The men were outside the front door. They were looking for the little girl that was presently huddled in the pantry, making herself as small as she could be.
Greta wasn’t going to let them find her.
They wanted her because she was a threat to the country. They were saying that she was illegal and the root of the problems that native-born people were experiencing. All nations were surpassing their own because of her people. Her people were a burden, rapists, insidious in nature.
Greta knew better. She stalled them, delayed as long as she could, but they pushed their way in, waving papers in her face. They assured her that the child would not be harmed, that she would be taken care of. But Greta had heard horrible things.
About the camps. About the abuse. About the deaths.
They went room to room, cavalier in their regard for her belongings. Finally they reached the kitchen. Greta’s heart was in her throat. Her grandfather’s stories echoed through her mind. It was happening again, here.
One reached for the pantry door handle.
Greta reached for her kitchen knife.
Aaron Nieson 