Exile

8.1 CREATIVE WRITING – NARRATIVES INSPIRED BY THE BOOK THIEF AND ADDITIONAL SECONDARY FOCUSES

8.1 here present their creative writing explorations of exile. There work presents fragments of a bigger story and is based on historical and cultural research related to World War Two and persecuted communities. Boys researched the politics, cultural realities and cultural practices of the time. They also used a range of literary texts as style models.

The work was initially inspired by our current class reader, Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief, specifically the character of Max Liebermann, ‘The Struggler’, a Jew in hiding within Nazi Germany. Boys’ have studied Zusak’s use of colour to represent human complexity and synaesthesia to present complex waves of memory and nostalgia. We also explored song, folktale and recipes to appeal to memories evoked by the power of storytelling symbolism, sound and olfactory sensibilities. Extracts from John Berger’s Here Is Where We Meet helped us to bring memories to life, as if haunted by them and we referred to Refugee Tales to aid the creation of authentic voices.

Shaun Tan’s The Arrival, provided scenarios, material details of settings and imagery to inspire metaphor. We also took the simple narrative structure of departure, arrival and return from this book. Straddling the divide between children’s picture book and adult graphic novel to splendid effect, The Arrival, by Australian illustrator Tan, is one of those rare beasts: a wholly graphic fiction, which dispenses with the use of words entirely. Rare, because it is so remarkably difficult – when attempting to tell an engaging and comprehensible story solely in pictures – to avoid a descent into monotonous exposition.

The story of The Arrival begins in a nameless land, with the scene being set for the departure of a man from his wife and daughter. It becomes apparent that he is leaving for a time, not out of animosity, but as a temporary necessity. As the family emerge from the house, and walk the father to a train station, we witness dark, serpentine forms writhing along above drab streets, yet nobody seems to attend to them in any way. Whether these images of the mundane fused with the unsettling are to be taken literally or as metaphor is not entirely clear; what is certain is

that the very air itself carries a ceaseless, unwelcome weight. The protagonist – a tired and gentle sort of everyman – departs. Watch a video summary of The Arrival here: https://vimeo.com/74292820. Key illustrations from Tan’s story are scattered throughout the collection of the boys’ work.

HOW TO: OBJECT WRITING (from http://www.writersdigest.com) The best ‘diving technique’ I know is object writing. It’s direct and simple. You arbitrarily pick an object—a real object— and focus your senses on it. Treat the object as a diving board to launch you inward to the vaults of your senses.

Although you understand your five senses, you could probably stand a few exercises to sharpen them, especially the four you don’t normally use when you write. If I asked you to describe the room you’re in, your answer would be primarily, if not completely, visual. Try spending a little time alone with each sense. What’s there? How does the kitchen table smell? How would the rug feel if you rubbed your bare back on it? How big does the room sound? (What if it were twice as big? Half as big?) Remember this, it is important: The more senses you incorporate into your writing, the better it breathes and dances.

You have two additional senses that may need a little explanation: 1. Organic sense is your awareness of inner bodily functions, for example, heartbeat, pulse, muscle tension, stomachaches, cramps, and breathing. Athletes are most keenly focused on this sense, but you use it constantly, especially in responsive situations.

2. Kinaesthetic sense is, roughly, your sense of relation to the world around you. When you get seasick or drunk, the world around you blurs—like blurred vision. When the train you’re on is standing still and the one next to it moves, your kinaesthetic sense goes crazy. Children spin, roll down hills, or ride on tilt-a-whirls to stimulate this sense. Dancers and divers develop it most fully—they look onto a stage or down to the water and see spatial possibilities for their bodies. It makes me dizzy just thinking about it.

OBJECT FOCUS Pick an object at random and write about it. Dive into your sense memories and associations surrounding the object.

Anything goes, as long as it is sense-bound. Write freely. No rhythm, no rhyme. No need for complete sentences. Use all seven senses: sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, organic, and kinaesthetic.

TEN AND ONLY TEN MINUTES Object writing works best when you do it for ten minutes, first thing in the morning. Isolating ten minutes of focus at points throughout the day of course works too.

Guarantee yourself ten minutes and only ten minutes. Set a timer, and stop the second it goes off. You’re much more likely to sit down to a clearly limited commitment.

Soon, something like this will happen: At minute six, you’ll really get on a roll, diving, plunging, heading directly for the soft pink and blue glow below when beep! The timer goes off. Just stop. Wherever you are. Stop. Writus interruptus. All day, your frustrated writer will grumble, “Boy, what I might have said if you hadn’t stopped me.”

Guaranteed, when you sit down the next morning, you will dive deeper faster. The bottom in three minutes flat. Next time, one minute. Finally, instantly. That is your goal: immediate access—speed and depth. So much information and experience tumbles by every minute of your life, the faster you can explore each bit, the faster you can sample the next. But, of course, speed doesn’t count without depth. The ten-minute absolute limit is the key to building both. And it guarantees a manageable task.

Object writing prepares you for whatever other writing you do. It is not a substitute.

Loyalty Forget it. There’s no reason to stay loyal to the object that sets you on your path. Your senses are driving the bus— you can go wherever they take you. The object you begin with might only be your starting point. Full right turns or

leaps to other places are not only allowed, but encouraged. Think of it as sense-bound free association. If you try to stay focused on the object you start with for the whole time, you may get bored with object writing after a few weeks.

Anywhere you go is okay. Try bouncing off of each sense-image to wherever else it might take you, using each new sense-image as a sort of pivot to the next, a kind of sensual free association. Always with your senses, all seven of them. All within ten minutes. Don’t worry about story lines or “how it really happened.” No rhyme or rhythm. Not even full sentences. No one needs to understand where you are or how you got there. Save more focused writing for your songs.

Of course, instead of association, you certainly can stay within the framework of a story or event if you like, like “Back Porch” above, but let your senses drive the bus. As you remember the events, remember with your senses.

How did the park smell? Were children giggling over by the duck pond? Italian sausages with steaming onions? Let us experience it too by engaging our senses; stimulate us to see, smell, taste, hear, etc., to really experience the story for ourselves.

Even more important, your listeners will each fill your sense-bound words with their own sense memories: I remember stomping through puddles on Duluth Avenue in St. Pauls when I was seven. I had a yellow slicker that smelled like my rubber boots, and my boot buckles jingled when I walked.

Where were you? Not on Duluth Avenue, I’ll bet.

In this way, sense-bound language involves you; my words are filled with your experiences. So practicing using sense-bound writing is a good thing. It’s a powerful tool for involving your listeners in your song. It will often generate song ideas or interesting lines.

Object writing is about showing, not telling. It is an exercise, like a morning workout, that you use to stay in shape. And it happens to be really fun and challenging. It’s not only worth the effort, it’s a pleasure to do. You should stay with it, religiously, for at least six weeks.

Ten minutes every day for at least six weeks. You won’t believe what happens.

Sam Banton On the wall at the rear of the kitchen, there was once a drawing my daughter made for me. When she gave it to me, it was perfect, and when I left, it was crumpled and folded. She had handed it to me and said that she loved me, so I pinned it up where I would see it every morning. This item and our family photo, were the only items I had that capture what some would call love.

I walked over to the pins with ripped paper beneath them, yet no paper between the corners joining them up.

I remembered what it said on the back of the drawing: “I love my family.”

Then, I noticed scratch marks in the plaster of the wall, below where the drawing would have been.

I could just about make them out: “Każdy rana musi cię ukształtować. Każda szrama musi zbudować tron.”

It was something my father always used to say to me at night. “Every wound must shape you. Every scar must build your throne.” He would come into my room at precisely midnight to see if I was asleep, and when I wasn’t which was most of the time - he’d tell me that.

Ever since I left to buy that loaf of bread, I’ve still kept a bit of hope that I will see him again. I now hope that my daughter will do the same for me.

