copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Brothers in the Fatherland
The guards never check the back, my brother Kurt had said.
I crouched in breathless darkness, rain Niagara Fallsing down the windows. Kurt was talking to the guard, getting me through security.
I gripped my pistol. Kurt was loyal but I knew that only a bullet in the tyrant’s head would set the nation free.
I heard a command and the van moved forward. We were in. Kurt thought this was intelligence bureau training. This would kill him.
I’m sorry, Kurt.
The van doors flew open. Rifles pointed at me. “I’m sorry,” Kurt said. “It kills me to do this.”
The Green-Walled Tower 