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Tycho, v. 1, issue 2, November 1942
Page 18
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SACRIFICE By Sheldon Araas The little fellow smiled cheerfully at me through the bars of his cell. He stood up and bowed as the guard opened the door of his cell for me. Wordlessly I regarded his thin figure, and his wan face; with no little difficulty prevented my eyes from watering. "I'm honored that you should pay me this visit," he said, proffering his hand. "It's the least we could do," I replied, squeezing the hand warmly. For a moment there was an embarrassed silence. Nervously, I toyed with the end of my necktie. "Words cannot express our thanks, Joe," I said finally. "Aw, it wasn't anything," he said grinning good-naturedly. "I'd do it all over again if I had to, and you know it. Just the knowledge that it's appreciated is payment enough." "I brought along some messages for you, Joe," I managed to mumble, blinking rapidly to keep my eyes cleared. "From the guys and gals all over the country, y'know. Telegrams and letters from Minneapolis, long letters and more telegrams from New York, from Jackson, Los Angeles, and even cablegrams from England and Scotland. Of course, you won't have time to read them," I added ruefully. "They wouldn't let me in to see you before. I had to get special permission from the governor." "Gee," he said, rapidly running through the sheaf of envelopes I had handed him. "This makes me more happy than anything else possibly could." "I know you'd like to know that they've not forgotten you." Joe's gaze fastened on the wall, and his features assumed a dreamy-like expression. For a while, we were both silent. Then he spoke: "I can remember the days when I used to read stuff by you, and then when you sent me that letter of praise....I treasured that letter; still have it, in fact." And he produced from nowhere a frayed, many-times folded slip of paper, and glanced hurriedly over it "Then when we started to correspond...I always dreamed of meeting you someday. I'm glad you could come ... now." In the long corridor outside I heard the trampling of feet, the clanfing [clanging] of a door being opened. My heart gave a sudden leap. As if he hadn't heard the ominous sounds, Joe continued talking. "I always wanted to tell you in person how much I liked your articles. You were my favorite writer." The trampling became louder, and we could hear the sonorous voice of the priest, chanting in prayer. Joe didn't even bat an eye. I was trembling, and the perspiration rolled down my face faster than I could
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SACRIFICE By Sheldon Araas The little fellow smiled cheerfully at me through the bars of his cell. He stood up and bowed as the guard opened the door of his cell for me. Wordlessly I regarded his thin figure, and his wan face; with no little difficulty prevented my eyes from watering. "I'm honored that you should pay me this visit," he said, proffering his hand. "It's the least we could do," I replied, squeezing the hand warmly. For a moment there was an embarrassed silence. Nervously, I toyed with the end of my necktie. "Words cannot express our thanks, Joe," I said finally. "Aw, it wasn't anything," he said grinning good-naturedly. "I'd do it all over again if I had to, and you know it. Just the knowledge that it's appreciated is payment enough." "I brought along some messages for you, Joe," I managed to mumble, blinking rapidly to keep my eyes cleared. "From the guys and gals all over the country, y'know. Telegrams and letters from Minneapolis, long letters and more telegrams from New York, from Jackson, Los Angeles, and even cablegrams from England and Scotland. Of course, you won't have time to read them," I added ruefully. "They wouldn't let me in to see you before. I had to get special permission from the governor." "Gee," he said, rapidly running through the sheaf of envelopes I had handed him. "This makes me more happy than anything else possibly could." "I know you'd like to know that they've not forgotten you." Joe's gaze fastened on the wall, and his features assumed a dreamy-like expression. For a while, we were both silent. Then he spoke: "I can remember the days when I used to read stuff by you, and then when you sent me that letter of praise....I treasured that letter; still have it, in fact." And he produced from nowhere a frayed, many-times folded slip of paper, and glanced hurriedly over it "Then when we started to correspond...I always dreamed of meeting you someday. I'm glad you could come ... now." In the long corridor outside I heard the trampling of feet, the clanfing [clanging] of a door being opened. My heart gave a sudden leap. As if he hadn't heard the ominous sounds, Joe continued talking. "I always wanted to tell you in person how much I liked your articles. You were my favorite writer." The trampling became louder, and we could hear the sonorous voice of the priest, chanting in prayer. Joe didn't even bat an eye. I was trembling, and the perspiration rolled down my face faster than I could
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