It’s not like I had a choice. It was either join the Führer’s cause, face persecution from the party or flee. I had to leave them behind. I didn’t want to have anything to do with Hitler’s policies of persecution, which basically sealed the decision for me. Packing was the hardest part. I placed the photo of my family in a tear of dirty cloth and tied it carefully but firmly. I knew that my wife and daughter could do without it. I placed my one suit and waistcoat - which did gain me a new job – in a leather case.

I snapped back into reality. No more flashbacks. It’s all in the past. As I ran my thumb over the scratch marks, a floorboard creaked behind me, making me freeze in fear. Then, turning around, I saw her. Those dark, doe eyes. The short, dark hair. Barely aged. Barely changed. The eyes locked me in with a dead stare. I had missed those eyes but the pain now in them was unbearable. Attempting to speak, my mouth moved, but no noise came out. She opened her mouth and a wave of blue feelings poured out, crashing into the warm, orange of nostalgia I had been basking in.

She spoke like a whispered breeze: “Where were you papa?”

George Houghton Britain, 1970 In my red tray of assignments, resting on my large, weathered desk, I saw a mould green book, dog-eared from decades of use. The pages were splattered with grease and ingredients from meals eaten many miles away. I opened it. On the first page the name, ‘Janina Vitcus’, was scrawled on in a chicken-scratch hand.

I gasped. Thoughts rushed thoroughly into my brain. What was it doing here? Where had it come from?

What was it doing here? Who knew I could read a book in this language?

I flitted to the last page. It read ‘Sallabarsia Soup’. I did not need to read the ingredients. I could smell the hard work and aspirations wafting through the years. It was the last dish she ever cooked for me.

I always find it ironic when a story begins with an ending. Like this one does.

Lithuania, 1940 The time had come. They had found out my secrets. They were coming for me. Every second wasted was another chance of the door bursting open with the arrival of troops to kill me, to kill my wife and daughter as collateral damage. It felt like the walls were closing in as I packed all but the bare essentials; dark woollen clothes, a bundle of

newspaper clippings, my daughter’s favourite books and my wife’s blue cookbook. I dressed, looking grimly at the dirty walls. Then I woke my daughter up, whispering, “It’s time to go Edita”. She rose up from her bed.

“Papa?” she asked silently.

“We have to go.”

“Why?” “Because there’s a little problem with some people.”

“Who papa?”

“The big bad monster. I mean, the U.S.S.-,” My daughter looked up anxiously and meekly at my rushed explanation. We adults shouldn’t be tangled in all this tumult, never mind the children.

“We have to go now” “Where?”

“Somewhere… safe. Now, please, it’s time to get dressed” She got dressed quietly and quickly into her clothes which were a rough jacket and a dirty slip dress.

As we walked sullenly into the kitchen, my wife was cooking her signature dish, sallabarsia soup. She asked, “Are you two ready to go now?”

“Yes mama.”

“Yes, now we have to go.”

Harry Laithwaite Leaving I laid my brown leather case on the table, thinking of my wife and daughter. I longed to see them one final time.

As I carefully folded my warmest jumper and fitted it into the suitcase the fibres caught on my rough fingers.

My trousers were placed on top of my good jacket. It was made of velvet and had a colour of blood red. Next to the suitcase rested my ghost-grey hat with a cannonball-black trim wrapped around it.

The journey to the station took me across town. I stood on the platform waiting for the train to arrive in a quiet crowd, the shadow of my family and the guilt of leaving growing bigger and crawling over me. Against all hope, I knew I would never see them again.

The train pulled in, I stepped aboard and walked to my seat which was occupied. I recognised the passenger as my wife, a mirage from past journeys.

Returning In the middle of the kitchen there sits a table and on the counter rests a teapot, no bigger than a fist. It is cracked and sorrowful, the glaze a mix of green and blue. In the corner of the room stands a shelf, taller than everything in the kitchen and on its top shelf the photo album is still there full of images of my long gone family.

In the back of the album there is a drawing of me drawn by my daughter when she was four. She would now be eighteen. My mother’s pocket book is still in the adjacent drawers. There is a faint inscription inside its cover, “I am the Master of my fate, I am the Captain of my soul.’ It was one of her favourite phrases.

The tin cooking pot and ladle still hang on the wall. I loved cooking with my mother when I was young. I looked towards where the stove used to stand and I saw a woman in her late forties laughing with her son as they cooked. I recognised her straight away, it was my mother. I could smell the hot food bubbling in the pot.

Harry Adams In the far corner of the room, in the dampest drawer, lay Elle's last drawing. Completed by such delicate hands, it had been lovingly placed in a frame which is now smashed. Someone had brutalised our home.

Her gentle hands could create the most beautiful drawings, even with charcoal from the kitchen fire. This was my most important possession, it still is. I loved to watch her beautiful face brighten up as she drew. Now, just like everything else in my life, she's gone. Forever. Because of me.

I cleared the broken glass and took the paper out of the frame. Turning it over, a moment of silence filled the earth as I held up the piece of paper.

Tatuś, I love you with all my heart, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. I know our time together is running out. I wish we could stay close but I know why we can't anymore.

Być odważnym – be brave.

Elle x What I would do to spend one last moment with her, to explain, and to say sorry.

I try to settle outside, on the bench where we used sit and talk, trying to take my mind off things. Footsteps.

Closer. Closer. The person's breathing pattern is audible. As I gaze up, a small girl leaps towards me. Her cold hands pass through my arm. 'Tag!’ she shouts, 'you’re it!'

Without hesitation, I’m up on my feet and I run as fast as my feet can carry me. 'Hey! That's not how the game works', her voice echoes after me.

Small stone catch at my ankles. Then, like when a tree is chopped down, the ground shook with the weight of how powerfully I hit it.

Yet again the girl was standing over me, 'You’re not very fast are you?' She reminded me of Elle. I shook my head from side to side, three times for good luck. Then, upon opening my eyes again, she was gone!

There was a certain glimmer about that girl, like my vision of her was glazed over with a thick coating of mystery. Attempting to pull myself together, I retraced my steps back to the empty house.

The Summer of 1939 For months the children played in the fields and gardens of our town, counting time with dandelion clocks and chasing birds. We woke up to the beautiful sound of birdsong each morning. The bakery next door would engulf the house with the most comforting smells of baked bread and herbs.

When summer was over and the leaves started to descend, the monsters came. They bombarded our homes and trashed our belongings and with them our happiness. The shadows emanated from the Führer’s black heart.

Ben Rimmer In the photograph of my kitchen, a cracked teapot rests on the table. That single crack reminds me of what I used to have – a mother and a father. At the tea party when it acquired the damage, my sister (and her clumsy mishandling), smashed the lid into the pot. The chip is now smooth, and the crack small. The teapot can still be used. Steam is floating

up away and away in the picture, just as I wish I could. The tea that is inside of it is like my memories: brewing, contained.

My sister, now deceased, used to sing a popular Polish folk song:

Siada na koń cozak młody, Czule żegna się z dziewczyna.

A young Cossack mounts his horse, Sadly he parts with his girl.

That song is called ‘Hej Sokoly’. I love its melody.

My eyes lose themselves in the photo of the kitchen. They rest on an old origami creation of a dove. How amazing those days were, when I had all the time in the world. It was so peaceful. My daughter had written a message that was folded into the bird. The dove was originally a letter.

“I love you papa. I always will, no matter how far away I am.”

Yes, I will hold on to that. I love you too, Marya.

My entire attention remains on the picture. The grandfather clock on the wall in the photograph begins to tick. I can hear it clearly. The door opens, and my sister enters, sitting down on the kitchen chair. It is her, for sure. I feel as though she is here with me. She is wearing her favourite skirt.

I blink. She disappears. The kitchen is back to normal, and I am back in reality. On the run. In hiding.

Despite her disappearance, I continue to look at the picture. This time, I remember when I was last in there.

The time had come. The time for me to leave my home. The packing was easy to do, although for my mind, it was infinitely difficult: to leave behind objects, which each meant so much.

Here is what was packed: twenty different photographs, mostly of my home, or my mother and sister (I look at these every day); my wife’s woollen skirts, blouses, her modest hats, which are tight on her head, my suit and a few more garments for my daughter and wife. My Jewish customers, who used to frequent my small but successful clothing business, would also flee, just like us.

