The problems endured by my younger character in this story are not due to his racial, ethnic or religious heritage. The torment he endures is inflicted by his own—his Volk—, and that is what makes it so very personal and causes such intense pain. It is my hope that the reader will come away from reading the story with such a realization.  If you've ever wondered how such youngsters feel in their private moments, well, now you'll know.  At the beginning of the second half of the piece, this will become all too clear.  Your patience with the story will be well rewarded.

The story takes approximately one hour's reading time. It can be printed out if more convenient.  It was presented in two weekly issues, #181 and #182. The link below will take you to the "Reader's Guide" for the first issue.  It can be found under "Serial."  (The third category, near the top of the page.)

Please read the editor's introductory remarks and then click on the story's title. At the end of Part I, just click where indicated to immediately continue to Part II of the first half of the story.  For the second half of the story, just click at the end of Part II where indicated to proceed directly to Part III.  There is no need to return to this page or otherwise leave the story.

The bulk of the story is rated "G." Towards the beginning of the story there are a few allusions to adult themes for reasons of suspense and characterization.  Overall, I would think it would be rated as no more than "PG-13."  It is intended for an adult readership. There is an author’s commentary on this website which can be read after finishing the story if one is interested.  It explains certain aspects of the story as to why they were framed as they were.

Its genre is soft science fiction or fantasy, but that is merely a literary device to make the plot tenable and nothing more.  So even if you normally do not care for SF, please don't let that deter you from reading it. Aside from the literary device itself, there is nothing else fantastical within the piece.  It reads like mainstream fiction. The story need not be interpreted on a literal basis if one so chooses.  

Pride’s Prison

by Donald Schneider

part 1

The man sat on one of the twin beds watching his young captive squirming in a futile attempt to free himself from his bonds. It didn’t seem to occur to the boy that even if he managed to get loose, he was still trapped inside the motel room with his armed abductor. The man had expected this. He remembered the kid as having been extremely hyperactive and being bound like this must be terribly frustrating for him.

The boy’s white tee shirt and blue dungarees were already damp with perspiration, partially the result of his jerky and incessant movements, and partially from the anxiety he would naturally feel finding himself suddenly helpless and at the mercy of a complete stranger. It couldn’t be helped, and it wouldn’t be for much longer anyway.

He didn’t mean to cause the youngster any more trauma than what had been absolutely necessary. He had known all too well that the boy had severe claustrophobia, and he had thus discarded his original plan of renting a car and placing the bound child in the trunk for the ride to the motel. He had opted for a van with a windowless cargo compartment instead. He had been afraid that the kid would become hysterical locked inside a car trunk, and his abductor couldn’t cope with that. Besides, the van had proven more practical for his purposes.

His plan had gone off without a hitch. He was now past the most dangerous part, the actual snatch of the twelve-year old. He had remembered well the boy’s habits and knew that the kid had always been a finicky sleeper. During the summer, Bobby would habitually be the first kid up in his neighborhood. On fair days, after his parents and older brother had left for work, he would walk the block to the public schoolyard and shoot baskets by himself, impatiently waiting for his playmates to join him for stickball, their summertime recreational staple.

At nine-thirty that morning, the child’s soon-to-be abductor had driven the van to the schoolyard and parked it next to the sidewalk adjacent to the yard. Just as he had hoped, he saw a solitary boy in the yard shooting baskets, a boy who looked just about the right age.

The man looked at the youngster through the passenger side window for some moments, studying him intently. He simply couldn’t tell by the face, not for certain. The boy was skinny as he had remembered and perhaps slightly small for his age. His hair was the dirty blond that he had expected, having darkened somewhat from the golden blond it had once been. He thought the chances were very good that he had the right kid.

Nonchalantly, the man got out of the van and walked to its rear and opened the two doors, which swung opposite each other. He unfolded a street map of Philadelphia and spread it out on the floor of the van. He made a pretense of looking at the map for a minute or so and noted that both vehicular and pedestrian activity was light. School was closed for the summer, of course, and it was now well past rush hour.

