...my mother's miracle in World War II

I was a young girl of fourteen, standing in the execution line. The Nazis hadn't even raised their rifles yet when I felt the warm urine drip down the inside of my thighs. Weeks of starvation prevented my body from releasing anything more. Terror replaced the embarrassment.

I couldn't see my father or brother. They were all I had left. We were separated miles back when captured by a small company of German soldiers. They thought we were guerrilla fighters - part of the Resistance. In truth, we were just a small band of pathetic, weary peasants trying to leave our country on foot. We were all sick of the war.

Everything was lost: our cows, sheep, corn, wheat, land. My older sister was killed only months before by soldiers from another village, not the Nazis this time. Our land was filled with enemies from within and without - the king's men from the south, Nazis from the north, and Communists everywhere. Each party tempted the people of this miserable time with their own propaganda for a better life, yet everywhere around me, death leered from its empty skull, whitened into eternity by the dead souls before us.

Gone were the toys and animals of my childhood, replaced with the routine, frantic scrambling up to the hills and forests behind our home. Whenever the shooting sounded too close, we grabbed whatever food was on the table, whatever amounts of water we could carry, and we ran, like deer, for cover. Sometimes we spent days up there, praying we wouldn't freeze to death with just the clothes on our backs.

One day, up in those hills, nestled among our beloved trees and on  ground covered with only pine needles for a mattress, my mother died. I think her heart simply broke. I was glad she wasn't here to see me on this day.

The soldiers were getting into position. I knew all of the people in the execution line. They were neighbors and friends, comfortable faces I grew up with.

Like most of the girls of my time, the girls who learned to milk cows before they learned to read, I looked older. I looked like a woman. Yet, the child I really was sobbed uncontrollably in fear.

It was quiet, except for my horrible screams and pathetic baying. But I didn't care. I was too young to be proud. Not understanding God's nature, nor seeking His miracle, I cried out to my dead mother instead, beseeching her to part the clouds and carry me away in her arms, far away from this place.  Mama, please save me.

The captain of the German squad sauntered up to direct his chosen murderers to begin the slaughter. Ice flowed in my veins.

I darted wildly out of the line. The young are brave in their ignorance. Falling at the captain's feet and grabbing his legs like a crazed animal, I screamed and begged for my life.  I didn't understand German, nor he my language, but the world stood still for a moment in time. Perhaps he was a father...an uncle...a brother.  Whatever his inspiration was for compassion that day, I'll never know.

He lifted me to my feet and walked me away from the execution line. A minute later, the shots rang out. My life was spared for another day. From that moment forward, I learned to walk with Hope and Death, hand in hand.