heard footsteps, men shouting, grass crunching and more as it seemed that a horde of men were now marching through the little area by the stream, shouting out to each other . . .
What language, what language? She wasn’t sure. She’d had English in school, Hank had taught her more, and she thought they might be speaking English . . .
But someone else shouted something in French.
And she even heard German!
What was going on?
She tried to peer around the grass. She wondered if she needed to move.
To run.
Too late!
As she pulled at the grass, someone else did the same from the other side.
And there was a man staring at her. He was young, clean-shaven, had crew-cut hair, he was wearing a uniform . . .
What uniform?
All she could think of at that moment were the words Hank had told her that she must use if she was caught.
“Juden! I am Juden!” she cried. More, she had to say more, that a fence had been broken and that she was lost . . .
The soldier smiled at her.
“Juden, eh?” he said. “Me, too!”
For a moment, she just stared. Fear had taken such root in her that she didn’t realize she had accidentally accomplished her mission.
He was an American soldier, she slowly realized.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he told her. “We’re moving in; we’re not going to hurt you in any way, I swear it. Take my hand, come on out!”
It still took a second. Deeply entrenched fear wasn’t easy to dispel.
But she took his hand.
He drew her to her feet. “Juden,” he said. “So, I’m going to take it that . . . well, you’re wearing normal clothes, not a prisoner’s garb—have you been holding out in these woods through the war?” he asked her incredulously.
Trust didn’t come easily at this point either.
But his friendly face.
His words. He wasn’t trying to trick her; she had started off with the truth, just as Hank had told her to do.
She shook her head at last. “There was a broken fence at the camp. My friend was once an electrician; he was ordered to be on the crew to fix it. He made me—I mean, he helped me—escape. I’m so scared for him. He’s not even Jewish, he just kept helping people who were—”
“Let’s hope it ends well. We’ll be moving into that camp and when we do, we’ll find your friend!” he promised her. “We’re moving in that direction, but . . . I need to have someone take you to a place that’s safe. We have a camp—not a concentration camp, I promise--not too far to the west. I’m Laurence, by the way. Laurence Feinstein—just Larry--and I really am Jewish. And that’s okay in the United States and you know what? Unless you get crazy people in charge, it’s okay in most of Europe, too. And you are—”
