It arrived with the morning mail: a commonly looking parcel, wrapped in brown wrapping paper, tied with a rough cord. It looked like any and every package delivered every day. This parcel however had a special cause, a very special cause …

I was sitting at the kitchen table, gossiping with my mom about the latest schmooze I heard at the hairdresser’s. We were in the best mood, when the doorbell rang. My mother got up to open the door. Meanwhile I poured myself another cup of coffee and made myself comfortable on the kitchen bench.

„Postman,“ she said, a package in her hand.

„Oh, who’s that from?“, I asked nosily.

„No idea … no return address. The stamps are from Russia.“

She placed the package on the table and took the big scissors from the second drawer. Carefully she loosened the knot, rolling the cord accurately into a little ravel. I smiled. She would never throw anything away that she could still make use of. Mom cautiously peeled the sticky tape off the wrapping paper. She folded it. Paper and cord went into a drawer. Only then would she open the package.

Inside were a small casket and a letter.
She turned pale when she opened the casket. I feared she would pass out any moment.

„Mom, what’s wrong?“ I took her hand.

She couldn’t talk. She just shook her head, breathing flatly. “Nothing. I’m all right,” she stammered. She got up and went into her bedroom. I didn’t dare to open the little casket even if I was bursting with curiosity.

When she came back a few minutes later, she was holding the brooch in her hand. She has always had it for as long as I can remember. An old five-mark piece. Plainly polished on one side, a flower engraved. Soldered to its back was a safety pin.

„I never told you where I got this from,“ she whispered. „It got it in World War II, when I worked in the steel mill.“

My mother poured herself a glass of water, sipped from it and continued.

„For the dangerous work they used forced labourers. Russians. At the smelting furnace. They got almost no food. Just as much that they didn’t die from exhaustion.“ She sighed quietly and caressed the brooch. „I smuggled bread and butter and cigarette stubs into the factory and gave them to the Russians. I could not just watch and do nothing.“

I got up and kissed my mother’s forehead.

„One day, one of the Russians … a little boy, maybe 15 years old … gave me this handcrafted brooch.“ The color returned to her face and she smiled.

She took the lid off the casket and showed it to me. Inside was a three-rubel coin. Plainly polished on one side. A flower engraved. Soldered to its back was a silver safety-pin.

When she read the letter, tears sprang to her eyes.

My dearest benefactress,
Long have I been searching for you. Now at last I can express my gratitude.  Gratitude for a fulfilled and prosperous life. A life filled with miracles and love.

Sometimes it’s little things that leave big marks.

With eternal gratitude

Gregor M. Koslow
 

Die Brosche / The Brooch

 
© 2009, Lars Mielke