I recently visited Auschwitz on a school trip and I wrote two pieces when I got back, one was a poem and the other was this. I'm still not sure what category it really fits in, but I settled for this as it seems the most appropriate. Tell me what you think..
Held against my will, I feel as though I will never see light again, nor the colours that bounce around the sky on a summers day. I am no longer certain that it is even summer. The days melt into one another, as do the seasons like time has come to a standstill.
When it turns dark, which is night I presume, although we do not care enough anymore to know for certain, that’s when everything changes. The small lantern that the Kommandant leaves outside my barred window flickers with the wind, like a dancer from another world, her soft umbers and gold’s dazzling with every movement she makes.
And there it stands, the spotlight for the performance. I take to my seat, perching on the slats of wood behind me as the performer takes to the stage. The liquid shadows are cast onto the wall, contorting and tying themselves into intricate knots. I do not know what they re-enact for me, but I guess it must be Shakespeare, a great tragedy like Romeo and Juliet or Macbeth from the way that they throw themselves about like the greatest of thespians. The slight heat from the lantern embraces my face and I am thankful for it, a small comfort that I so desperately need. The shadows hold themselves in an impossible position, arms outstretched and toes pointed like expert acrobats. I smile, and they play to my reaction, tumbling and freewheeling over one another, each fighting for my attention. Their performance reaches its climax and the flame flickers violently causing them to shake and shudder, alive with adrenaline. I am on the edge of my seat, eyes wide open, full of intrigue and wonder at the one beauty in my living nightmare…
The wind takes control of the flame, but she grips on with all her might, firm and resolute that she will not go out before the play is over. The elements battle, like the Capulet’s and the Montague’s, like Macbeth and his conscience.
The wind is triumphant.
The shadows fall to the sound of a shotgun. A rather fitting applause.
