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The Story:
His typewriter hadn’t made a sound for several minutes. No clicks or slides or grinds, just silence. It patiently held upright a white page for his consideration—one single page that contained the defining article of his career.
The silence was broken by the door to his tiny office flinging open.
“Carsten, no time for the edit. Get it down to print, now. Move it!”
His boss slammed the door shut, causing a picture frame to rattle. In the frame was a picture of Carsten and his wife from their trip to the beach years ago. He allowed himself to be drawn into her eyes for a moment before returning to the article in his typewriter.
If he sent this article to print, tonight would be their last. He would never see her again, and this article would represent his last words. They would kill him, for sure. But was it worth dying over?
He heard a loud rumble as a group of military planes flew over his building. He closed his eyes and imagined the destruction their payload would deliver to innocent men, women, and children. He imagined what it would be like to live and die in one of these rumored camps where the prisoners were being kept.
And he knew it was worth his life.
There would be no editor to stop him. It would run. It would be printed. Thousands of people would read it. It would do little good, but he knew that somewhere at least one person would reconsider his or her position because of his words. It was worth it.
Carsten took a deep breath, placed his finger on the period key, and pressed it.
The typewriter whacked the paper, sealing his article between that last period and its opening statement, “Hitler is a buffoon.”
He was shaking and pouring sweat, but he managed to stand, remove his article, grab his coat, and walk out of his office.
Before shutting his office door for the last time, he stopped and picked up the picture frame. He removed the picture and stuffed it into his pocket.
Then, he walked out, leaving the room silent once more.