A Silent Heart: World War 2 Holocaust Historical Fiction Series, #8

By Curt O'Riley

Set in France, in the years leading up to WWII, the fate of a youngster, Armand is intertwined with six other people – an artisan, an educator, a seamstress, a captive, an actress, and a soldier.

 

The narrative follows Armand from the moment he is discovered on the streets as a small kid, through his development and learning to love, and eventually, through a series of sad events that have disastrous effects.

 

As the shadows of World War II loom, will Armand survive the challenges of the impending war and emerge unscathed against the odds?

 

For readers captivated by works such as "The Nightingale" or "The Book Thief," this fact based WW2 fiction is for you!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Curt O'Riley
• Release date: Apr 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224222926

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

December 24, 1938

Isolde discovered the youngster on the street corner, silently lacing up his damaged shoes. His head was lowered, his skinny arms were naked, and she could see the pimples on his skin from the cold.

It was a tired Christmas Eve, and Isolde pondered with dread how a youngster his age had ended himself in this situation. She watched him tighten and retie the shoes, which were so ragged and threadbare, she wondered how he'd walk when the snow fell. She had a feeling the weather might turn bad this year.

Every passing person on the street would stop by the bakery to mumble enthusiastically about having a white Christmas, and Isolde would nod her head in return while a large part of her fell to the ground.

The youngster was little and feeble. He clearly hadn't felt the comfort of a home in long years, and Isolde considered taking him in. But things were already difficult in the bakery, and the lack of business was constantly cleaning out her cupboards. Things had just recently begun to improve when she was compelled to spend the money on her wraith of a sister, who sat cold and ghostlike in the solitary room above the store and did not stir.

For a time, she remained a few steps away from the youngster, watching him sketch designs on his torn, awful garments, gray with soot and bleached with cold. She was curious whether he was employed and how old he was. The hems of his black pants were caked with dust, implying that he had been cleaning chimneys at some time. The oil on his clothes indicated that he had previously assisted a mechanic or worked in a mine.

He rolled something little and golden in his skeletal-white fingers as he curled up on the pavement. His face looked hollow and forlorn, and he had a distant look in his eyes.

He didn't see her standing above, or if he did, he didn't say anything. Isolde peered as far as her fading eyes would allow, scanning his face: he seemed to be youthful, no older than fourteen.

She determined he was too young to be on the streets - or really anything other than loved and cared for.

Isolde made her decision and softly approached him. She was a bit chubby, but she was powerful and quick on her feet. The youngster didn't glance up until she was right in front of him, casting a shadow on his freckled face.

'Boy,' she replied, her voice broad and deep and homey. People often said that Isolde's voice was like a roaring fire, warm and rich, like something you'd want to cuddle up next to on a cold day.

He shook his head and curled his fist around the golden thing - a little bird, Isolde saw, created of superb workmanship and dangling from his palm on a delicate chain. The boy's eyes were a deep blue and quite frigid. Isolde shuddered, and she knew it wasn't from the howling wind or the cloudy sky.

'Boy,' she repeated once more.

'Can you tell me your name?'

'Armand, ma'am,' he replied quietly, his voice as kind as hers.

'Armand Leclair,' he says. His attention traveled to her face, but he made no effort to stand. He lingered there like a moth in a window. Isolde wondered what had made him so cold, like the ice that lingered in the air.

'Armand,' she whispered, a little more softly this time.

'Get up. It's chilly outside, and you shouldn't be out at this time.' She'd scarcely finished speaking when the sky darkened and the light in the butcher's window flicked on. She shot a backward look toward her bakery.

'Boy, I'll make you a dinner. Get up.'

He rose softly, his motions awkward and timid. Isolde wasn't very tall, but as the lad stood up, his brow barely touched her shoulder. The matted hair on his head increased his height by just a centimeter. He was emaciated and wiry, with the sunken pallor of the dead on his face.

She reached for his hand, but Armand yanked it back suddenly, gasping. She saw that he had tightened his grip on the chain even further, his complexion going as white as the snow.

Isolde apologized and daintily wiped down