A Fish Tale

A Fish Tale

“Play him slowly and carefully, Villie,” Papa whispered, “keep your line firm and straight. It is better to not hurry the fish.”

“Yes, Papa, I am trying.” There was a flash of silver as the fish made a short leap out of the rippling stream. “Look Papa, he is a beauty. He will fill the fry pan all by himself!”

“It might be better to make sure he is caught before you begin cooking him, Villie.” Papa chuckled, “Keep the tip of your pole high. That is correct; now slowly bring him to the shore.”

Slowly and carefully, as Papa instructed, I cranked the reel until the glistening beauty was near enough. Carefully, Papa eased the net under him.

“Well done, Villie.” Papa smiled as he raised the net high. “You are right; he will certainly fill the fry pan all by his self.”

I smiled proudly at Papa’s rare praise, my mouth watering with the thought of how wonderful this sleek fat monster would taste.

April 15, 1945…

The grumbling of his stomach and the sharp hunger pains brought young Vilhelm Schmidtz awake. The sweet smell of the lush green forest and the musical sounds of the babbling brook vanished. Looking around into the dank confines before him, he remembered.

“Papa is no longer here, he thought, “three years gone, now. Mama, was taken the year before that.” Before the terrible reality could take him back into deep despair, he heard a noise from the front of the barracks.

“Look!” Zeyde Goldfarb cried. “There is a man coming through the gate, but he doesn’t wear the Gestapo uniform.

Quickly as he could, Vilhelm made his way past the quaking old man.

“He is right,” Vilhelm cried out, “they must be the Americans or British. We are saved!”

Suddenly, the young man felt a terrible shyness and backed quickly away from the approaching soldier.

Before he could retreat into the darkness of the barracks, the soldier spotted him and called out.

“Wait! Hello, hello?” The soldier smiled and lowered his weapon. “Hello there, I bet you would like a chocolate bar, eh?”

Over the next few weeks, a whirlwind of activity in and around the camp as the Canadian and British soldiers began administrating food and medical attention to the remaining survivors of Bergen-Belsen.

Some of the inmates didn’t survive the rich food and the lingering effects of the Typhus epidemic, but Vilhelm pulled through. After a few months, the scrawny seventeen year old boy was designated a displaced refugee and headed to Canada, the home of his wonderful saviors.

April 15, 1950...

Bill Smith stood on the lush green bank of a babbling brook in British Columbia; with his first cast he heard his father’s voice whisper in his ear. “Keep your line firm and straight, Villie. Play him slowly and carefully, it is always better to not hurry the fish.”