Under The Stairs

• Calla Maier, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2017

It has been 2 days since Mama went out to fetch little Wilhelm. He had been playing out in the grass, which like everything else was dead. But then the planes came and they came fast. I was safe in our closet under the stairs like my mother said. Then I heard it drop metres away. The bomb that fell and changed my life. I am still here hiding in the closet waiting for Mama and Wilhelm. But I know deep inside my heart they are not out there, I know they have perished. I just keep telling myself it will only be a few more minutes before their return, but I’m getting ravenous. I feel the only way I can conquer these words are by writing them down. So here it goes… If I don’t leave this closet I will die.
I put my hand on the door, shaking, I push it open. I have no strength but I manage to stumble those few steps over to the empty pantry. You see my family we are not poor, nor are we rich, we are roughly in the middle. But like the rest of Germany, during this time of turmoil, Mama felt that we should only venture to the store when in desperate need of food. Inside the pantry all we have is a can of tuna. “Thunfisch” the label reads. I rip off the lid and shove the tuna down my throat with my bare hands.
Suddenly the ground starts to shake so I flee back to the closet. Distant voices echo in my ear. My thoughts trail back… “Wait here Peter, I’ll go fetch Wilhelm,” those were the final words my mother ever said to me. My thoughts have not been still since. I can’t help myself. I burst into tears.
I start to hear voices outside my house, “We have to tell him,” says one of the mysterious voices. “Okay, okay, but we have to be kind he is only a little child.” “Peter Baumann!” they shout repeatedly, “Peter, Peter Baumann?” I hear the front door creak open. I peer through a gap in the closet. I see two male soldiers both in Nazi uniforms. One slightly younger looking, the other has a neatly-trimmed beard. The young one spots me and rushes over. “I found him, he’s hiding.” The bearded man walks over. “Young boy, are you Peter Baumann?” he says forcefully, I nod my head, what do they want with me? “Peter Baumann? Son of Gustav Baumann?” I don’t answer this time, these people put war on my homeland, they made the English planes kill my mother and brother, why do they deserve an answer? They stare and mumble to each other. “Well,” one said, “if you see Peter, can you tell him we have news.” There’s no point, they will not leave. “That’s me” I give in. “I’m sorry, your father died yesterday afternoon.” I don’t know what to say, I have no family.