Boom . . . I woke up and looked out the window. It seemed like a nice day but that soon melted away. There was an explosion, gunshots, more explosions, more gunshots. I knew the sound. I’d heard it before. Living in Africa you get used to these things. But never this loud, this close, and this long. I ran out and found my mom. She was trying to keep herself busy. “Stay away from the windows!” she said. “Why?” “Just do it.” I just knew from that tone I should stay away from everything. Pacing back and forth in the long hallway in the middle of our house, I felt caged in. I was in fifth grade. I can’t handle this. What was happening? More gunshots and explosions echoed off the hills. My mom hung up the phone and came into the hall. “Where is Dad?” I asked. “On the roof with Ann,” she replied. “They are trying to find out what is going on and to see where the firing is coming from.” My dad was the Regional Security Officer for the US Embassy in Freetown, Sierra Leone in West Africa. Ann Wright was the Charge d’Affairs. “We are going to have to run,” he commanded The phone was ringing off the hook. All our friends and neighbors from all over the city were panicking. What is going on? What should we do? Mom tried to help them as best she could. I kept pacing the hall. My brother came out from his room. My mom told him to stay calm and stay away from the windows. We sat there in a windowless hall for a couple of hours. Mom tried to entertain us with a game of “Clue.” It lasted about five minutes. Who could think of Miss Scarlet or Professor Plum at a time like this? Every now and then my dad would come in and use the phone to call Washington. At about ten AM he said, “We are moving to the other building on the compound.” We got dressed and went downstairs. The gunshots were louder than ever. “We are going to have to run,” he commanded. “One . . . two . . . three . . .” Off we ran. My dad had my little brother. We ran across the parking lot, down the stairs, past the pool, took a right, and went into the new building. Safe . . . for now. We went into the first apartment. There were two young children that lived there. Their mom and dad were officers at the embassy. They were so young they didn’t even know something was wrong. I wished I could be like them. Lunch was spaghetti—two pieces and I was full. I sat on the couch and watched CNN. It was about us. The update on the Sierra Leone crisis. The government was overthrown. Rebel military was in power. People were driven from their homes, looted, murdered. Fires were being set. Parts of the city were burning. What about my friends? What about my teachers? Just then I heard a deep, low, loud BOOM. I panicked and broke out in tears. Who wouldn’t? A bomb went off. The air shook. I knew it was close. My dad sprinted in and brought us all into a tiny hall. We just sat there, my mom, the other adults, the kids. “The rebels have blown out the gate to our compound,” he said. He locked, double-locked and triple-locked us in. He went back out the door and down the stairs. I prayed I would see him again. Twenty minutes later my dad came back and told us we were OK now. He had given them our car and money. . . I don’t know any more than that. He went right to the phone to talk to the State Department people in Washington. The memories were foggy after that. We were locked in waiting for help. There was a thunderstorm that night. I thought the thunder was more bombing. When would it end and how would we get out? They knew how scared I was and showed me all the stuff they had to keep us safe There were seven US Army Special Forces up in the jungle outside of Freetown working on an assignment. The next day they made it to our compound in their humvee and set up camp on top of my three-story building. They had enough weaponry there to support a small army. They knew how scared I was and showed me all the stuff they had to keep us safe. I felt better with them around. We were allowed to go back to our house to change our clothes. I walked quickly toward my house to get out of any harm and noticed some- thing that looked shiny not fifty feet away. I ran over to see what it was. Approaching it my mind was racing. What on earth could it be? (After a few days of intense pressure your mind starts to wander.) The moment I saw it I felt like my heart had stopped beating. I closed my eyes and pictured it lying there for a moment. The top was flattened but I still knew what it was. A bullet head. The little devil was lying there like it ruled the world. That same bullet could have been responsible for the instant death of anyone. My dad, mom, brother, friend, or even myself. I slowly bent down, picked it up, and walked over to the compound wall. Looking at it I slowly aimed and refired it into the air. Over the wall. Out of my life forever. On the other side of the wall I heard the slight “fink” as it hit the tin roof of our next-door neighbor’s house. For some reason I felt good about myself. I felt a sudden change. I fully understood the true hate in the world today. Jon Breed, 13Doha,
War-and-Holocaust
Memoirs of a Soldier
