*Author's note and brief history lesson* I got the idea for this fic from a documentary I saw a while back on the History Channel about the infamous Nazi Reinhard Heydrich, aka "the Hangman of Prague." On May 27, 1942, He was assassinated by members of the Czech Resistance. He was the only high-ranking Nazi to be assassinated. I had to fictionalize these events quite a bit, but here is my take on Jack's father taking part in the mission. A big thank you to Google, which saved me tons of time on my research.
OPERATION ANTHROPOID
"Here, Sydney, give me that.” Jack took the medium-size moving box from his daughter’s hands.
“Oh, come on, dad. It isn’t heavy.”
“This is why you shouldn’t be helping me move. In your condition . . . “
Sydney groaned. “Not that again. I told you, I went to the doctor just yesterday, and she says I’m fine and so is the baby. Besides, we’ve been doing this all week with no problem.”
Jack gave her his best stern-father look. “And I told you, no heavy lifting. I’ll do that. Now take another one, and make it no more than half this size. Understand?”
“Okay, Okay.” She threw up her hands in mock surrender. “Tell you what – it’s time for a break anyway. You get that one, and I’ll fix us some lunch. How’s that?”
Jack gave her one of his rare smiles. “All right. There’s chicken salad in the refrigerator. Make us some sandwiches.”
Smiling to herself, Sydney watched as Jack disappeared into the house through the door leading into the kitchen, carrying the offending box with him. After nearly three years in a small, spare apartment, her father had finally purchased a modest house. He had spent the past several weeks having it redecorated with new carpet, paint, wallpaper, drapes, and blinds. A few days before, new flooring had been installed in the kitchen and bathroom; and landscapers were scheduled to come later in the week to work on the yard. All of the furniture was new. Today, they were moving the last of the boxes from the garage to the basement. When Sydney teased him about becoming another Martha Stewart, he simply grumbled that he was too old to be living like a college kid.
Jack’s cat, a huge orange tabby he had named Mozart, jumped down from his perch on top of the last stack of boxes, meowed, and rubbed his cheek against her leg. “Hi, sweetie. Did you have a nice nap?” As she knelt down to pet him, her eye fell on a small black steamer trunk in the corner of the garage. She couldn’t recall ever having seen it before. Curious, she set went over to it and lifted the lid.
The trunk was full of old leather-bound journals, and on top was a photo album, a sapphire bracelet, and a beautiful silver fountain pen. When Sydney opened the album, she found that the first photos were of a broad-shouldered young man with wavy dark hair in a British Army officer’s uniform. After that came photos of him in a tuxedo posing with a slender, regal-looking woman in a wedding gown. Next, there was page after page of photos of the couple, a little older now, smiling and holding a baby boy. The rest of the album contained pictures of the couple and of the boy as he grew from toddler to teenager. These were her grandparents, Sydney realized, and her father. She had never met her grandparents – they had died long before she was born – and she had never seen these photographs before. As she closed the album, intending to take it into the house with her, another photo, which had been tucked inside the back cover, fell out. She picked it up and saw that it was her grandfather again, only this time with a petite blond woman. Both were in fatigues and posing in front of what appeared to be a shooting range. She turned the photo over; the back read simply, “Arisaig, Scotland, 1941.”
Sydney was so engrossed she didn’t hear her father come back into the garage; and she gave a slight start as she realized that he was standing behind her, looking thoughtfully at the photograph.
“I was going to show you these. I guess the right time just never came.”
“So grandpa was in the war?”
“Yes, he was.”
“What did he do?”
“I didn’t know that myself until after he and my mother died. He never talked about it, except perhaps to her.”
“Who is the woman in the picture with him, do you know?”
“Yes. Come, let’s go inside and get those sandwiches made, and I’ll tell you the story.”
* * *
OPERATION ANTHROPOID
"Here, Sydney, give me that.” Jack took the medium-size moving box from his daughter’s hands.
“Oh, come on, dad. It isn’t heavy.”
“This is why you shouldn’t be helping me move. In your condition . . . “
Sydney groaned. “Not that again. I told you, I went to the doctor just yesterday, and she says I’m fine and so is the baby. Besides, we’ve been doing this all week with no problem.”
Jack gave her his best stern-father look. “And I told you, no heavy lifting. I’ll do that. Now take another one, and make it no more than half this size. Understand?”
“Okay, Okay.” She threw up her hands in mock surrender. “Tell you what – it’s time for a break anyway. You get that one, and I’ll fix us some lunch. How’s that?”
Jack gave her one of his rare smiles. “All right. There’s chicken salad in the refrigerator. Make us some sandwiches.”
Smiling to herself, Sydney watched as Jack disappeared into the house through the door leading into the kitchen, carrying the offending box with him. After nearly three years in a small, spare apartment, her father had finally purchased a modest house. He had spent the past several weeks having it redecorated with new carpet, paint, wallpaper, drapes, and blinds. A few days before, new flooring had been installed in the kitchen and bathroom; and landscapers were scheduled to come later in the week to work on the yard. All of the furniture was new. Today, they were moving the last of the boxes from the garage to the basement. When Sydney teased him about becoming another Martha Stewart, he simply grumbled that he was too old to be living like a college kid.
Jack’s cat, a huge orange tabby he had named Mozart, jumped down from his perch on top of the last stack of boxes, meowed, and rubbed his cheek against her leg. “Hi, sweetie. Did you have a nice nap?” As she knelt down to pet him, her eye fell on a small black steamer trunk in the corner of the garage. She couldn’t recall ever having seen it before. Curious, she set went over to it and lifted the lid.
The trunk was full of old leather-bound journals, and on top was a photo album, a sapphire bracelet, and a beautiful silver fountain pen. When Sydney opened the album, she found that the first photos were of a broad-shouldered young man with wavy dark hair in a British Army officer’s uniform. After that came photos of him in a tuxedo posing with a slender, regal-looking woman in a wedding gown. Next, there was page after page of photos of the couple, a little older now, smiling and holding a baby boy. The rest of the album contained pictures of the couple and of the boy as he grew from toddler to teenager. These were her grandparents, Sydney realized, and her father. She had never met her grandparents – they had died long before she was born – and she had never seen these photographs before. As she closed the album, intending to take it into the house with her, another photo, which had been tucked inside the back cover, fell out. She picked it up and saw that it was her grandfather again, only this time with a petite blond woman. Both were in fatigues and posing in front of what appeared to be a shooting range. She turned the photo over; the back read simply, “Arisaig, Scotland, 1941.”
Sydney was so engrossed she didn’t hear her father come back into the garage; and she gave a slight start as she realized that he was standing behind her, looking thoughtfully at the photograph.
“I was going to show you these. I guess the right time just never came.”
“So grandpa was in the war?”
“Yes, he was.”
“What did he do?”
“I didn’t know that myself until after he and my mother died. He never talked about it, except perhaps to her.”
“Who is the woman in the picture with him, do you know?”
“Yes. Come, let’s go inside and get those sandwiches made, and I’ll tell you the story.”
* * *
)