Photo Short Story

She reminded him of his mother.

They looked absolutely nothing alike, but there was something about the lines of her face. The crinkles around the eyes that spoke of time spent laughing and squinting into the sun. The lines of her forehead and mouth, speaking of worry and loss, and patience.

When he looked into her eyes he was almost overwhelmed by the sudden wave of homesickness. They were such motherly eyes.

But this woman was smiling, as were the young man and woman coming up behind her, who he presumed were her children, so he smiled back.

The woman started to speak, a language he didn’t understand. French, maybe? He knew only one word of French, the one that meant hello, but he had been told he pronounced it badly, like “bone-jer.” So, instead of risking offending them, he stuck with English.

“Hello,” he said. “Do you speak English?” The woman shook her head, looking confused.

He tried to act out what he wanted to tell them; pointing at himself and his army uniform, miming knocking on a door, giving a thumbs up. They looked even more confused, though the son was grinning now, clearly holding laughter back.

He looked around for help, but the street was a small back one, and nobody else was on it. He pointed at them, gave them a thumbs up then a thumbs down, and looked questioningly at them.

They just kept sating at him, then the daughter said something quietly in French, and understanding dawned on her mother’s face. She nodded at him, then smiled, saying a silent “we’re fine, thank you,” which he understood perfectly.

He smiled back, nodded, and stepped away to go on to the next house and see if those people were alright too.

The recent German occupation had left scars on this small town, and some of the soldiers had been sent to check on its inhabitants.

The soldier was fairly certain that this small town was in France, but after two years in this war he places had all melded together. Besides, he had never been good at geography, or school in general. His sister was the smart one.

When he got to the end of the street, the soldier glanced back at the house with the motherly woman, and saw her still standing in the door, watching him leave.

He turned and continued to walk away, wondering about that family. The son looked almost old enough to enlist, and he couldn’t help wondering how that would change his mother’s face. Would the worry lines become more pronounced than the laugh lines? Would she still look so kindly at a strange soldier boy?

When this war ended and the soldier went home – when, not if, because if he allowed himself to be less than certain he worried he may go mad – what would be waiting for him? When he thought of home, he always thought of snowball fights with his sister, and his mother singing while she washed the dishes. How would that have changed by the time he went home?

The soldier couldn’t help hoping that, whatever else this war had done, it hadn’t sucked the laughter from the lives of those he loved.