On that day in 1939, Ben was only ten years old. Yet, as he sat sipping cream soda in his father’s store, his legs dangling off the high wooden stool, Ben felt almost as old and wise as Heinrich Goldberg, the ancient bookstore owner who had fought in the great World War. Yes, Heinrich knew everything, all right. He told terrific stories about how he had crouched in deep trenches, bullets whistling overhead, how he hadn’t even noticed the wound in his arm that had caused him to be sent away until his sleeve began to turn red . . . Ben wanted to be exactly like Heinrich when he grew up. “Is everyone here?” came Father’s anxious whisper. Ben’s thoughts crashed to bits like the windows of their store had a month ago, when the Gestapo, or German Secret Police, had smashed them to pieces. “Yeah, I think so,” Ben whispered back, glancing around the room excitedly. He was the only one there under eighteen, maybe even twenty. Father listened intently for a few seconds, his eyes piercing the darkness to every corner of the room. The shades were pulled completely down, and the only light was that which filtered in under the door. Even so, now that the windows were gone, they had to be extremely careful of unwanted listeners at Father’s secret meetings. Suddenly, Father began to speak. “As you all know,” he began, “and as we all suspected, Hitler’s aggression against us Jews has become more than unfair laws and yellow stars on our jackets.” Ben could hear murmurs of agreement and could faintly see people nodding as he squinted through the gloom. They had to be extremely careful of unwanted listeners at Father’s secret meetings “I could relate to you numerous incidents of terror and injustice, of damage done to property—and people.” Here, Father had to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the indignant muttering which undulated through the room. “We must take action!” declared Father, in a voice that was so full of passion that it would have been a yell had there not been a need for quiet. “We are gathered here to decide whether to flee to safety in Switzerland, or to stay and form a resistance group.” “No decision there!” screeched the crackling voice of Heinrich Goldberg, oblivious to the alarmed chorus of “sshhh” all around him. “Would we run away like a bunch of stinking, lily-livered cowards?” “Heinrich,” Father answered, trying not to smile, “even if we do decide to form a resistance, you will be sent to safety.” “What about this, eh, eh?” said Heinrich angrily, pointing to his sleeve, which was carefully torn in the exact spot where his scar was. Some people said Heinrich was a pompous old fool, but Ben admired him more than anyone else, except for Father. If he had as good a scar as that, he would make sure everyone could see it, too. Meanwhile, restless murmurs rippled through the room. It seemed to Ben that Heinrich could have waited for a better time to voice his opinion. Perhaps it was true that Heinrich didn’t always think before he . . . No! How could Ben have thought such a thing? He was sure that Heinrich had a very good reason for speaking up when he did, and yet . . . Confusion spun in a dizzying wave through Ben’s head. His cream soda suddenly seemed bland and unappetizing. Then, like an ice cube on your forehead on a summer afternoon, Father’s voice broke in, sending a calm coolness through the hot, restless mutterings. “Let’s not waste our valuable time on discussing the details of actions not yet decided upon, and on arguing a case upon which all present have already formed an opinion. And yet. . .” Father paused. “And yet, if we do decide to stay, I have a very special job in mind for you, Heinrich.” Alight in the glow of Heinrich’s enormous beam, Father began the vote. “All in favor of a complete run for safety, say nay.” There was a heavy silence. “And all in favor of forming a resistance group, say aye—quietly.” This last was added as “ayes” began swelling through every corner of the room. They were quiet, as Father had suggested, yet determined. They sound so brave, thought Ben excitedly. I bet any one of them could take on ten Nazis! Yet fear gripped his heart as the reality of what they were doing sank in. He remembered a film clip of Adolf Hitler he had once seen—the huge black moustache, the evil, glinting eyes, the harsh, cruel voice . . . Ben shivered violently. Father must have felt it for, next to Ben, he whispered, “All right, son?” The terrible image blew away like a speck of dust. “All right there?” Father repeated. “Yes,” answered Ben. I’m fine.” * * * Switzerland. It was only just across the border, yet it seemed continents away. How could Father send him there? Why couldn’t he help with the fighting? It wasn’t fair! Yet, in his heart, Ben knew that it was going to be very dangerous, staying and fighting the powerful Nazis. He knew that Father just wanted to keep him safe. Ben started to sigh, then caught himself just in time. Father and Heinrich might hear him. He knew it was wrong, but couldn’t resist. He was listening at the door of a room. Inside, Father and Heinrich were arguing heatedly. “I should have seen through your sneaky plan at once, Joseph!” Heinrich was screeching. “I have a very special job in mind for you,” he mocked bitterly. “You want to send me away, that’s all. You want to get rid of me.” That same wave of dizzying confusion came over Ben again, this time stronger. How could Heinrich say those things about Father? There was something, something about Heinrich he hadn’t seen before and didn’t like. Yet he couldn’t think what
Star of David
