A chat with a longstanding friend about her family history led to me writing this.
A lot of my stories have levity and joy.
But not this one.
.
The Walk.
The noise is so loud.
Screams, shouts and arguments.
And then the gunfire.
I know what the noise is because I have seen.
And I do not wish to tell.
Or think.
Mama, so wrapped against the cold, is pushing a pram and we hold to her coat.
Drudging people in front without a will.
Crying people behind.
Dying people behind.
So cold.
So cold.
My legs falter, my sister falls.
Mama hauls her up by her collar.
Walk, Hanah, walk.
You must.
Tears and cries, I am cold, Mama.
Yes, she says to Hanah, and puts a hand to my face.
We will be safe soon.
It is a walk without thought, just cold, hunger and a trust in Mama.
A woman is on the ground in front of us.
Old and frail.
Nobody to help.
Mama stops and takes her hand.
Shrivelled and freezing.
Empties our pram.
’tis all that she owns.
Except us.
And I help her lift the Granny into the pram.
I have to push now, it is too much for Mama.
Gunshots, gunshots and laughter.
Choices.
But not for us.
He is smiling, huge and so scary.
And I am torn from Mama, Hanah and the Granny I will never know.
The pram upended and my newly found Granny sprawled in deeply trampled snow.
Hanah screams and Mama, as she is pulled away from me looks me clear in the eye.
A sort of smile.
A goodbye.
And I know.
And my hand touches the yellow star on my coat as I wave .
Goodbye.
