Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Second Part
My father is a damnable man, so I shuck off his rage like the skin off corn.

There were nineteen of us borne to our mother and father. There we were in a Sears and Roebuck home built in the center of Saskatchewan. We piled on each other and yelled and scrapped the whole way through. When my mother couldn't have children anymore after the stillbirth, I was 24 and not a nickel to my name. I begged that old man for 100 acres and damned if he didn't deny me. He said he couldn't afford to take the loss but that was a lie. He spat that lie at me in his thick German. George and I looked at the books one night when my father was asleep. He had the pennies to set us up, George and me. All we wanted were wives and land to farm. But he wouldn't give us that. He wanted us to live and die on his farm without pay, without the company of women, without a chance in the world to stand on our own feet.

When mother adopted the little one off the orphan train and set her to work washing floors and beating rugs, I knew some of my pennies went down the hungry maw of the ingrate. And when my sisters were married off, I know my pennies were packed into their marriage trunks along with all the frippery of weddings. And that bastard still didn't give me my land.

When I went to church, I prayed to God and the Holy Mother to kill him. I imagined him trampled to death beneath the oxen pulling the plow. I saw him keeling into the soil and getting wrapped up in the short roots of wheat and suffocating. I saw myself with an axe...

The winters are so terribly long and dark. Nothing moves for fear of getting colder. The sky gets wider and paler. Look far enough and watch the earth curve to the sides. The land goes dull. Winter is a hard time.

Mother assuaged the little ones with stories of Alsace. She sung German and French songs. But when she started to smile and lose herself in the past, Father would curse her and remind her of the hellish Lutherans. Wars of kings. I cared little for history.

George and I taught ourselves English by reading catalogs and an English Bible. We spoke well enough to trade at the general store. Soon, Father entrusted us with the negotiations, but never the books. George wasn't strong in the maths, but I knew my way with numbers. I knew Father was hiding money.

Written by FRITZ
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Name: Fritz

Location: Detroit Rock City!
Where the weak are killed and eaten

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