Fear and disbelief drip down the back of my neck. I am leaning against the wall, feeling cold, hard, merciless brick beneath my palm, hearing things—simple, life-giving things, such as breath and whispers and rustles of skirts—so loudly that I’m afraid my very listening will give me away. On my side, my Jewish charge, and I want to tell her to kneel, to get shorter, to do something other than stand there and look at me with those pleading eyes. To take off that necklace she wears, the little silver chain with the tarnished Star of David hanging limply from it. No time, I remember, and it amazes me that even my thoughts come in short spurts. My older brother Henk has practiced with me many times ever since he has taken it upon himself to open our home to the persecuted Jews. Many alarms I was sure were real turned out to be hoaxes, gentle deceptions, in benefit of my training. But this—no, this was no fraud. I had seen the tobacco-stained teeth out the window, the frilly mustaches. I had heard the front door slam and their feet ascend the stairway. Leah’s hand edges into mine and I feel like falling into tears, enraged toward the Germans, hateful of everything they hold dear to them. How can they curse Leah, such a simple, innocent soul? What demon is tearing my continent, my precious Europe, apart so? Have these people not known kindness, and do they not understand how to imitate mercy? Whispers in Yiddish. I can’t comprehend it. Funny, I think, that the soldier, the Jew, and I all speak different languages and come from different cultures, yet still live in mortal terror of the other. “Which one of you is the Jew? Or are you both Jews?” Boots are getting nearer. They’re in the living room, perhaps, with the unstylish masses of Victorian furniture and its quaint view of the winding creek outside our townhouse window. From there it is a short leap into the hallway, then the closet door—from there, us, hiding behind the furs. They don’t stop in the living room; steady, trim clicks are advancing down the hall. Leah’s hand grows a tighter grasp on mine, and my eyelids suddenly fall shut, staying tightly latched. I’m so still—my breath, my thoughts, my very heart has stopped—I’m afraid God might mistake me for dead. The door cracks. The light bulb, hanging from a dusty string from the ceiling, suddenly tosses a pool of light upon the floor. The door wafts shut again, and here we are, together: three different people from three very different beliefs. The hangers to our left start clacking and his shoe, with a forlorn stalk of a pants leg growing off of it, is right in front of me. I realize he smells of stale brandy, of restless wandering, of dust. I accidentally think of the shoe polish on the shelf right above our heads, that he might be able to use, but I scold myself for thinking that. Suddenly he yanks a coat away and is staring into my face, then Leah’s. We both stand there, silent for a moment, as I wash my eyes over his clean-shaven, dirt-smudged face. He doesn’t look like Hitler—he looks more like Henk, an honest man caught up in something bigger than his imagination would let him ponder. “Who are you?” he asks, voice rough. “I’m Leis, sir, and this is Leah,” I whisper. “And why ever are you here in this dusty closet?” As he speaks I see his teeth are darkened, a small scar meekly clinging to his lip. “You scared us, sir,” I managed. “We hid as soon as we could.” “Poor darlings. Come out—it’s cold in here,” he says, and he holds open the door for us as we uncertainly, defeatedly, trudge out to the hall. Suddenly I remember—Leah’s necklace—her Star of David! If the soldier found that, he would have proof, proof that she’s a Jew, proof of her country, her heritage, her ancient culture. I glance at her neck but she’s torn it off and thrown it on the floor—I look back at it in the closet, watching its glitter, praying the soldier doesn’t notice it sparkling there, like a trout in a silver spring. He’s gone on, though, to the other soldiers, to present us. “Which one of you is the Jew?” is our greeting, spouted from an older, fattened man. “Or are you both Jews?” “Jew?” I whisper faintly. “There are no Jews . . .” “Which one? There’s been reports of Jews hiding in this house! Which one of you is Jewish?” Our soldier interjects, “They’re children, Setzlich. Danish besides.” Here he glances, silencingly, at us. “It has been said the Danish don’t lie. Jews indeed.” “The Danish don’t lie,” mutters Setzlich, glaring at us both as his voice tumbles into a tumult of anger. “You idiot, Schmidt! The best lying in the business comes from the Danish—I swear, they’ve got the devil on their side!” His hand suddenly reached out and grasped my collar. “Girl,” he growled, “girl, how many rooms is this house?” “This is all,” I say, truthfully, and, distrusting me, he slowly lets go of my dress. “The living room, bathroom, and closet.”His eyes stay on me. “Search the cursed closet again, Schmidt,” Setzlich whispers, voice trembling with loathing. “Goderstadt already got the bathroom. See if there’s any more. Then we’ll see if the Danish don’t lie.” “Yes, sir,” says our soldier, and Leah and I exchange terrified looks. A search of the closet would mean the discovery of the Star of David twinkling on the floor, would mean our arrest, might even mean our deaths. My entire heart has suddenly twisted in torment—I can’t think, and can’t breathe. I hear him throwing a ruckus around in there—oh, why make it painful? Just expose us as liars, as protectors of the Jews, of God’s chosen people. He comes out then,