And so, picking up the suitcase, we left the house for good.

When we left, I tried to keep my attention from the bricks and mortar behind me. In the final moment that I looked back, I noticed a book in a stack on the windowsill. The book, by Isaac Bishevis Singer, the renowned Yiddish author pushed one of his most iconic lines into my mind:

“We have to believe in free-will. We've got no choice.”

I wished that everyone thought that. I certainly did.

I had lived in that house for as long as I could remember, for years before I got married to Julia! And for a short time since mother perished.

The train station in our shtetl was small, but we were fortunate to have one. The train station was nothing but a small, stone house that was connected to a little track. In five minutes, the vehicle to freedom would arrive on the rails.

When we entered the ticket office, one old Jewish lady sat behind the dirty glass screen. On the wall, there was a painting by my favourite artist, Leopold Chiplowski. He created beautiful images of Polish-Jewish life, his work reminded me that our ordinary lives are important.

Standing there, I looked through the window, down a short, cobbled street that connected the train station to the town. Creeping along that road, I caught sight of something that chilled me to the bone. An uncontrollable monster crept closer every second. Fascism’s apocalyptic tentacles would soon pick us up, one by one, and then we’d be swallowed whole.

It was 1939, and everyone was in fear. My family and I were in fear, and if we didn’t board this train, we risked being forced aboard a train to a different destination.

Daniyal Quereshi Hanging up on the wall, beneath the top shelf, was my daughter’s beautiful drawing of me in my hat. I am pictured to the left, my wife to the right, with only three strands of hair and waving. My daughter stands between me and my wife, with a triangular body and a dot for a nose. The paper was scrunched and folded from the corners. On my arm perched a bird with a pointy beak and bee-like wings and the sun shone happily behind. It does not anymore.

A drawing of a butterfly was hung up next to it. Terrible to anyone, yet beautiful to me. Next to the butterfly, my wife had written, ‘Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.’ This rang very true in my mind.

My eyes focused on further things in the room, including our tribute to Paco on the top shelf, his wings spread gloriously. Paco was once our pet bird. He was a dove. Sofia loved him! He was her best friend. We were all heartbroken when he passed. Sofia made an origami version of him in his remembrance. That was what perched on the shelf. ________________________________________________________________ Leaving. The day I left was the hardest day of my life. I left my home. I left my family. I left everything. I wished and prayed that it never had to come to that but it did, and I’m ashamed.

They marched in, invading my every right. The rights I would still have had if I wasn’t a Jew! They took Sofia, then my wife, Erika. I wanted to stop them. I really did. I knew what would have happened if I tried. Erika kicked and screamed whilst Sofia sobbed. I remained silent.

The tea on the table was cold and the teapot cracked when I emerged. All was silent when they left, and a cold tear ran down my cheek. My gut told me to run after them, but I listened to my head and packed my suitcase to leave.

I put some clothes in my suitcase: shirts and trousers, underwear, and the little food that was left in the house.

I caught sight of the framed family picture. I quickly wrapped it in a cloth and tied it with some string from the yarn ball that Erika had just previously been knitting from. That too went into my suitcase along with the guilt that I still carry to this day.

I put on a hat that carries the screams of Erika under it. I put on a waistcoat that buttoned in all of Sofia’s tears.

I picked up my suitcase that carried the weight of everything that I’m now missing.

As I walked outside, the shadow of the monster loomed. The monster wore a swastika armband. The monster was silhouetted against a swastika flag.

Peter Craig My Story of Loss Looking at the photo now, I can see my favourite book. It’s probably ruined by now, along with my family. I remember the picture of me, mum and my sister, Heather, pressed between the front cover and the first page. We would have got annoyed if it got creased. I see the book clearly in my mind, it was my dad’s when he went to war. It is hidden in the hole we made just behind the bookcase, just in case I come back, mum can stay exactly where she was moved from. I close my eyes and imagine this phrase in the book. My dad wrote it for us all.

Belib stark, nichts kann dich runter bringen.

Stay strong, nothing can bring you down.

Other details rise from the photo. I see our favourite game in the corner, Scrabbeln. I hope it’s still there so I can play it when I get home. I remember mum always wining with at least a 20 point lead.

It was terrible that last game we played, the Gestapo came whilst we were playing. Heather and I hid as the Gestapo tore mum away from the chair she was glued to. She wouldn’t move and she kept screaming until she was

taken away. I wish I could see Heather now, she moved to America. During these tough times, I remember my dad saying, “Lass alles, was dich stört und finde etwas anderes.” Leave whatever bothers you behind and find something else. I share this with the others in the resistance.

I looked again at the photo, I now see someone at the table. I hear him say, ‘Stay strong, nothing can bring you down.’

‘Dad,’ I whisper but it was a different family member, they started to walk out of the picture and then sat down next to me. It was my brother, Heinrich. I was told he died trying to escape at Dunkirk with the rest of the Wehrmacht, yet he was there alive next to me. I almost cried but he comforted me before he disappeared. I couldn’t give up until the Germans were gone for good. They took my mother and brother away. They made my sister leave.

This will not happen any longer.

I remember the day I packed. The suitcase was half full but it felt like it was 3 times the weight of it was full. I was there with my sister, I grabbed my picture of us and wrapped it in some newspaper. I packed my clothes and some food Heather made us, the final thing I packed was memories. They were all about happy times but now they were so heavy.

We both went down to the docks where she boarded her boat and sailed for America. There was a stench as fishermen were just unloading the new catch. That was the last time I saw her. I wish I could have gone with her. I made my way back down the alleyways to the resistance hide out. I had to make sure no one saw me or we would be caught.

Cameron Weatherley In the background of the picture, the grandfather clock passed down in my family for generations rests. It was a present from my father on my eighteenth birthday, now for the time being it’s my daughter’s. Inside the back of clock there is an old photo taped to the door, a picture of myself, my daughter (who was only around four at the time), my wife, parents, brother and two sisters. It was taken just before my parents died some 24 years ago.

My father passed the key to wind the clock on to me in an envelope. He showed me the workings of the clock and as he pasted the photo to the door, said, “Son, this day was the most treasured day of my life, please never forget it. You are now the keeper of family times.”

Looking around my old kitchen pictured in the photograph, many different objects spark memories in my dull mind. I notice my chipped teapot, damaged by my daughter after we had enjoyed tea transported from near the equator. Next to the cup there were cards that looked like notes, as I deciphered the markings I realised they said; ‘eins’, ‘zwei’, ‘drei’, ‘vier’, ‘fünf’, ‘sechs’ and ‘sieben’. The German numbers one-seven. The cards were learning tools we used with our children.

As I return to looking at the clock, I remember father saying, “I’m proud of you, son. You have a great family and your daughter is so loving.” I had looked through many photos and closed my eyes hoping to dream about my parents and those joyous times.

“Hans. Hans! Hans, wake up!” A voice bellowed as I woke up on the very stiff bed.

I yawned and grumbled, “Is it really time for breakfast already?”

The man the voice belonged to appeared. He was no more than twenty five years old and he looked extremely fragile, but believe me he was not. “No, it was breakfast five minutes ago, that’s why I’m waking you up. Get ready fast!” He left the room and I rushed into my suitcase to find some clothes.

As I arrived, the others were well into their breakfasts. The landlady walked into the kitchen with a plate and cleared her throat, “Hans, this is your first ever English breakfast, enjoy!”

After I had eaten breakfast I began to unpack my few belongings. I set the framed the picture of my family on the nightstand. Every time I looked at the photo I saw new and interesting memories that became clearer and clearer.

Lewis Pierson On the highest shelf in the kitchen rests my favourite book. Its pages hold the only picture remaining of my sister. It’s pressed snuggly between pages now yellowed with age, curling, ever so slightly at the corners. The picture is hidden so, at least in some form, she can remain in the home they dragged her from.

An eclectic selection of our belongings remained, crammed into a cupboard. In a now rusty metal tray in which my mother used to cook my favourite meal – paprika biała kiełbasa – lay the family album. The album itself prompted many memories, without even opening it.

