DO NOT ERASE! A short story by DeLore Williams DEAR Colonel Von Mitter, I suppose you think it queer, sir, that I write you this way; and, honestly, I'm almost too afraid to begin. But there's something I simply must write you about. I hope you will not deny me audience. You do not know me, Colonel. I am the master of the small brick school house a short way down the street from your military headquarters. You know, sir just next door to the church house. Well, Colonel, many times from my school room windows I have watched you direct your troops in military drill and routine you with your honey-colored uniform and shiny boots, they with their short cropped hair and steel-spring military bearing. From behind their curtains the people have also watched; and that's what I want to write to you about, sir, about the people. For, you see, the people have changed. The way they live it's all so different. I remember well the day you came. It had been a rainy day. The sun was smothered by a murky cloak of dampness. Seeking shelter from the storm, the townspeople had remained in their homes, where cheery fires were made still warmer by the dismal bleat of wind in the chimney. It was about supper - time that you came up the southern road that leads from the river bend, shoes heavy with mud and helmets' tarnished by the miniature rivulets that surged down them. There was resistance nowhere, and you were here to stay. You remember the day, don't you, Colonel? Well, sir, that night I walked in the rain to the town square. I always go there to think, sir; crowding thoughts of my head have a little more room. As I walked past the shops and houses, I thought of the way you came and what you might do. I knew what you had done to other countries, and I shivered all over at the thought of what you might do here. In Austria you had prohibited religious gatherings, taken hostages in Poland, and in Chechoslovakia you went so far as to teach your own customs and culture. I wondered, sir, if you would do that here teach your way of life in our school. But that's all I did do, Colonel, was wonder. And then it happened! Do you remember, Colonel? It was one of those golden Sunday mornings like we always have. With peaceful reassurance, tiny cotton-like fragments of clouD pushed unwillingly toward the horizon; the sun rose like a coiN rubbed new. The townspeople were dressing for churcH AS usual. AUTUMN, 1942 Well, sir, you know how sometimes things seem to be working out better than you ever expected, and you think that everything is going to come out all right? That's about how I felt that morning. But it was too good to last, Colonel. In spite of the fact that the bell in the tower did not call them to worship, the people started out, thinking that "Old Hans" the bell ringer was ill again. Hans is feeble in his old age, sir, and the bell isn't rung as regularly as it once was. Well, upon their arrival at the church, they found the doors securely fastened against them and a squad of soldiers on guard. One of your corporals told the people to return to their homes, for there was to be no church. "Colonel's orders!" he announced. Well, Rob, the butcher's boy, told the corporal that the people didn't mean any harm, that all they wanted to do was worship God like they always did. But the corporal didn't see it that way. He said that no occupation could be completely successful under such conditions, and he sounded like he actually believed it. I'm truly sorry that the corporal made that statement, sir; because the people didn't like it. They were angrier than I have ever seen them before, I think. That's why the corporal was struck in the face and beaten on the church steps. But, he shouldn't have said it, Colonel. All the people have left is their God, and they'll never give him up without a fight. I guess you know that. Well, I suppose you became very angry when they told you of the corporal's beating and the miniature rebellion on the church steps. That night you had hostages taken just in case the corporal died; and the people said you might burn the church, but, then, I guess you needed it for the barracks. That evening, just after supper, when I went to Johann's store on the corner to buy tobacco for my pipe, I first learned that you had taken young Carl Wiess as one of the hostages. Carl is the tall slender one with a nose cherried by too much sun and a single wave pinched in his yellow hair. They say he was the one who struck the corporal in the face; but I can't believe it. I can't believe it, because I know Carl. I've watched Carl study, I've watched him play, I've watched him love! Love ... I guess you wouldn't know too much about that, Colonel. From what I hear your "New Order" doesn't leave much room for sentimentality. Woman is merely a producer oF manpower. The young "Carls" of your nation are taught to regard the girls much as they would a stick of chewing gum-to be enjoyed momentarily but discarded once the "taste" was gone. But we are different, Colonel. We are a people with tree emotions and uncensored passions. That's why I say Carl didn't mean to do what he did; because I know my people. I know Carl. Carl and Marie Grosset sit farthest back in the first and second rows, directly opposite one another, where he hurried glances and "notes" of affection are passed most easily. I'll never forget the time Carl attempted to pass a note to Miss Grosset and in the confusion of trying to conceal it from me, dropped it in the middle of the aisle, just out of Marie's reach where all could see. I watched the scene with much interest as he attempted to push it closer and closer to her with his foot, while she with her nervous blue eyes pretended not to see him and dared not pick it up. They loved each other, Colonel, I hope you can understand that. Does Carl appear to you to be a killer? The morning after you took Carl hostage, little Joseph Austin was late as usual, but the rest were situated in their seats a quarter of an hour before the bell rang. They were quiet. They knew about Carl. Like a room full of rabbits' ears they strained anxiously forward in their seats. It seemed almost as if they wanted words of reassurance from me like those I gave them the morning after twelve-year-old Camille Kotter died of pneumonia last winter. With their mouths twisted in anticipation, they held me captive in their eyes waiting. I stalled for time, having difficulty suppressing my panic during "roll call." The room was getting stuffy. I asked Martin, who sits front seat, first row, to open a window. The eyes in the room still crowded me waiting. From about half way back I heard someone mutter the name "Carl." I looked to the back an empty seat, blue eyes and silent tears directly opposite. For a moment I looked into expectant features, then turned to the window. Your men were marching outside. Then, with awkward desperation: "There will be no class today! Class dismissed!" It was all I could say. Without even half a titter they filed from the room like robots. I was shaking all over. I believe I was afraid. Long after the children have gone, I sit tense at my desk thinking. Your men are marching on the outside, and the people are watching from covered windows. That's why I am writing to you because of the people. They are changing. And so, sir, I write you about my student, Marie. Yours sincerely, WILHELM SCHUMAN. 37