This article was originally posted by Margaret River Press and has be reproduced with their kind permission. Please head over to their Facebook page for more great insights.
My grandfather was ordered to report to a work camp. “When soldiers come looking for your father,” my grandmother told her children, “Tell them you don’t know where he is.” Even though he would be above them, hiding from the Nazis in the tight, dark space between the nailed down floor boards of the second floor and the ceiling of the first. Sweating, cold and the spiders running over his feet in the dark. The day the soldiers came she stared at their shiny boots, praying that the children would remember their lies and that the soldiers would not notice the wood dust beneath her bitten nails.