Promise us, our men said on leaving, that if… when they arrive, you will kill yourselves before they have you.
We promised; we’d heard the rumours.
With little to do but wait, we huddled for warmth, and speculated on alternatives.
I, with others, ended up ‘working’ our front line, gaining trust, while our older shaven-headed sisters concealed the children and baked up a storm.
I’ll draw a veil over those days, but as we gained the invaders’ trust, filling their glasses, feeding them bread and cakes, we justified our brief complicity.
We hope our menfolk will, when… if they return.
Thanks to Rochelle for all she does for Friday Fictioneers. If you have a story to tell, and can do it in a hundred words, why not join us?