The Day the Flowers Died by Ami Blackwelder Page A

who
annoyed her.  She needed the money to spend on food, clothes,
and things she liked to do.  Her mother pulled the strings of
her father, like a jockey pulls a horse, when he offered to pay for
college to make sure the extras were not in the deal. Her mother
used this tight fist on the money to try to get her daughter back,
to live home with her again, as all high class daughters did. But
Rebecca would not have it that way. She wanted to pave her own way
out of her mother’s grip. Yet she never thought about how much her
mother tried to control her life as she served at the diner. 
She thought about how much freedom she had because of that job,
that university, and that life with Eli in Munich.
    She placed food onto tables throughout the afternoon rush,
picking up tips and putting all the coins inside her small apron
pocket unraveling around the seams.  Toward the end of the
rush, she plodded over to one of the two tables left.  A
blonde older woman with wide blue eyes had her hair pinned up
tightly like a honeycomb.  Her companion, a thirty-something
man, also had structured blond hair, blue eyes and a square frame
from his shoulders to his feet.  She overheard their
conversation and leaned in to listen.
    “This place is crawling with Jews.  I’ve seen German girls
walk hand in hand with them.  Disgusting.  This is what’s
wrong with our youth today.  They’re being corrupted,” the
blonde woman said as sure as day that she was right and sat
haughtily in her seat.
    Her companion didn’t disagree and even encouraged her thinking,
a thinking he also shared.  His stiff movements and rigid
posture reminded Rebecca of the Nazi men.  Her ear had pulled
itself in their direction and, before they noticed, she yanked
herself back to her job, but not before overhearing his
comments.
    “Soon, we won’t have to worry about them anymore.  We’ve
got plans.”
    Rebecca slipped away, wondering about his statement and if it
had anything to do with the stormtroopers terrorizing the
cities.  In this moment, she felt fear for Eli and herself for
the first time.  She slid her hands into her apron pockets and
felt the coins she had earned for the day.  
    “Everyone needs to be served, Rebecca, even those you don’t
like.”
    He knew Rebecca was an open minded girl, a girl whose sentiments
swayed as freely in the wind as the flowers in spring, and he knew
she was a principled young lady brought up by strict parents. 
He’d never seen the young man she dated, but knew of her mother’s
disapproval.  But none of this mattered as he shoved Rebecca
forward.  It didn’t matter if the customers’ values vehemently
differed from her own or if she desperately didn’t want to do this,
because they were only customers and Rebecca only a waitress.
    Rebecca bit her lip and almost curtsied out of habitual nervous
politeness at the customers at the table, the customers who
repulsed every bone in her body.  She took their order and
served their food without so much as forgetting her smile, an
outstretched smile which she learned from her mother and reserved
for them.
    At home in her quiet room, the thoughts of the unpleasant,
overheard conversation weighed heavily on her and then her phone
rang.  She pranced over to it, happy for the interruption,
believing it to be Eli.
    She answered the phone with an enthusiastic hello until the
speaker at the other end asked, “Is this my daughter, Rebecca?”
    The roughness in the voice jolted her back to the earlier
unpleasant conversation.  “Yes, of course, Mutti.  This
is Rebecca.  Who else would it be?”
    “You sound different.” Her mother paused and then continued, “I
was calling to see how you were doing.”
    “I’m fine.  I’m doing well.  I just got back from
work.”
    “Work.” Rebecca could feel her mother’s glinting eyes. 
“You know you wouldn’t have to work if you just stayed home to
study at University.”
    “Mutti, we’ve been through this too