Some children were given the opportunity to write their own stories based on an image from the book. The stories produced were excellent: filled with wonderful imagery and challenging content.
The spine-tingling example below, written independently by a Year Six child, shows what inspirational writing was created.
It was traumatising.
Whoever thought that the world could be so despicable? The cries of the
people, the moans and groans of distant hope, broken by a sense of anxiety; whether it was the longing to be together, or the
horrific end to a once-blissful life that petrified us most, it is beyond me to
say, for I was too young to acknowledge how this train journey utterly
transformed my life forever…
It was a Tuesday
morning (if I remember rightly), when it all unfolded. I had always felt a
slight urge of bewilderment that my father scarcely said much about my
childhood, yet it never occurred to me to wonder why I knew so little about it.
As the rain streamed down the pane like a diminutive waterfall, I crouched over
the blazing fire, taking in its warmth. Father gradually shuffled into the
minute room, inhaling conspicuously on his way. The expression that absorbed
his gentle face was, to me, bittersweet, as I saw he must have been thoroughly
distressed, inspecting the fresh tears on him. Father solemnly perched beside
me, stroking my golden locks as if they were as precious as his life, causing
me to fret miserably. For a number of seconds, he just hung his head as if in
shame, but then he started to speak. “My darling Anna. It has come to my mind
that it’s only right to tell you the truth. You do not know how hard it is to
do this, but it is against me to lie. Anna, this is your life; this is your
story.”
Then he informed me
of the most tragic events of my life. Although it was difficult for me, it was
worse for him by far. Father exhaled, then continued. “When you were still a newborn, you lived
with a family who, I am positive, were more passionate about you than anything
imaginable, yet every tale has a melancholy aspect. So one day, a day so
incredibly depressing, your (and my) life changed, vastly. I was on my way to
work when a colossal cargo train stopped me in my tracks. As ordinary as this
may seem, Anna, it was certainly not, as the indication that alarmed me most
was the barbed wire: it was moving. Glaring at the immense machine, although
you may not believe it, a set of human hands, nimble as twigs, scrambled their
way through it. They were drenched with sweat and bleeding intently, and still,
though she had no hope of saving herself, this lady thrust her month-old
darling out of the train. She was determined that, even if she didn’t, this
baby girl had hope, a life ready to be lived, Anna. This train was going to a
death camp. This girl was you.”
From that day
onward, I knew that I would not hesitate to search every day, until the day I
died, to find my mother. I was always
being told (after the war) that, because she was transported to a death camp,
there was no chance in the world she would be alive, experiencing conditions
such as those. However, try as they might, my mind had been made up,
and I was travelling to Poland the next day. Cruel, unreasonable, ungrateful,
others remarked when they heard I left father. “He brought you up, yet you’re
still ungrateful. All that hard work gone to waste on a creature like you!” I
felt then that they were right, I was wrong and there was no place in the world
for me. I then couldn’t stop blinking, as my eyes became damp and swollen, my
breathing rapid and frequent. Before I knew it, I was gasping for breath,
trapped in a world not for me. What had it come to? The train jolted, then a
hand as delicate as a feather reached out to me. I looked up, realising that I
was witnessing the most gentle, most graceful woman of all mankind. With eyes
the colour of umptious chocolate, cheeks as soft as a baby’s, I looked straight
into her eyes, taking in her mesmerising beauty. My mouth fell ajar. My body was completely still. “Mother?”
By Sofia M
