The Secret Party

The Secret Party

I will never grow old. My story is told from beyond the grave – death wreaked havoc on a misshapen, broken world and I was unlucky enough to be brought up amidst it. 1940’s Germany. A Jew. Unlucky. We survived for a time, crammed in to one tiny room – shuffling out under the cover of darkness to scavenge amongst the rubbish for a discarded crust. Pale and thin we could never defend ourselves when the time came for us to be forcibly removed from our hideaway.

My father was gone in an instant, hauled away by a gang of heavy set blonde haired soldiers. Their sturdy, shiny black boots rained down indiscriminate kicks connecting with my father’s skinny, weathered shell. Silently my father accepted his fate, perhaps relieved that our torturous way of life was finally ending. Death a welcome reprieve. We never saw our father again. Maybe he died there on the streets where we had once lived so peacefully. Maybe he made it to the camp and suffered a slow, agonising demise or maybe he was liberated at the end of the war and looked for us, of course, to no avail. Whatever happened I have never seen him since.

My mother kept us as close to her as possible. Her deep, brown eyes pooled with tears betraying the thinly curved mouth trying not to give in to the fear surrounding us. She was stoic; my mother. Having just seen her husband dragged away and beaten, possibly witnessing his murder, she protected us, clung to our hands. My sister and I followed her lead as we were herded, like escaped sheep, on to an awaiting train.

The noise of angry, raised voices filled the carriages, drowned out now and then when we were plunged in tunnel darkness as the train wound through mountainous terrain, taking us nearer to our final destination. My mother consoled us, shushed us. She sang. Her soft sweet voice soothed our fears and after a while sleep took us and our dreams protected us.

Urgent shouts awoke us and daylight filled the crowded carriages. The train halted abruptly throwing us forward. I glimpsed out of the window. The track seemed to be at an end, unless we went backwards the train could move no further forward. It was the end of the line.

Stripped, shaved and given a ‘uniform’ to wear we were cattle marched to small brick dormitories. I shook, trembled from head to toe. Cold? Hungry? Fear? Once inside we huddled together on a small concrete platform. Our bed? My mother sang and held us close to her. Her skeletal frame was our only comfort. Everything we had was gone.

Maybe fortunately we were not at the camp for long. Queues of pathetic, forlorn figures traipsed by each day looking bewildered and lost. After a while I noticed these people did not return. My mother whispered, “they’ve gone to a secret party.”

Starvation became normality. Beatings a surety. Life was a misery. I wanted to go to the party. I used to peer through the spindles in the bannister at home watching my parents and their friends dance and drink wine. Parties looked like fun. I wanted to go to the party.

The days were achingly long, but I soon became immune to the evil acts performed in front of us each day. Each night as we buried ourselves under our one blanket and coats on our makeshift bed our mother would comfort us with songs and stories. We drifted off to sleep with thoughts of fairies, princesses and ballerinas filling our heads. Escapism. Despite everything our mother had endured her priority was to keep us safe.

She could not save us from our ultimate fate, no matter what stories she told or songs she sang. A change in our routine of washing, eating and working, alerted us to the fact that something was different. My mothers instincts told her that our time in the camp was closing in, that this was our final day. She held our hands as we were commanded to follow the soldiers. She whispered, “it’s time for the secret party.”

I felt nervous and excited. Finally a party that I was invited to. Deep down, though, I was scared and unsettled. My mother remained calm and dignified the whole time. The soldiers opened two huge metal doors and ushered us in to a dismal concrete cube. My mother’s grip tightened around my fingers. For one final time we huddled together. “It’s our turn – this is it our secret party.”

The doors were closed.