Many photos were missing, faces vanished just as in real life. On the third page, my mother. Cursed for her religion, praised by all that knew her. I removed the photograph from the page and slipped it into my pocket. The photograph was a small token in the face of the loss my siblings and my mother. My father had left some months earlier. I wrote a letter but had no address.

My dearest Father, It hurts me to tell you that they have taken her, my mother! Your wife! Believe me, despite the hostility I will find you. I promise.

Your loving son, Saul I turned my face turned to where my mother used to sit at our dining table, talking about our bright future, Her voice echoed from the past: ‘To be nobody but your own person in a world which is trying day and night to make you like everyone else is the hardest battle a human being can fight.’ Conviction lingered in the room but so did the memories or my father’s drinking and sorrow.

The past dangers that lurked around every corner in 1939 were still palpable in the air. The world in front of me froze, and I could hear the past. Children playing, my siblings? The daily tantrum of my youngest brother when the risk to let him play outside became too great. A woman screaming. My mother?

Through the windowpane there was a small boy with dirty knees, eating a sandwich way up in the tree, about ten meters up. This boy rocked around, bouncing on the branches. Jacob had never been one for stillness. The boy’s eyes turned my way, he scrambled down and began to belt his way down the pavement. It was my brother!

My feet shifted and I returned to the room. Moving on, the words, ‘whistling winds and staring trees are enough to satisfy one’s need and the safest place a person could be’, blew into my head. On that account, my father was a liar. He had left.

I began to delve into the cupboard destroying cobweb after cobweb which were as strong as brittle bones.

The panelling at the back could be pushed to one side. I moved the wooden slat and looked down on the crawlspace that I had cowered in as they took them.

I had begun my packing with the shirts. I knew that I ought to look formal. They referred to us as abschaum, scum. I was not allowed to cherish the visible signs of pride in my religion but I would carry it internally. I started to fold the shirts by criss-crossing the sleeves to protect my heart. I then folded up from the bottom, followed by pseudoironing process where I used my forearm to smooth them out. Next, some of my older brother’s trousers, after sewing the waist band to my size. I was young, but in a world like that, no matter how old or how young, they wanted us all dead. I had to be able to do everything any grown-up could do. Where packing required a leisurely throw into the case with no effort nothing clicked, no sense of victory. Socks in, no triumph. There was no longer space for casual in this world.

Now the shoes. I took my finest pair, the pair I wore to synagogue. They had the brightest sheen. I despised myself for lack of effort, never again. With this level of formality, I imagined I could attend formal occasions such as a dinner party given by Reich commandants. I fixated on revenge.

I placed my tallit, yarmulke and tefillin carefully in a box and slid them into the crawl space.

‘You shall put these words of mine on your heart and on your soul; and you shall tie them for a sign upon your arm, and they shall be as totafot between your eyes.’ Deuteronomy 11:18. The words were branded to my heart and soul. They fortified my strength and cleared my vision. I closed the panel.

I no longer knew if it was all Germans who hated the Jewish race. To be German was to be a party member.

Surely a nation of individuals could not share the same hatred? A clever boy like me was uncertain that things would balance out.

Charlie Silvester Every day when I get out of what I think of as a bed despite it providing no rest, specific memories come to me.

Memories of waking up and walking into my little girl’s bedroom to see her fast asleep, or memories of us ‘discovering’ how many of our ration cream crackers we could fit in our mouths at once. I sit at the scrubbed kitchen table. We had unfolded a number of her good school reports on that creaky table. I wonder if anyone would get to fixing it for reselling.

I looked around the place that would soon no longer be my home, my safe place. It was full of worthless belongings, I admit, yet it still felt tidy, in its own way. By the window, a little cat waved at me. A tiny pottery trinket that my daughter loved so much. I waved back, and put it in my pocket. I didn’t want it to be smashed in the coming house searches.

Our neighbours barely held any gatherings, so when we were invited to one, I would put on my best hat and then rush to the fun. These were some of my favourite nights.

I swiped up the hat when I saw it. I couldn’t leave without it. I smiled as I put it on my head, only to realise the hat indicated I was ready to leave. My rough daily clothes were already packed, along with some food and an especially sad looking toothbrush.

I took one last look at my beaten down, yet still standing home. It was to be my sanctuary no-longer. I dug into my pockets and turned up my collar against the wind, stepped out and left the house with the ugly Swastika flag hung on the door behind me.

I began my journey into the unknown.

Ahmad Imran Leaving Sorrow and depression were etched into my eyes. The time had come. I needed to distract myself; in hope of doing so, I opened my suitcase to check whether I had packed everything. A photo laid peacefully at the top of the suitcase’s contents. The photograph showed two adults and a girl. It was a perfect memory. Nothing was wrong then, we were happy, content, and peaceful. Unlike now.

Clothes were folded beneath it, nothing in the pockets except a couple of memories. Some were darned together where they had been worn through. My wife was great at needlework. She hated the poverty of the material but her face while she worked was tremendous. It was full of determination and concentration, she was like a machine.

I pulled myself out of the memory. My heart was torn, I couldn’t bear this anymore. Regret was streaming down my cheeks. Holding my breath, I gently placed the picture down to one side. Beneath there were some small clothes. A night gown for a three year old. A way to remember her, to never forget.

Never forget.

I lurched to the window, gulping down the fresh, cold air. Shadows were outside, beckoning me. Darkness had crept in and covered the street like a blanket. Echoes of memories were ricocheted in my head, shattering my soul, blow by blow.

Barely consoled, holding the picture very tightly and with the case in my other hand, I headed downstairs to my wife and daughter. I hugged them, trying to express all of the complexity of my emotions. Words were not needed.

I walked towards the door, each step like a mile. As I walked, I took a glance at my daughter. Her eyes shined and pleaded but they were also tired with confusion. I stepped out of the door and left. Shadows followed and the distant sound of a baby crying resounded down the street.

Returning On the table, my eyes rested upon the spot where the flowers used to be. They grew everyday as the weeks had flown past, symbolising my love, standing tall. When I left, the leaves were falling to the ground, gliding slowly down as I stepped out of the house.

The white eyes of my daughter flashed as she stood in front of me, the cold biting my cheeks. Past conversations struck me. My wife begging. My daughter crying.

She had planted the hyacinths four our fourth anniversary when I was 23. I am now 40.

I opened the dresser drawer. A man and a woman stood holding the hands of a girl who stood in the centre. I could just about discern the faded writing, ‘Happy Birthday’. Guilt bubbled inside me. Unable to bear the memories, I stepped outside again.

The wind shrouded me as I saw a bicycle riding past, gliding across the ground. I was reminded of my brother who used frequently cycle past, whistling cheerfully. We were close, more like best friends than brothers. I remember vowing to get him a brand new bicycle for his birthday. That never happened.

Ismaael Patel Returning I twisted the handle to open the door. It wouldn’t open. I tried harder and it opened, welcoming me with a screech.

The first space I entered was my mother’s favourite room, the kitchen.

Upon the centre island of the diminished kitchen lies my favourite book. Its stained pages are turned in on themselves, crumbling and folding inwards, hiding fragments of text as well as photographs, elegantly scripted in my mother’s hand. A shy image of my mother nestled between two pages, depicting her just as my memories do.

Although, this picture of my mother could satisfy me for some time, I am now 35 and haven’t seen her for many years.

I reached out to pick up the book, handling my mother’s property with the respect it was due.

In a moment of pause I recalled what she would say, prompted by her most prized possession: “A world without books would somewhat like the way we live materially, without sustenance.”

My eyes started to drift and wander, settling on my chair. It was positioned so that it became illuminated by the dappled late afternoon light. I remembered the warmth and my mother’s conversation washing over me.

Suddenly, she was there. A long jet black scarf enveloped her, hiding the scars of her past. The memory of her was true, she was there. The slippers on her feet struck against the creeping floor, steps one by one getting closer and closer. I took a moment to breathe in the beauty of my mother and her soft lips pressed against my forehead.

