SynopsisThe second book in my alternate history series depicting an alternate history for if Germany had won WWII. It focuses on an underground, international resistance group out to, you guessed it, take down the Third Reich. I'm also rewriting last year's with this because it was all lost in a hard drive crash.
I'll write a better description when I feel like it. XD
Excerpt[TRIGGER WARNING: attempted suicide, imprisonment, torture, tear gas]
[Sicilian Countryside | APR-02-89]
The moon gave an ominous smile through a curtain of nebulous wisps. Moses Kaplan watched it through the barred window in his cell; he strongly suspected it would be the last chance he would ever have to see it. He was in fact surprised he even had a window at all. Perhaps the Krauts were taunting him. In any case, he knew this had to be a temporary arrangement; no one had even tortured him yet.
His gaze suddenly fell upon a stray knife lying on the floor just a meter in front of him. He picked it up and curiously studied it for a time. It was a fat, serrated butcher's knife that reflected the moonlight beautifully save for a few droplets of dried blood. Those sent an icy shiver down his spine. He did not want to even guess who's blood that could have been. Instead, he ignored it as best as he could and brought the tip to his wrist.
Once he felt the tip against his skin, he looked away as best as he could. The moon caught his eye again. 'Come on,' he silently urged himself. 'You have to. This might be the only chance you'll ever get.'
He thought of Isra for a long, long while, and tears soon started to run down his cheeks. This sight would kill her. But so would the Krauts if he ever talked. The last thing he heard her say was that she was pregnant. Good god, no; he couldn't ever let them find her. The knife was his only option. He knew he could die happy with her as his last thought.
But without warning, his cell started to fill with gas. His eyes burned so much he had to cover them instantly, but to no avail. Everything hurt now. His eyes were being scorched out of their sockets. His nose ran and bled into a puddle. His lungs coughed out every last wisp of tear gas. He writhed on the floor in a fetal position, kicking spastically.
They were watching. And they weren't about to let their greatest asset go so easily. When the gas had finally begun to dissipate, he had already lost consciousness. A brownshirt came in, removed the knife, and spat on Moses' face before making his way out.