成人快手

by Isabella, aged 13

The place was alive with activity, bustling like a colony of ants. It smelt unusual - like fatty food and unpleasant drains. The buildings were filled with garments of radiant colours, and if care-free enough to stop and embrace the life of the place, the distant groan of a train could be heard.
Although unaware of where I was, the place calmed me. A lady was walking with me. I was sure I knew her. She took my arm and smiled reassuringly. Her face was speckled with freckles, just like mine, I thought.

The plaintive sound of a violin became audible as we ambled past shops stuffed with ownerless clothes. When the musician came into view, I noticed people throwing coins into a hat in front of him. "Mum", said the lady, "Why don't you give something to the busker. Here's my purse". Whilst not understanding the purpose, I decided to trust in what the lady had requested me to do. I stopped. Bending down, I froze as the music filled my ears. It was a beautiful tune, one I remembered...

I was at my father's knees surrounded by my siblings and my mother. On his violin, my father played the same tune as the man on the street. He used to play it to raise our spirits in that dark, damp place. All the memories flooded back. We were Jews. It was 1942 and we had been forced into the Warsaw ghetto by Hitler. My father was a musician and earned his living by playing at weddings and Bar Mitzvahs. We were never wealthy, but we were happy - that was until we were herded like sheep with all the other innocent Jews into that zoo-like place.

My father's warm, chocolately gaze met mine and he flashed me a cheeky grin as he effortlessly drew sweet music out of the wooden soul. It was a tune that had been passed down generations. If ever in need of distraction to free our troubled minds, that tune was the one that my father would play, or softly sing in his velvety voice.

Suddenly the door burst open and a Nazi officer stormed in, demanding that we pack and leave immediately to be transported to Treblinka, where, ''...you will work until your bones crumble and crack.''
****

We marched in terror towards the freight trains.

As I was getting onto a carriage, pain invaded my hand as the officer's truncheon came down across my knuckles and broke my father's firm grip.

''This carriage is full!''

Father pleaded to be allowed to stay with me, but he was quickly swept away by the mass of frantic bodies. He cried my name one last time before being swallowed up by the sea of bobbing heads. I never saw my father again.

''Mum!'' repeated the lady. I felt her dabbing a tissue at my tear-stained face. The man stopped playing and asked her if I was okay.

''Yes,'' she answered, '' It's just her dementia.''