www.whyville.net Mar 9, 2008 Weekly Issue

Guest Writer

If Walls Could Talk

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If walls could talk, I'd tell you.

How I felt the rumble of incoming trains. From all corners of England they arrived. Their passengers escorted from the ghettos, sick, tired, hungry. Cramped in the trains, near a hundred to a car. Crying, screaming, suffocating, dying. Confused children hung to worried mothers, solemn fathers standing near. All unsure of what to come.

How I watched them, step off cautiously. Their clothes, ripped and dirty, hung loose on their starving bodies. They joined the growing line of people, all just as weak as themselves.

How I heard the soldier at the head of the line, "Left. Right. Left." With just a flick of a wrist, and a point of his finger, he decided the fate of the people ahead of him.

How I listened to the sighs of relief, as some were told they would take a shower. They entered huge rooms, crammed in, all in hopes of getting clean. Yet as the doors shut, they realized their mistake. As gas filled the room, they dropped like flies.

How I smelt the smoke that spiraled into the sky, darker than night itself. The Jewish people gazed into the sky as it rose, silent tears falling. By now, they knew its fuel.

How I noticed the children, never quite sure of what truly was going on. They clutched at dolls, vague reminders of life before the reign of Hitler.

How I felt the scratches, marks made by tired men, remembering the number of days that had passed, and remembering those who had passed away.

And, how I sensed the excitement, when the war had proved over. When those who had fought through finally were set free.

If only walls could talk.


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