Packing The worn suitcase lay in front of me. Its weight, already difficult to carry, would get heavier over the course of making decisions for my future. My hand slowly reached out for the frame. In it, my daughter and wife. Their eyes would gleam and shimmer making me feel privileged to just be with them. Also in the image, myself, happy. I filled up with tears. I gently placed it in the bottom left corner of my suitcase, wrapped in material to protect it.

My eyes blinked away tears and I rapidly, in quick succession, transferred the pocketknife from my blazer pocket to the top right corner of my suitcase, followed by my pistol from underneath the floorboards and packed them round with jumpers. From around the room I drew my dark, sober clothes. They rose like shadows from wooden boxes with well-carpentered joints. I placed them into my suitcase along with my fear and haunting memories.

My lungs corrupted each time I tried to breathe deeply in this country. The past and the future restrained the air. The fear of guilt, the fear of the future fighting against me, of waiting, of leaving and the fear of Stalin. His corrupted mind wrapped hands around my neck, delaying my departure. Our father’s face, friendly but perpetually atrocious inside.

Leaving My shrunken face was anonymous in the crowds. Every familiar street pleaded for me to stay, but I had the chance to move on. Families celebrated birthdays, friends met and filled bars. I had done the same, believing I was having the time of my life. The lights that used to me mesmerising pleading with me once more, but I walked on.

I turned into the dark alleyways and reached towards my future, my awareness became dim. I spurred myself on, my emotions gathering themselves to make my perception of life emphatic. My lungs went into shock with each gasp of air and I felt that I could endure for an eternity. The inconsistent cobbled road reflected the sound of every single stride of my brogues. The shadows behind me retreated.

The car waited at the end of the street in front of me. The yellow moon hung low in the sky. ‘Где следующий?’ The kind gentleman behind the steering wheel asked, ‘Where next?’ I searched for the plausible answer. I choked trough the words. ‘Везде куда меня ведёт дорога.’ Wherever the road the road takes us.

Veer Patel On the scrubbed table rests my favourite hat. It is made from felt, the colour of milky tea. The beautiful hat, hemmed with a deft needlepoint, lies there motionless. It reminds me of a dinner party I was at with my wife and daughter. My wife gave it to me as a present on my birthday and I first wore it to a fancy dinner party that was hosted by one of our closest friends. The hat has always been a sign of good luck. It cannot make my current wish come true however.

My golden pocket watch lies alongside the hat, gleaming in the light. It has a neat inscription inside it saying: ‘Dieter, Hanna, Rudy and Leißet, a family that loves and will stay together.’

I engraved when my beautiful daughter was born. My wife always said that I had an unstoppable imagination and that I was the glue that held the family together. The pocket watch was one of the family’s most significant items.

It made me happier knowing that I had engraved it myself.

An implausible smell hit my nose, rising from the past. As soon as I smelt it, I knew exactly what it was: Pollo Piccante!

Pollo Piccante, my favourite dish, originated from Italy. No-one cooks it quite like my wife. It is so crispy yet juicy and moist, with just the right amount of chilli in the mix. I know some key things when it comes to cooking this dish. Grill the chicken first. Add tomatoes, cream and top it off with a small teaspoon of chilli ground into a paste. After this, add salt and pepper and then once the delicious sauce has reduced, add the spinach. Cook your pasta and mix it with the crispy chicken and top it off with some sauce. If it is cooked like this, then I scoff the dish down at top speed.

She must have cooked it recently for Leißet. A question lingers: why are they not here? ______________________________________________________________________________ It is 1939 and fascism is the totalitarian ideology of Germany. Fascism removes our democratic rights. I fill my old, dusty suitcase with essentials that I will need on the trip. I am quite apprehensive. I fill it with shirts made by Germans tailors because I believe them to be it the best. I also fill it with the money I have, books and some photographs of my loving family that will allow me to cherish memories of some happy times.

There is no one left to trust because if they turn on me, I will be swallowed by the deep, murky depths of trouble. I love my family but in order for them to be safe, I have to leave. I do not truly support the Party but I have to show support because if I don’t, torture will come our way. I’m privileged with a high rank in the Reich leadership but it is more of a privilege when you support the Party and their beliefs.

Most important of all, I need to achieve independence. I need to think for myself. I realise how challenging this plan will be but I am ready to overcome whatever awaits. I am leaving the beautiful town that I grew up in. I am haunted by the death of my brother. I will struggle financially. I may become ill. I will not have anyone by my side because I will not know anyone and nobody will know me. ______________________________________________________________________________ It is time to depart. I leave without saying goodbye to my family. They cannot be implicated.

Monstrous, giant snaking shadows creep behind me as I make my way through town. They threaten the family I am leaving behind. My haunting memories joining together and loom behind me. I look away from the shadow.

The train station that smells cigarette smoke; the train arrives and departs for the coast.

I look out at the ocean, thinking about how calm it is. I see the ship I am going to sail on, it is extensive and is navy blue. I think about the journey that awaits me.

My family, will they be in danger? With the grasping tentacles creeping throughout Germany, will they be claimed next? Fascism would soon surprise them and eat them alive.

Tom Griffiths The Return Through the gap in the creaking door, my eyes settled on the usual empty hook and I placed my hat on it, fully opening the oak door with my faded shoe. Its rusted screws rattled, as they always did when I placed anything on it, making a noise like clinking teacups. The coat hooks hung limply, groaning slightly. I was never a practical man, always an artist.

I took another cautious step, making my way to the gnarled, ash table, which still bore scratches from my art tools.

Looking beyond, the framed family photograph lay toppled and shattered. A memory hit me hard: walking through the door, placing down the photo I took to work and calling out, “Здравствует! Как дела?” Hello! How are you? Such simple words. Нина, my Nina, would come running down the stairs and leap into my outstretched arms from the third step up. “Лучше видеть вас!” was always the reply. Better for seeing you.

I picked up the photo. The frame was cracked and scratched. A drop of water landed on the drawing and smudged the ink. I realized that I was crying. I wiped away the tears with the back of my hand and put the frame under my arm. I took another step, the ancient floorboards creaking in protest.

I felt the banister, my calloused hands brushed over the wood gently and carefully. I remembered the way that she would slide down the banister and jump off at the end. She clambered onto my back and I ran in circles. There was a palpable aura of joy wherever Нина walked; she emanated euphoria. It was impossible to feel sad around her.

She was a beautiful girl; radiant, free and happy-go-lucky.

The Packing I took a deep breath, choking back tears, as I carefully wrapped my family photo. I lifted my brown leather suitcase down onto the wooden dresser. The rusted latches opened with a rasp. I tied the string, sealing the photo carefully in the crinkled brown paper and placed it inside. I folded my clothes gently, with each fold a tear tugging at my eyelid. I eased in the few toiletries I owned, packing the dirt colored cloth sack into the corner. My lungs were caving in with sorrow, consumed by deep grips of the grief I knew I would endure trying to forget my life. This, however, would also be to forget the murder, the shadows, Stalin.

I had to leave. What choice did I have? I could both stay and risk arrest, with little chance of survival. On the other hand, if we tried to leave as a family, we would be reported and murdered by Stalin and his assassins. I would be forced to watch. I shook the thoughts out of my head.

I had to leave. It didn’t matter how. It didn’t matter where to. It did matter when. If I didn’t leave soon, my family and I would die. I swallowed, gulping down a sob. I was about to leave, when a gentle hand rested on mine. I turned around. It was my wife, Саша. She didn’t need to speak. Her eyes said it all, pleading, praying, begging. I closed the suitcase. I looked directly into her eyes, and placed a timid hand on her shoulder. If I tried to speak I would break down and cry.

I looked out of the window towards the rough earth where I had buried my gun and dagger, and the pile of ash where I had burned it. I could have worn it. I didn’t have many clothes, but I refused to be associated with Stalin. I reached for the door handle and opened it, its creak nipping my ears. I removed my faded, dirty fedora from the rattling hook, stepping onto the porch.

