The clanking of the train as
it went over the gaps in the rail made him think of home. If he closed his
eyes, he could still hear the horse and carts passing outside the family home
in the west of town.
Oh, those days of endless
sunshine and hope. Everyone was friendly.
Everyone shared. Everyone
was in and out of each other’s homes. My son did this, my daughter has achieved
that – my, hasn’t your youngest grown. They were the best of days.
He would come home from
school and there was his mother sitting at the table, smiling, as only she
could. No matter how bad the day had been, that smile would melt away any pain
and discomfort. Those were the best of times. No doubt about it.
His father had taught him to
help those who needed it, without complaint.
“And I want you, my boy, to
do a good deed each and every day without telling anyone about it. Promise?”
And he crossed his heart and
hoped to die that he would do it – and he had, as best he could. There was no
point in thinking of them all over again – for that would be praising himself
for his good deeds.
So why was what he was about
to do the most selfish thing he had ever done in his life? How had he got to
this point?
Perhaps in every good deed
is the seed of its own destruction.
He had seen the boy from
across the street many times. Now and again he had nodded or even, on occasion,
said good morning. The boy and his family had intrigued him greatly. Although
they seemed to be very well off for this part of town, they never ever smiled.
It had taken him a while to work out what it was that had bothered him about
the boy and his people. They didn’t laugh. How strange, he thought. Perhaps,
money doesn’t make you happy after all.
Then one night as he as
staring through the window, he saw that the boy was being whipped by his
father. It was severe, but as far as he could see, the boy did not appear to
show any pain on his face. He just held the side of the kitchen table tightly
and gritted his teeth.
He saw the boy the next evening,
standing alone watching the carriages pass by and for the first time he spoke
properly to him.
“Would you care for a
chocolate?”
The boy looked at him
suspiciously, then smiled and said thank you. And as quick as the smile came,
it went in again and the boy’s face grew dark. It wasn’t until a week later
that he saw the boy standing on the corner of the street and he was sobbing. He
said good afternoon to him but the boy turned his face away. He asked the boy
how he was doing and the boy grunted that he was okay but could he go away and
leave him alone. However this was his good deed for the day and he wanted to
help the boy. He gave him his handkerchief that his mother ironed for him every
day. The boy eventually took it and wiped the blood from the mark on his face.
The boy said thank you then wandered off home.
The next day the boy’s
father, the one who liked to hit his son, came to his door to return the
handkerchief. The man looked at the signs on the wall and said:
“You are…..?” Then the father spat on the ground and ripped the handkerchief up.
In the middle of the night
they came for his mother, his father and himself. As they led them away, he
could see the boy’s father looking from the window and smiling.
They had been on the train
about two days when the wooden slat had opened up at the side. It was only big
enough for him to get through, no matter how hard he wished it, his mother and
father could never squeeze through that hole.
They told him he had to go
and that he had to go as soon as the train slowed. His father pushed his son
through the hole.
And that is why he jumped
from the train - leaving everyone he loved aboard and on their way to
Auschwitz.
bobby stevenson 2013 - photo of the train track to Auschwitz.
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