A Memory Of September 1, 1939

By Nikita Kanjani

The walls shuddered as another piece of its rustic paint chipped off and discreetly declined to the pitted ground, carrying scraps of bruises with each mark of a story that will never be told. As I observed my home in confusion while inhaling the scent of rain and mist, I sensed the emptiness and isolation that dominated my propinquity and slowly but quietly realised that I had turned into a bystander - watching my own home turn foreign and alien.

Around me were abandoned mattresses, fragmented chairs, and papa’s panel shoes, last worn six months ago.

Papa.

“Where was Papa? Didn’t he promise to come back?” I realised.

Promenading forward, my vision met the unlocked door - scratched and dented with chipped brown varnish - a brass-coloured lock annexed around, dangling at the side of the door - a pointless gesture in places like this. I crouched down, eyeing the small diffused ray of dim light through the solitary bullet hole in the door.

Soon enough, a shivering noise brought me up. It reflected the poignant cries of an animal, wailing out its pain with its last breath - like gunshots if they could speak. Gulping down the terror, drops of trepidation glistened down my forehead like jagged droplets of rain. Was that death greeting my front porch?

Catching sight of my sordid home once again, memories snapped like branches of a tree: the walls - abhorrent and fatigued - were drained from trying to stand still and shield me from the detriments of life, surreptitiously ailing to tremble down. It clutched to its meagre strength, shedding silent tears and commiserating on me; shielding my innocence from the unmerciful, blood-curdling wars outside of these fractured walls.

The wind hurled through narrow spacings that brought specks of light to my home, humming a tune that reminisced the blithe memories of times gone.

“Papa, look, over here! It’s a bird!” I pointed at the high sky above.

In her earthy-hued browns, she was a shade of the woodlands in the wild forests. She hopped over the wands of grass as if she had springs in those delicate feet, and the world was her trampoline.

“It’s beautiful, Papa.”

“It is,” he said, eyeing the eagle with admiration in his eyes, and I did the same - looking at it for the last time before it soared back up into the sky, disappearing from our view.

However, as soon as my eyes sauntered forward, it caught the baneful sky ensnared by numerous shades of grey, white and spumous ebony smoke. It shamed the Sun for surrendering its strength in trying to break through the iron curtain of clouds that enveloped any signs of light, welcoming the darkness that etched the world in twilight.

Boom.

Lamp posts crashed. Serpents of ash erupted. Raucous wails reiterated off my walls.

“Help!” I cried, praying someone - anyone would hear me.

The air was suddenly rented by the sound of the window breaking. The broken shards of glass hit my exposed, frigid skin, as blood slithered and disintegrated into the ground. When my eyelids fluttered open, I noticed the ground was stained red.

Venomous trails of smoke roared in, trapping my lungs with the particles and debris from the smoke and demolishment of the buildings across the street. Malignant smoke amalgamated with shrills from the stream of pedestrians sprinting, running away from collapsing towers and smoke entrapping the propinquity.

Was this the end? What about Papa, was I ever going to see him again? Would I eve-

Knock. Knock.

“Who’s there?” I questioned, with a tinge of defence in my voice - but I didn’t feel brave at all. I was afraid. And all alone.

Before my hands could reach out for the door, it swung open with an increasing force and there stood two armed men and - a corpse.

His eyes were closed, wrapped around in a vermilion scarf. I froze. All but my heart remained like a statue. Droplets of blood were drenched on his olive-green uniform etched with a Swastika he wore reluctantly. Alongside him had been an officer’s body - his soul departed.

“No! Papa, no! Wake up, Papa! Wake up!” I cried.

I looked at the officer’s face. His slender fingers pressed into the skin of his forearms, nails biting in the layer of fine dust, drawing beads of blood.

“Take your father,” he stoically said, “he is no longer of use to us .”

“Weak one he was,” the other man spoke.

“No! What did you do to him!”

I turned around and saw what came next.

Click.

By Nikita Kanjani