The Leaving My feet crunched on the gravel path. My tears created a dangerous waterfall down my face. I opened the gate, and it creaked with a desperate plea. I ignored it and walked on. Along the familiar streets, down the alleys. I finally arrived at the train station. Happy yet fraught families perched on the wooden benches, strained couples dashed to their trains. I sighed wistfully, but I couldn’t stay.

The glowing yellow moon reached through the window and placed its comforting hand on my shoulder. I shook it off. Memories of blood and death gripped my mind. Shadowy monsters, creatures of the underworld with dark tentacles gripping my thoughts. I fought back with ferocity, but they would still take over time after time. The night terrors. The beasts. There was no escape, wherever I hid they would find me.

I swallowed down the thoughts, and focused on the crackling announcements. My train. I stepped onto the platform, my arm yanked down by the suitcase. The train pulled in to the station, the doors opened by a train worker with a thick black moustache. I hauled myself and my suitcase onto the train and settled into a cracked leather seat. I slumped and secluded myself from everything outside of the window. I tried to hold back the demons and focus on the future. A new life. A new start. I thought about Нина, Саша. My home. I intended to return as soon as I could.

However, for now, I had to see where life would take me.

Elliot Davies On the highest shelf in the kitchen I saw the cracked tea pot. It was the only item I had left to remember my mother.

It was covered in black smudges and little scratches had stared to take it over. I had a sort of flashback in my mind. My Mother screamed at me and told me to run. I sprinted away. I truly regret it with all my heart. I went over to lift it off the shelf. It felt the same in my hands as it did all of those years ago. I took of the slightly crooked lid by the nob on the top of it. I was extremely careful. I peered inside and saw a note written by my mother.

‘To my beautiful child, remember I love you. Whoever acts from love is greater than who acts from fear.’

Tears fell down my face. On the other side of the kitchen sat my chair by the window, the one I’d seen so many times before, the place where I’d sit as the sun shone through flooding the kitchen with light. My mind went back to the teapot and the many conversations I had with my mother over steaming tea.

I thought about the time when I had to pack to leave. I remember everything like the back of my hand. I neatly folded up all the clothes I owned (not many). I had 4 shirts and 3 pairs of trousers. The pants were made of dreadfully uncomfortable cotton. When I wore them they would constantly irritate my legs. They were a loathsome brown-grey colour. The shirts weren’t much better either, 2 of them had jagged tears. All but one of them looked worn. The one that didn’t was perfect. Plain black - nothing special but nothing wrong with it. It was my favourite. The rest of them where ghastly and grey. As I placed them into the suitcase my eyes flooded with tears once again. I realised that it was actually happening I had to leave home. However despite all this the one thing I had was hope. After putting in all the essentials I finally put in my prized possession, the one pair of shoes I had that weren’t completely ruined. They were smart and fashionable, they were brown and shiny. After I put in other possessions, like pictures and books, I finally put in the last item a green diary that I figured I could use to fill the pages on all of those day I would spend bored out of my mind.

I went over to my chair and slowly sat in it. It felt the same as it I always was. My mi d started whizzing again.

I was basically there. I woke up and got ready to start my day. After I got ready I had my breakfast (Just an apple) and my mother made some tea in small teapot with the big crack. Midday arrived and so did lunch. My mother had made me a humble cheese sandwich and placed it on the kitchen table on a plate, I remember talking to her about everything that was going to happen. The evening soon came, and mum was making supper. We were chatting about things. I don’t remember much. Suddenly I heard a smashing noise. I shook my head and tried to reassure myself that it was nothing. Unfortunately it wasn’t and we heard a frightening bang on our door. Then again, until finally the door flung open and my mum screamed at me, “Get your stuff and go” I ran over to my suitcase that was still open and swiftly shut it and locked it. I looked over and saw my mum. She was so scared. I wanted to go over and hug her, but I knew I couldn’t. I sped out of the door, suitcase in hand and heard my mum shout in the background, “I love you!” I carried on running and started crying.

Fletcher Mellor-Brook On the windowsill by the sink there was a picture I drew as a child. A scribbled image of our first home in Poland.

Folded in with it was a picture that my two daughters had drawn of us in Poland, the last time we were all together. It was crinkled and yellowed with age, the corners were curled and there were numerous ink smudges. They had drawn my dream for me. All that I wanted to achieve was homecoming.

On the back was a message: “We hope you get to go on many travels and enjoy each trip. Remember, always take us with you in your heart.”

Tears welled in my eyes. They had given the picture to me before I left for the ship. We were strong back then.

Descending to the basement, my eyes locked onto a wooden box as the lightbulb brightened. It has a small silver plaque with an inscribed message on the top. The message read:

“My dearest son, Don’t focus on hardship or negativity, focus on the love and live every day to its fullest!

Mama” My mother gave me this to me on the morning of her death. It had been her constant refrain throughout my childhood.

I carried the box upstairs and placed it on the kitchen table.

Hands still resting on the box, I saw myself sat at the table with familiar company. I couldn’t tell who it was to begin with but then the presence of my mother made itself known. I could hear our conversations. The urgency of living a full life.

I opened the box.

Memories were flooding out of it. The insistent truth of my parents’ deaths spilled out, the shadow-like tentacles taking out my heart and soul. I lifted out pictures of us in Harcerstwa. There were pictures of them proudly holding my daughters shortly after their births. Aunt Zelda’s bright red hair was extinguished by the black and white film.

The realisation that I haven’t been when my family need me was stark. I knew I must go.

In the attic, I opened up the wardrobe and tugged at my brown suitcase which had been a gift from my father.

I flicked the metal latches up and lifted the top open. Pictures of my wife and two daughters resting on top of clothes packed for emergency departure. I brushed my hand over them, wondering if I would track them down and thought about how they would react to seeing me. After final checks, I slammed the suitcase shut.

The fire inside me meant that I completely forgot about the weight of the suitcase.

I took the next train to Warsaw.

Raees Patel My daughter, Zophia, and my wife, moved to the safety of the Krynica countryside before the war. I, however, had to leave to go to war against the Nazis. The time had come.

On the highest shelf in the kitchen, rests my daughter’s paper bird. Its wings, instead of resting, are held high up. It looks delicate, as if touching it will most likely break it. I’ve always thought of the paper bird’s ribs as vulnerable but admired how it is poised for action. When my daughter wanted to it to fly, I had attached strings to it and pretended it was flying. She was too smart to believe it. That was six years ago, when I was 33. I paused to decipher the writing on the wing. It was written in a sweeping calligraphy: 'Always keep flight in your heart. Remember me.'

I felt a sense of warmth in my heart and turned to look outside. There was a tall girl in the distance, approximately 16 years old. I walked to the window, she was became more and more familiar the closer she got. It was my daughter. ‘Zophia!’ There was no reply. It looked like she was waiting for someone. And then she was gone.

__________________________________________________________________________________

It was 1939 and I was packing for war. I felt the heaviness of my bag increasing with every thought. I packed my brown, patched-up jumper. I packed slowly, with my family looking on. What felt like an eternity and yet no time at all was actually an hour. The last thing I packed was the family photo. I saw what was there. I saw the relationship

my family had. The picture had been taken a couple of years back, after the end of the First World War. The tear that dropped echo around the room. I held the image tight to my chest. My ribs were warm. I was warm.

I was ready to leave. My family, I felt, were no longer with me. I had broken from them. We had been so close.

The looming war had dragged us all down. I walked to the door with my family behind me. I didn’t look back.

I opened the door. ‘Do widzenia ojciec.'Goodbye father. Still, I didn't look back. I fled.

Khalid Lakhi On the highest shelf in the kitchen lay a perfect crane perched up next to the antique clock which was a present from mother. The crane’s wings were intricately folded to perfection; their symmetry was perfect but over the years the crane had yellowed, the previously sharp points subtly curling. It was nevertheless amazing that it had kept its shape over all these years. I retrieved the bird from its dusty nest and deciphered the minuscule writing on the bird it read: “Take care of your inner peace, it will give you flügel and help you to fly.” Her creation was a gift for my 32nd birthday.

