“The Kiernans have six, you know. Two of their own and four nieces and nephews. And they’re all beautiful. I decided I simply had to do whatever I could to help.”
“Wow, six is impressive,” Werner remarked politely. “My hat goes off to the parents. Back when our girls were at the Academy, I recall that the average number of children per family in Concord was less than 1.5. Maybe the pendulum is finally swinging the other way.”
“Oh, no, it’s not that couples are having more children. Heavens, no. What has happened is that more families have chosen to take in children from their extended families or churches or local communities. Without foster care or the welfare bureaucracy to fall back on, good people have finally stopped looking the other way.”
Werner nodded respectfully. He thought of the children of the prisoners he had known at Kamas and Mactung and pondered how many of them would ever be so fortunate as to live with a family like the Kiernans in the house at 50 Middle Street in Concord.
Nancy opened the cellar door for Werner, switched on the light in the stairwell and excused herself to brew some tea. With that, Werner began carrying the cases of liquor out of the cellar and into the van. In little more than an hour the van was loaded. When he returned from the van to tidy up the cellar, he found a rolled up rug leaning against the cellar door, each end tied with twine. Next to it was what appeared to be a case of Gordon’s Gin.
Werner carried both downstairs, then untied the twine at each end of the rug and unrolled it. Inside was a fleece-lined leather rifle case. His face flushed with excitement and his fingers trembled as he unzipped it and removed an engraved Browning Mark II Safari semi-automatic hunting rifle with attached scope. He worked the action to verify that it was unloaded, aimed across the room, and squeezed the trigger. It was a beautiful rifle, in mint condition, with a solid feel to it and the smell of gun oil. blued steel and polished walnut. He returned it to its case, rolled it up in the rug and retied the ends with twine.
Next Werner opened the case of Gordon’s with a box cutter. Inside was a second cardboard carton containing four boxes of Remington .308 ammunition, two boxes of .45-caliber pistol ammunition, a gun-cleaning kit, a leather rifle sling and a military-issue Colt Model 1911 self-loading pistol zippered inside a fleece-lined soft case. Werner removed the pistol, ejected the magazine, jacked back the slide to ensure that no round was in the chamber and then felt the thud as he released the slide. With a smile of satisfaction, he took aim at an empty wine bottle across the room and heard the hammer click on an empty chamber.
Today’s bounty was no coincidence, he thought, as he repacked the cardboard cartons. In the camps it was axiomatic that coincidences did not exist. Every prisoner learned that, when the margin of survival is razor-thin, even the most insignificant event carries a meaning. Werner pondered the meaning of someone as unlikely as Nancy Widmer offering him unregistered weapons and ammunition seemingly out of the blue. Then he carried the rug and the Gordon’s box quietly back to the van.
Upon his return, he found Nancy in the kitchen, where she was waiting with a pitcher of freshly brewed iced tea. He sat at the table while she poured out two glasses. But before drinking he took an envelope from his shirt pocket and placed it on the table.
“I rounded up to the nearest hundred,” he announced. “Will the new total be all right?”
Nancy grasped his free hand in hers and thanked him.
“And now I have something for you,” she added eagerly. “A bit of news,” she added.
Werner waited for more.
“I received a visit last night from Monica Cogan. She told me you had called on her last week. She also said she was rude to you and wanted to apologize. But you should not call upon her again. You see, she is in a difficult
“Wow, six is impressive,” Werner remarked politely. “My hat goes off to the parents. Back when our girls were at the Academy, I recall that the average number of children per family in Concord was less than 1.5. Maybe the pendulum is finally swinging the other way.”
“Oh, no, it’s not that couples are having more children. Heavens, no. What has happened is that more families have chosen to take in children from their extended families or churches or local communities. Without foster care or the welfare bureaucracy to fall back on, good people have finally stopped looking the other way.”
Werner nodded respectfully. He thought of the children of the prisoners he had known at Kamas and Mactung and pondered how many of them would ever be so fortunate as to live with a family like the Kiernans in the house at 50 Middle Street in Concord.
Nancy opened the cellar door for Werner, switched on the light in the stairwell and excused herself to brew some tea. With that, Werner began carrying the cases of liquor out of the cellar and into the van. In little more than an hour the van was loaded. When he returned from the van to tidy up the cellar, he found a rolled up rug leaning against the cellar door, each end tied with twine. Next to it was what appeared to be a case of Gordon’s Gin.
Werner carried both downstairs, then untied the twine at each end of the rug and unrolled it. Inside was a fleece-lined leather rifle case. His face flushed with excitement and his fingers trembled as he unzipped it and removed an engraved Browning Mark II Safari semi-automatic hunting rifle with attached scope. He worked the action to verify that it was unloaded, aimed across the room, and squeezed the trigger. It was a beautiful rifle, in mint condition, with a solid feel to it and the smell of gun oil. blued steel and polished walnut. He returned it to its case, rolled it up in the rug and retied the ends with twine.
Next Werner opened the case of Gordon’s with a box cutter. Inside was a second cardboard carton containing four boxes of Remington .308 ammunition, two boxes of .45-caliber pistol ammunition, a gun-cleaning kit, a leather rifle sling and a military-issue Colt Model 1911 self-loading pistol zippered inside a fleece-lined soft case. Werner removed the pistol, ejected the magazine, jacked back the slide to ensure that no round was in the chamber and then felt the thud as he released the slide. With a smile of satisfaction, he took aim at an empty wine bottle across the room and heard the hammer click on an empty chamber.
Today’s bounty was no coincidence, he thought, as he repacked the cardboard cartons. In the camps it was axiomatic that coincidences did not exist. Every prisoner learned that, when the margin of survival is razor-thin, even the most insignificant event carries a meaning. Werner pondered the meaning of someone as unlikely as Nancy Widmer offering him unregistered weapons and ammunition seemingly out of the blue. Then he carried the rug and the Gordon’s box quietly back to the van.
Upon his return, he found Nancy in the kitchen, where she was waiting with a pitcher of freshly brewed iced tea. He sat at the table while she poured out two glasses. But before drinking he took an envelope from his shirt pocket and placed it on the table.
“I rounded up to the nearest hundred,” he announced. “Will the new total be all right?”
Nancy grasped his free hand in hers and thanked him.
“And now I have something for you,” she added eagerly. “A bit of news,” she added.
Werner waited for more.
“I received a visit last night from Monica Cogan. She told me you had called on her last week. She also said she was rude to you and wanted to apologize. But you should not call upon her again. You see, she is in a difficult
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