London 1983
Becky was excited. She loved going to stay with her grandmother when her mum went away on business.
She adored her petite, white haired grandmother. Her big old house was the perfect playground for an imaginative child. It had lots of interesting nooks and crannies, a basement and an attic. Her grandmother never threw anything away, so there were always previously undiscovered props to be used for inventive games and lots of clothes and jewellery for dressing up. Her mum’s old bedroom was unchanged from childhood, filled with her old toys and books. The highlight of any visit was a bedtime story. Her grandmother spun fantastic tales, full of magic, princes, princesses and, of course, the obligatory wicked witch or evil king. Even though Becky was nearly eleven she still begged her grandmother for a bedtime story.
As usual when Becky arrived, her grandmother had prepared a huge meal, pressing Becky and her mum to sit and eat. They did as they were told, knowing it was pointless to argue. One thing always puzzled Becky: her grandmother never sat down and ate with them. Instead she took her plate of food into the kitchen, preferring to eat alone. Becky had once asked her mum about it, but she was just told that it was grandmother’s way. This vague answer didn’t explain the sadness she saw in her mum’s eyes when they sat down to eat.
The next day, after her mum had left, Becky climbed the stairs to the attic. Her grandmother had asked her to fetch a sewing box that was stored there. Searching for it, she tripped over a small, dusty, battered, brown suitcase, she’d never noticed before. Curious, she prised open the rusty old catches and looked inside. First she came across a tatty, threadbare blanket folded carefully. Underneath it,a well-worn crumpled photograph. The picture was of a man, woman and their two daughters. All were wearing their best clothes. Becky thought the younger girl was probably her grandmother. Then she spotted a number of small black diaries. She picked up the first one and carefully opened it for it looked very fragile. The book was filled with very tiny writing, almost as if a spider had walked over the page. She couldn’t make out the words as they were written in a foreign language. Becky knew her grandmother had come from Poland after the war but nothing about the circumstances.
Engrossed in what she was doing, Becky didn’t notice that her grandmother was behind her, until she heard a strangled gasp. She watched horrified as her grandmother picked up the blanket, sank slowly to the floor and sat there, cradling it in her arms, rocking backwards and forwards.
Warsaw February 1941
Shivering in the early morning frost, I poke my head wearily from under the blanket, which, along with a small photograph are the only things I have managed to salvage from my other life. That life and the child I was no longer exist, gone along with my beloved parents, sister and home. Stolen by the Nazis. All that remains is a small, thin bedraggled child, weak from hunger, whose world has narrowed to fighting for survival from one day to the next.
Ice had formed on the top of the makeshift container I use for water, but I suck on it anyway, not daring to waste a drop.
Time to move. It’s not safe to stay in one place for too long. I wrap the blanket around me before putting on the ill-fitting coat and boots I’d reluctantly taken from a dead boy I’d come across in the street. He didn’t need them any more: I do.
Always on the alert for the approaching sound of marching feet, I creep out and head for the grim, towering walls of the ghetto. I no longer notice the bleak desolate landscape around me: I am numb to it all. Only weeds flourish now. This area once housed a bustling, thriving community, full of people and shops. Elegant squares filled with beautiful flowers and lush grass, the air scented with the smell of freshly baked bread. Nothing is left now - the Gestapo has seen to that with their regular round-ups. Marching through the streets of the ghetto, hunting down terrified people, sniffing out their hiding places and forcing them to stand for hours in the icy cold before herding them onto waiting trucks.
Gnawing hunger and cold drive me on. Reaching the wall, I quickly check around me. Anyone caught smuggling is shot instantly. Thankfully all is clear and the hole under the wall is undiscovered. Being small, it isn’t too hard to squeeze through and out of the ghetto. Then the trick is to blend in with everyone else, walk with confidence and behave as if I belong there. But it is getting harder and harder to obtain food and my booty is still very small when I finally give up and scrabble back through the hole.
Cautiously I head back to where I slept the night before. It has started snowing. An icy wind whips around my legs. My hands and feet are numb and my teeth rattle uncontrollably. It isn’t much warmer inside the house but at least it offers protection from the wind’s icy bite. Wrapping my blanket around me, I sit down huddled in the corner to eat a portion of the food I’d stolen, making sure no one else is around to take from me.
I must have dozed off. I awake to find a dark shadow towering over me. I look up straight into the barrel of a gun.
London 1983
Finally her grandmother stopped rocking. Becky gently took the blanket out of her hands and folded it carefully, before replacing it in the suitcase. Not knowing what else to do, she sat next to her grandmother, wrapped her arms around her, till eventually her grandmother pulled away. Becky stood up to help her grandmother to her feet, taking her hand. She looked at the tattooed numbers contrasting vividly with the pale skin on her grandmother’s arm. Maybe now the time was right to get some answers to her questions.
©Nina Simon 2005
