Yesterday

• Sara Mcgraw, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2019

Leaning up against the splintery exterior of my rustic home, all that could be heard was the lulling sound of my father turning the soil in our newly built vegetable patch. Food was scarce for us Jews, only given in small rations, so my mother decided we should have a plentiful amount if we grew our own crops. Turning the pages of my delicate book, The Secret Garden, my mind escaped to the fascinating setting in Yorkshire. I had already read this book ten times before, but it was the only reading material in the house and I enjoyed reading about the fantasies of Mary Lennox. The dusty, reddish brown soil blended into my homemade dress as the crisped leaves fluttered in my face. My affectionate mother stood in the stifling sun, hanging out our few items of clothing she had spent all winter sewing. My father could never get her to stop doing chores as she always told me, ‘a few clean things are better than a large number of messy things.’ My father worked secretly at a large local farm, a couple of miles west of here. He worked long and hard for the small wage he earned. On the days he had at home, he went about mending the house and garden. This is how it has been for the past two years. Completing my chapter, I memorised the page number and closed the book then slid it into my large front pocket, especially sewn there by my mother to carry books.

Looking up to see my father’s pasty white face, I knew that something was wrong. His wide-open mouth and shocked eyes stared straight at a troop of German Nazis. Grabbing my mother, the Nazis secured her wrists in cloths as she grappled with them. My father pushed me through the door of our small wooden home, then jamming the door shut behind him he made his way toward my mother, ready to defend her. Their screams for help were muffled by the sounds of gunshots. They were shooting at our house. I quickly dove under our one piece of furniture; the creaky metal bedframe. We didn’t have enough money for a mattress, so all that lay on top was a blanket and a pillow stuffed with dried leaves. Shooting the supports of our fragile home, the soldiers completed the destruction. The walls collapsed inward and the roof crumbled apart. I lay, overwhelmed, under the remains of my father’s handiwork. He had built this house over months and had collected all the wood from fallen down trees. Now all that was left was a pile of broken materials. Terrified, under the bed frame I stayed, too shocked to move.

That was yesterday. Today I have decided to set out and find my parents. I am desperate to reunite my family. Even if I must travel half way across the country, I will do it.