way way back many moons ago cba got me involved in the national novel-writing month exercise of trying to write 50k words. i managed 14k, then had other stuff i had to do. later on, i joined a writing group in london for a month, and they encouraged me to continue working on the project. what with owls of learning and packing up and moving not to mention trying to pass a maths exam, i haven't had much time to think or dream or write. nu - i thought i might try a bit while i have this holiday. here is a bit of a bit. it is a bit long, but i wouldn't mind knowing if you think it is readable.
rafi is in the cemetery in berlin when this strange young man appears and they begin to talk. he reveals to her that his name is paul bendix, and rafi remembers that her mother had an uncle paul who died in a camp. but that was more than 60 years ago ...
"Paul said nothing. He closed his eyes. Rafi thought
his skin had turned grey. Was he about to faint?
Where was her water bottle? What should she do? As
she reached for her cell-phone, Paul looked at her,
shook his head gently, and began to speak. Each
sentence caused him pain as it escaped from his mouth.
“I was living in the south of France. It was near
Marseilles, near the ocean. I lived with two old
ladies. They were sisters. They liked me. I told
them stories about my adventures, and they cooked my
dinner. They took good care of me. There was a
nephew. He was afraid. He thought they would give me
their house when they died. He was jealous, and he
called the police. He told them I was a Jew, and they
put me on the train to Drancy. It was not long before
I came to the camp at Auschwitz.”
Paul closed his eyes again. “You have read the books.
You have seen the documentaries. You have heard the
testimonies. That is how it was. How it felt, I
cannot say. I know that I was hungry, and in terror
of each new minute. I know that I was cold. When a
friend stopped breathing, I raced the others to take
his bowl, his spoon, his shoes, his bread. When
another was too weak to work, and dragged to the gas
chambers, I was glad it was not me. I do not feel it
now. I have only the memory that these things
occurred. To survive it must be so.”
Rafi knew a lot about the Shoah. When she was seven,
she loved to play World War Two with her plastic
soldiers. The olive soldiers with sensible hats were
the British Army. They built great tanks of Lego and
captured the grey soldiers with round helmets who were
Germans. She yearned for Airfix kits to build
Spitfires and Lancaster Bombers. She did not know the
word ‘Nazi’. Her parents were distressed by this
situation, and decided to do something about it. They
pointed to books on the shelves in the dining-room,
remarking casually that the contents were probably a
bit too difficult for Rafi to understand. When they
were not looking, she began to read. She read
everything she could find on the shelves. She read
everything in the synagogue library. She read when
she came home from school. She read at night, when
her family was sleeping. Then, when she finally fell
asleep, she dreamt. She dreamt that there was fire
everywhere she could see, and faceless silhouettes of
men wearing round helmets blocked her way in all
directions. Sometimes they had come to take her, and
sometimes they had taken everyone else, leaving her
alone in the fire. Now and then, she still had such
dreams, interspersed with the hostage versions that
began in 1972 after the Munich Olympics. These were
very simple - either she stood up bravely and took the
bullets to save her family, or she hid and survived
and felt guilty. Over the years, Rafi had joined
Second Generation groups, written intense poetry, and
talked to many therapists. Listening to Paul, she
realised that she was still playing games.
“One evening in the winter, we were standing to
attention in the courtyard. They would make us do it
for sport,” said Paul, shivering. “The guards would
take bets on who would fall. Sometimes they would
command us to do exercises. They told us to jump, to
roll over, to lie down, to get up. As a boy I had a
Schaeferhund I did this with. The dogs in the camp
had better than we did. They had real meat. We tried
to obey the commands. The guards had sticks and
whips. They would hit us with no reason. That
evening, though, we were only standing. We were all
very weak and tired from hard work in the day. It was
snowing. The man next to me was falling, and I put my
shoulder under his arm so he could rest. Another man
collapsed. A guard was angry because he bet on the
man I was helping, and I was beaten. They put me in
the punishment block. In the morning they took me to
the place of execution. There was a wall where you
were shot. There was a gallows where they hanged
you. You did not get to choose which one.”
Rafi’s mouth was dry and her hands were wet. Her skin
was grey like Paul’s, and her breathing was shallow.
Her mind was a blank, her heart was racing. She knew
only that she wanted to hear what happened next, and
yet she did not.
“The guard led me up onto a scaffold. The camp was
assembled before me. They were looking at me. They
had to look up or they would be punished. I stood
below a noose and it was placed around my neck. No
announcement was made. A guard examined the number
tattooed on my arm. He made a note in a book. The
floor fell from beneath my feet. The noose tightened.
Blackness.” He looked again at Rafi. “My name is
Paul Bendix. I was hanged at Auschwitz in 1945. I
felt the rough cord pulling, closing my throat. I
could no longer breathe. I lost consciousness.” He
paused, “and then again I was awake.” He looked
around at the stones, and up to the canopy of leaves
above. “I find I am in a cemetery. I read the names
and see it is a Jewish cemetery. I read the dates of
birth and death and see it is many years later. The
leaves tell me it is autumn. I walk in the cemetery.
I see a young woman, and feel I must talk with her.
That feeling is not a new one.” He smiled, sadly.
“The rest, you know.”"
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