I am now 48.

I withdrew a photo from my inside pocket. A picture of my family. On the back of the photograph there was a short instruction: ‘keep us with you so you can feel our presence’. I returned the photograph to my pocket and sat to unfold the bird in the exact place where I would sit after coming back home from work. The ring marks were still on the kitchen table. I remembered my daughter, her creative mind in flow, working opposite me. Her hand floated towards me, revealing an origami bird. Her mouth uttered, “For you.” A warm sensation filled my heart. I saw my daughter slowly walk towards, my heart getting warmer and warmer. In a blink of an eye she disappeared, leaving me with my heart empty with a solitary tear.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Packing my bag, I asked my daughter to bring me my patched up, brown jumper. Every time I packed an item my heart sank further. In my bag I packed sorrow, regret and a past which magnified the weight of my bag. My wife and my daughter were by my side and they could tell I had sadness in my eyes. They comforted me and helped me to pack my clothes.

I then had my last meal with them, the usual potatoes and soup. Tears rolled down my cheeks like a waterfall as I spooned soup from bowl to mouth. I did not know if I would see my family again.

I said my final goodbyes and opened the door. The door creaked on its hinges.

When I left the house I took my feelings with me. The heavy thoughts slowed me down. I looked back to see my daughter in my wife’s arms. Looking at my daughter small form almost finished me. I carried on walking.

Zain Mehraj Returning to the abandoned, derelict building that I once called home, I surveyed the skeletal frame of the building as the wind whistled through the empty window frames. The desecrated corpse lectured me. Racial slurs, which no longer registered with me, were evident on the semi-demolished walls.

Somewhere within, mixed with the pain, was surprise that the building had not been fully demolished by German radicals. I walked through the doorframe and past rubble into the sitting room. A cabinet leaned against a sagging wall and within its ransacked draws, a picture of my sister remained. Looking at the photograph was to look at a life once lived, now virtually forgotten and abandoned. In the photo, my sister was nine years old, she was only sixteen when she died. In the image she is playing on the swings, smiling – memories of simpler times.

Her voice returned. I remember running as fast as I could, my sister shouting to me, “Go! Don’t look back!

Run!” I did as she said, hearing my family’s cries as I edged away. I had abandoned them to promote my chances of survival. Complex anger burned through my brain, the decision will always haunt me.

Fighting back tears, I stepped into the kitchen and wiping drenched eyes with my sleeve, I looked down upon the small round kitchen table and saw an old cracked tea pot.

A tsunami of thoughts rushed into my head. The teapot was like an old friend - I remember my father coming home, hanging up his coat and hat, pouring freshly brewed tea into his cup. He would then sit down, sipping tea, while my mother updated him on the events of the day. His cold cheeks warmed up as he smiled at my sister and me, learning in to check if the pot contained enough tea to fill another cup.

The memories poured out of my brain, like the tea to my father’s cup, as a dark figure formed from the shadows. Its sheer size had caused many grown men to cower in fear and all the voices scorned my anger and selfpity. I sank onto my knees, fighting back this monster in my head. ________________________________________________________________________________

I awoke from my slumber, the time was four AM. Leaving day. After washing in cold water, I picked up my suitcase and headed downstairs. I paused, surely I couldn’t just abandon everything?

Could I leave my demons behind? What if I was caught? The papers were full of stories of Jewish refugees who attempts to flee the country ended in capture and transportation to the camps. I had to go. It was then or never.

A woman waited in a car parked outside. She was the one who would smuggle me to the shore, risking her own life and the lives of her husband and young children.

The docklands were desolate. I climbed onto the boat and continued down, below deck. It was a space cramped with hundreds of other people.

Evan Weston On the table in the kitchen rests the cracked teapot that I bought for my parents many years ago. It reminds me of their undying love for me. The teapot, full of fault lines, has been repaired many times. It earthenware shell is bland and boring. Its cracks make it dysfunctional, but they still cherished it. I take the pot with me.

As I leave the kitchen, I remember the last time I was exiting this house. My father’s words still echo: ‘Son, always remember that you are the only one who can change your life.’

I walk into the living room and see him there, sitting in his favourite armchair. His face is inscribed with deep lines. He said they showed wisdom, but I now know better. His mouth smiles into new creases as I enter the room. My memory of him gets up and shakes my hand, before hugging me. He was always one for formalities.

My father walks past me and leaves the room, but not before wishing me good luck.

I go up to my old bedroom, lift down my cracked leather suitcase, and start packing for my journey. I select several of my cotton shirts, worn trousers, and my best suit: a black waistcoat, black bow tie and black trousers. I was once a violinist with the now disbanded Warsaw Symphony Orchestra. Everything is black. Too black. So next I add a picture of my wife, daughter and I. My daughter drew it. It is full of smiles, the exact opposite of how we all feel right now. However, even if (heaven forbid) I am separated from my family, we have contingency plans. I pack shoes and jumpers. My wife has packed for herself and Aleksandra.

Despite the suitcase’s fullness, I manage to fit the teapot bundled in cloth and slip an origami swan made by Aleksy into my pocket.

I leave the house, under the cloud of my parents’ deaths. The German minority are overzealous in these days in which rumours of war are mounting up into imminent threat of invasion.

I meet with my wife and daughter outside of the house, and we head towards the dockside. We hope to escape Poland and to head to Great Britain or beyond.

As we walk away on the 1st September 1939, I feel as if there is a great catastrophe looming over us.

Alexander McKie The Struggler (The Story So Far) Bypassing everything in the room which was once my beautiful kitchen – now an inch-thick with dust – I went to a corner and eased open a concealed panel.

It was still there.

I breathed a sigh of relief; it was my old cooking pot and spoon! Look, I know what you’re thinking: ‘why does this guy care so much about the spoon and an old pot?’ Well it’s not just that we Poles are very serious about our food, can’t get enough of cured meats, especially pork and sausage meat. It is also important, well I guess you’ll find out eventually…

So, back to the story. A dull, burnished but nevertheless interesting vermillion colour, the pot was just the right size to prepare a large meal for many people; it also held nestling pans and a variety of utensils, condensed inside each other, down to the means to make a meal for one.

My sister and I always cooked together. I remembered her laughter as I clowned around with the spoon.

I heard her screams as she told me to run, and I did! I left her!

I dropped the spoon back onto the table in horror.

One of my favourite recipes simmered in front of my eyes: fillet of sea bass, steamed with sautéed potatoes and thin-stemmed broccoli. As I turned the pages of the recipe book, my mother’s beautiful, curled script provided advice for me: “And don’t forget my darling boy, add ginger and finely chopped chilli if you want a boost of flavour and when you are old enough, add white wine!”

Słedź w oleju z cebula – delicious herring, cooked to perfection and straight from the sea. The King of Meals!

Another of my Mother’s annotations: “I know you like your onions sautéed, make sure you remember what I taught you! Don’t keep dolloping all that sour cream on your meals, it ruins the original flavour- a small amount is more than enough!”

Gazing wistfully around the kitchen, where times had been and gone, my eyes lingered on the locked cabinet where my father kept his stash of vodka. Diving into the drawers I eventually pulled out a rusty old key and inserted it into the lock. KLICK! I opened it up and I gazed inside. They were all still there, I laughed in disbelief. I opened one at random and took a long sniff. It was wonderful, like a little part of me had been trapped inside that bottle and I welcomed it back with open arms.

The aroma of the vodka gave way to an insistent presence. The room pulsed. As I span round, my sister stepped into the light. She held out her hand, as if she wanted me to come with her. I stretched out my hand, but when I stretched it out I was met with a cold chill, cold against the balmy evening. She was gowned in rags.

She looked at me and I tried to hold her terrible gaze.

_________________________________________________________________________________

My eyes snapped open, it was time. Raising myself wearily from the sunken bed, I dressed silently, my mouth a desert, and went to check through my battered suitcase with a fine-tooth comb. Lifting the layers of clothes, my flint and steel sat on top of a rough blanket alongside a compass, shining in the moonlight. Wrapped in a cotton rag, I had also packed a folded photograph of my beautiful family taken before we were torn apart. In my inside pocket I have a tiny shell from Jurata beach, out on the Hel Peninsula and an acorn from the oak tree which stands in the garden outside.