Still, there was always a danger of someone noticing the anticipated abduction. In this old-fashioned neighborhood, people not only kept their inner doors open all day during the summer, but also left their screen doors unlocked so that kids could come and go from play without the need for keys or constant knocking. Few of them had air conditioners. He had to work smoothly and rapidly. There was no room for bungling errors. Much of his plan concerning the actual abduction depended upon what he knew, or thought he knew, about the boy and how he would react.

Accordingly, he finally walked slowly over to the five-foot high chain link fence that separated the yard from the sidewalk. The youth was still shooting baskets and didn’t seem even to notice his presence. Despite all his preparation for this very moment, it was with some anxiety that he said to the boy in a raised voice, "Hey, kid! I’m lost. Can you give me directions to the airport?”

The man knew that such a ploy would be met with immediate suspicion in his own neighborhood, with parents having warned kids about just such a clumsy device. But here he knew kids received no such cautions. Indeed, such matters were never discussed or even thought of. He smiled to himself when he thought of such innocence, now so foreign to his own experiences.

As expected, the kid immediately scooped up his basketball and actually ran over to him. Not only would the youngster not be suspicious, he would be eager to help if he could. Such would make him feel important. The boy’s voice took him aback some. It still seemed strange to hear the girlish tenor of it, though he had thought that the kid’s voice wouldn’t change for well over a year yet.

The youngster answered in a characteristically nasal Philadelphia accent, "You’re on the opposite side of the city, mister.”

The man noted the "mister” with pleasure. The kids here would be respectful to adults from long years of example and training by their parents and teachers. He responded, "I know that. Could you please help me find the way on a map?” He added, pointing to the blue Chevy van, "I have one in my van right there.” He hadn’t offered the kid money. He knew that would be not only unnecessary here but might even seem odd.

"Sure,” said the boy eagerly, as he put his hand on the top of the fence, which was almost as high as he was. The man was amazed, and somewhat envious, as he watched the youth hop the fence with a boyish grace and agility so long alien to his body, now pushing fifty. The boy had even done so with one hand, holding his basketball with the other.

"Thanks. I’m Mr. Schultz,” the man said in a friendly tone. He knew this would get a reaction from the kid, unless he had been horribly mistaken. He saw the boy’s pale blue eyes widen.

"Hey, that’s my name!”

"Well, what a coincidence!” the adult concurred. "And what’s your first name?”

"Bobby. Well, Robert, actually.”

There was no mistake. This was the right kid. Still, looking into the boy’s face, he felt some degree of doubt. For one thing, the child seemed much better looking than he had expected. His features were regular and quite comely, his skin clear and smooth. Indeed, if the boy would put on a few pounds, he thought he would be outright handsome. Somehow, he hadn’t expected that. He had pictures of the boy, of course, but he had never thought of him as good looking. He decided to remove any doubt he might have.

"Well, Bobby,” the man paused for a moment reflecting how odd it sounded to his ears having added the boyish "by” to "Bob,” before continuing, "maybe we’re related. What are your parents’ names?”

He answered, "George and Mary. And my brother’s name is John.” He added helpfully, "John’s three years older than me.”

As if still not satisfied, the man asked, "And where do you go to school? What grade are you in?”

"St. Matt’s, er, Matthew’s. I’m going into seventh,” the boy responded.

There could be no doubt now. "Well, I guess it is just a coincidence. I don’t know of any relatives with those names, and I’m not from around here anyway. ‘Schultz’ is a common German name, after all,” the adult noted.

"Well, I’m half Irish. My mom’s name used to be Gallagher.”

The man had to quickly bite off his almost delivered reflexive response of, "I know.” Ironically, the boy’s Nordic appearance, which the Nazis would have delighted in, didn’t stem from his paternal side. His father’s people had been Southern German and had been dark. Instead, Bobby’s blue eyes, fair hair and complexion came from his mother’s side. Now that he looked at him, the man began to realize what a very picture the boy was of his mother. He had never really noticed that before.

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