I closed the lid and it clicked satisfactorily. I took a last look at my bare bedroom and hurried downstairs.

In the kitchen, I made my last cup of coffee. I followed it with a generous pouring of Vodka which I drained.

Once outside, I locked the door and tipped my hat to the house. “Do następnego spotkania.” Until we meet again.

I turned to survey the garden. There was a light drizzle and the plants were weighed down by the water. I followed the narrow gravel path and opened the metal gate.

What later became known as the polski fiat drove up to the gate, its engine turning over quietly. Throwing the suitcase in before me, I clambered into the back and the driver, without even looking at me, chucked a rough blanket over me.

“Don’t move and keep quiet!” he instructed in a gruff voice.

To the driver I was just some words scribbled on a piece of paper. A bag of credits were exchanged quickly and quietly at the end of a journey. As I headed off into the night, I was swallowed up with sadness at leaving. I now had something that I didn’t have before. A purpose. The will to fight, win and return home rose in my chest.

Joe Emery My old collection box used to rest on this kitchen table. The box held my favourite things from past to past. It held my family, stuck in the ageing box, flaking in bits on the top, and locked up safely so, at least in some form, they can remain with me, in my heart. I was given the box on my eighteenth birthday. God, I wish I was that age now.

Thinking of it reminds me of a conversation with my wife: “We need to get rid of this rotting box,” she pleaded.

“But I’ve had it forever.”

“I know, but it’s just gathering dust,” she complained. “We need to do something with it.” ‘‘This in turn made me think about the many times we had argued and shouted. Wasted time.

We used to sit in the kitchen, whilst she was cooking, and talk about food that our mothers used to cook.

When the food was ready we ate and then went straight to bed, as the nights were cold. Talking in the kitchen was the main time we spent together. The last thing she said to me still haunts me now.

“You won’t ever leave me, will you?”

I find her dust covered diary and smell the pages awash with her writing. It smells like her. Unfortunately, this was the same document that brought me crashing into the warning signs I had wilfully dismissed. The way she talked passionately about politics. About the prominent politics of the day. I should have known when I met her parents that I was in for trouble. Memories brought more memories, just piling on top of each other. I feel disappointed in her, even if only for a short period of time, for giving me away. I’m still reminded of the sign of hope she gave me, the chipped teapot.

By the way I’m a Jew. I remember packing my bag to leave. Some of my efforts were neat and others weren’t. I still remember what was I placed into the suitcase, even now. My jumpers were both made of course wool. Two shirts, one white and one blue, ironed and folded carefully, stacked into the right hand side. A pair of grey, heavy wool trousers, with so many repairs it was hard to count them, weighed in over them. My favourite book, sat atop everything else like a king in this pitiful hierarchy. My only pair of shoes (a pair of down at heel brogues) sat with their soles to the suitcase walls. My favourite recipe was folded elegantly into my favourite book. Three pairs of woolly socks, grey with holes were thrown in for good measure. Finally, my favourite photos of my wife, daughter we added, stored in their own pouch.

My heart was heavy the day I left. All of my emotions leaked out in one go: my love for my family and how much I was going to miss them, my hatred for the Nazi party and their policies, my guilt and dread due to leaving my family and joy (in a small way) because I was leaving my home, a war zone. I also felt remorse for planning to leave

everybody in my community. I was scared for myself because I didn’t know what dangers were lurking round the corner.

As I left the monster looked on. It was called hell. Every inch of me wanted to scream when I realised it was coming for them all but I couldn’t. So I ran. I caught an early train to the port and took a boat across to hopeful shores.

Harvey Dhokia Returning Beyond the kitchen, there was a small radio with two small knobs. I turned one clock wise and a small tinny sound came out. I turned the other one anti - clock wise and it spoke up too. George Von Bertouch sang from the small box.

My mother loved his songs. The man stopped singing. Another man talked, about the weather, the snow.

There was a distant crackle of bird claws as one landed on the roof. It flew down, shrouded in blue feathers and started tapping around in hope. The cold white snow was deep. It was clear, crisp and made a crunch if you stood on it. Then the bird was gone.

A certain woman walked towards the house. She was old, frail even. She carried a small wooden basket. In it were items for the food cupboard. The woman opened the gate and it creaked on its rusty hinges. The crunch of the snow got louder as she came towards the house. A rusty key entered the lock, and the door opened. A cold breeze entered the space.

The basket was placed on the table in the kitchen. Items were pulled out of the basket and placed into the cupboards. She then walked towards me and it was at that point that I awoke. She has been there and now she was gone. This was a dead space.

Leaving I folded the blue jumper. It was handed across and she tucked it into my suitcase. It sat alongside worn trousers, shirts and tokens of home. I packed a small picture that had been drawn by my daughter. A happy smiley girl, mother and father. Only she could imagine that emotion in us. Her depressed mother and father were shells of their former selves.

It was folded, wrapped and hidden in the pocket of my blazer.

I carried my daughter’s laughter with me too, ringing in my ears. I kept images of my beautiful wife in my head.

Deep sorrow, regret and anger rushed through my head attempting to shake my numb mind. Shadows of Nazi foot soldiers would wrap my family into their arms. Only I could save them, but I had been enlisted and had to leave for the front.

Ewan Davies On the cupboard in the abandoned kitchen used to rest my favourite clock. It now lies on the floor, broken. It used to be my mother’s. I hid the last photo of her inside it. The clock didn’t work, I just liked to have it around. It reminded me of her. I had been given it on my seventeenth birthday, all those years ago. On the back of the photo there was a rhyme my mother taught me: Bruder Jakob, Schläfst du Noch? Hörst du nicht die Glocken?

Brother Jacob, are you still sleeping? Do not you hear the bells?

It was the first rhyme I learnt and I had written it here as its resonance grew in me. Turning the photo over stirred the dust which had settled around the room. On the table there was also a pack of cards, Betrügen, otherwise known as Cheat, had been our favourite game. I used to play with my mother, she always won. Whenever I had become

angry about losing, she would tell me the same thing, ‘Losing is not bad. It is needed, Losing allows you to learn how to succeed.’ I wish I could hear her say it now. I slowly drew the pack across the table towards me. As I opened it, I felt like I had been reunited with a part of myself that had been repressed and forgotten. A smile formed on my face.

As I looked up a woman was sitting on the chair across from me. It was her. She told me how to properly shuffle the cards and I dealt. She always knew what card to play at the right time. However, I knew summer couldn’t last forever. She was gone and wasn’t going to come back, but for now she was here. Even though I knew it wasn’t real, I didn’t want it to end.

As the sun was hidden by the clouds and the room darkened, I felt sorrow as my family wasn’t here to be with me. I noticed a drawing my daughter had made. ‘They’ve not gone forever,’ my mother soothed. ‘They haven’t abandoned you, you know that.’ I wanted to stay with her but I was too far gone in shattered mind, I was drifting back to the day I left, the day I packed.

It was a surprisingly cold morning, for August at least, and I had woken up early. I had dragged myself out of bed and walked down the stairs. I crossed the kitchen, sat down and slumped in my chair. I noticed the awkward writing of my young daughter on papers upon the side table. I traced the writing with my finger as I read it, ‘Wir sind Sofia, Lucy und Otto.’

I remembered her being so much younger, before all of it happened. She had always loved Austria, it was wonderful she used to say. I just wish I could hear her voice one more time.

Across from the table, my suitcase waited, a fading brown. I had bought it to escape to another nation. I thought it was only ironic I was doing the same again. I dragged my hand over to the case and eased the lid open and looked over the only possessions I would be able to take on my journey: some writing implements, some books, a few shirts and pairs of trousers, a diary and a carefully wrapped photograph of my family.

As I picked the frame up, a tear had rolled down my face- perhaps even two or three, I don’t remember clearly.

My mind is too clouded by my past troubles to think straight anymore.