Let the Words Speak for Themselves

‘In Tears’

by Sotiris Anagnostakis

Do I wish to remember Tears falling, mothers and daughters crying, Unforgettable, haunting icons of children starving, Memories of hopeless, tortured souls Shaking like a leaf

Do I wish to remember mothers’ faces, carved in agony. Children hiding, dripping with fear. Mothers looking for their children, in vain shadows of trembling legs, dreams crumbling away

Do I wish to remember The little girl I saw on her knees, howling Why are they taking us, mother? Where is dad?

Where does this nightmare end?

But how can I forget The mother who last glanced her daughter in tears.

Reflefction

My poem comes from the viewpoint of a local bystander who has witnessed the deportation of countless Jewish people from Thessaloniki, back in March 1943. The unknown narrator tries to come to terms with the memories that haunt his existence ever since, especially those of women separating from their daughters. The very inability of the mother to answer her daughter’s questions as to why these unspeakable acts are happening, tears his heart apart. Perhaps, somewhere in the subconscious, lies also a sense of guilt for not taking action when witnessing all these atrocities taking place. The narrator struggles to forget what he has witnessed, but such is the horror that has been imprinted on his soul that it is impossible to move on without acknowledging that, following the crimes of the Holocaust, humanity can never be the same again.

‘Laundry’

by Nicholas Karamichalis

The little droplets of water splatter across the dirty sidewalk, leaving in their wake an echo that rises back up to me as I wring the last of the water out of the shirt. It wavers slightly in the breeze as I hold it near the balcony railing, desperately trying to grasp at clothespins before promptly giving up and running gingerly inside. A sound emanating from the kitchen grows louder and louder as I approach, reaching a climax until I relieve the pot of its lid, halting the water just before it boils over. I breathe out a sigh of relief, only to realize I’ve now coated the floor with the still-dripping shirt clutched in my left hand.

The door slams and I hear the familiar click of a briefcase on our stone hallway floor. Dinner is served to a low bustling noise of civilians shuffling through the city streets and cars leisurely drifting down the pavement. A wind brushes my face as it wanders through the apartment, threatening to steal away the shirt hanging precariously from a single clothespin above the alleyway.

Our forks and knives clinked happily against our dishes as we ate.

“So…” I said through a mouthful of half-chewed boiled greens, “How was today?” peering into my husband’s glistening, tired eyes.

“Oh, well, I mean, y’know,”. He seemed hesitant to respond. “Normal day. Like

Narratives of Sorrow and Dignity

yesterday,”.

I frowned slightly, but he was looking towards his plate. I decided to change the subject.

“I went and picked up the paper for you today,” I said eagerly, hoping to lift his spirits. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet, but it’s on the table whenever you want it,”.

It was his turn to frown. He made eye contact with me for a split second before looking away. As if he couldn’t look at me. I still didn’t know what was wrong. He finished his food in silence, promptly standing up as soon as he finished eating, the chair scraping across the wooden floorboards unceremoniously. Before I could protest he walked into the next room, and I could hear the newspaper ruffling as he sifted through its pages. His chair had not been tucked in.

I pulled the bathroom door shut behind me and glanced at the mirror, whose corner was chipped. I looked down, hand reaching towards the faucet when I stopped. My stomach drops. There’s blood all over the sink. My husband’s? Smeared and starting to dry, it is a tall shade of red. Water flows into the sink. As I washed the blood from the sink, the city square began to bustle with noise - but the sunset cast long shadows, and I couldn’t tell what was going on. Banners danced in the wind.

My husband tried to shuffle past me as I opened the bathroom door, but I stopped him, grabbing his arm. He still wouldn’t look at me, so I grabbed his chin to lift his head. He grimaced in pain and then slowly looked up, new bruises forming all around his face. His eyes no longer glistened in the light like before.

I tried to sleep that night, but kept waking up. The third time he wasn’t next to me anymore, and there was a light on in the hallway. I got out of bed.

A wind rolls through the empty apartment, hallway light still on. The shirt is no longer hanging from the balcony - the clothespin having snapped - and does not waver in the wind any longer, but rather wallows, stained, in the filth below. ***

The soup boils monotonously as I stare at the peeling, yellowed wallpaper curling on the wall across from me. It’s cold outside, and although the windows are latched shut, the chilled air numbs my hands. My husband sits at the kitchen table, barely awake and nearly collapsing. Old newspapers are being used as a tablecloth, and he stares at one of the images blankly. The soup sloshes into a bowl and I sit down across from my husband. His bruises healed, but one of his cuts left a scar across his jaw, and I see it every time we eat.

The fog outside gives way to rain, and the dead leaves on the trees part ever so gently to let the water flood down onto the street, some falling from the branches onto the village’s cobble street. I drew the curtains closed. “You really have to start remembering to close these,” I remarked in a stern tone.

He looked at me and sighed - it looked like he hadn’t slept again. “You’re right,” he responded flatly.

He stayed silent for a long moment, and I began to open my mouth to say something, but he stopped me.

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry,”. His gaze turned towards the window.

“I was awake last night. All night. Sitting at the window. Staring,” he said, turning back towards me. “Something is staring back,”. “What? What are- ,” I tried to ask, but he ignored me.

“And I’m afraid. I’m afraid that it’s always going to be staring back at us,”.

He was looking right at me, voice shaky. “No matter what we do or where we are. And I’m tired. And I feel trapped. And I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe,”.

His lip quivered as he spoke: “I’m helpless! How long do we have to depend on others’ help to get out of this damned country? How long until our host isn’t so friendly? How long until this whole thing escalates into something greater?” he demanded, almost yelling.

I was getting nervous. What if the neighbors hear him? He stood up, shouting now. “We’ve spent five months hiding away in this cramped little house just waiting! Who’s to say we won’t get out of here and just get sent straight back?”

He collapsed back into his chair, defeated. I couldn’t speak. What if the neighbors heard him? What if the neighbors heard him?

He never left the living room. I tried to sleep, turning over again and again to get ‘comfortable’, but the cellar was cold. I could imagine him up there, watching through the window, curtains drawn again. Being watched. Because something was staring back at me, too. And tonight I hear footsteps. *** There’s rubble on the road. Hollowed buildings, empty shells of homes. A wind blows through the shattered, gaping windows and small fires flicker all around. It’s a bit early for snow, but it’s falling nonetheless. Or rather, ash. The sun is painted red and the sky is enveloped in smoke. Old banners wave in the square, tattered and stained, finally dropping into the city’s shrapnel below.

Rationale

My story follows a Jewish couple as they try to flee from Germany during the 1930s. Although the prompt for writing this was “women in the Holocaust”, I did not want to focus on any one of the more well-known female figures of the Holocaust, and so wrote the story from the perspective of an unnamed housewife, to emphasize the more “everyday” situations before and during the Holocaust. This is a choice I wanted to reflect in the story’s title, ‘Laundry’. While some of the details of the story are based on real events and a timeline of the increasing strictness towards Jewish populations in Germany, the story itself is completely fictionalized - meaning it is based on real events but not following a specific person that existed.

The first part of the story takes place in roughly 1933 or 1934 during the Nazi rise to power, when the persecution of Jews became an official state policy. The main characters live in a small apartment in Berlin, and the protagonist’s husband comes home after being beaten up at his workplace. They leave that night, and the story continues on to part two, 5 months later where they have been hiding in a German countryside village with one of their friends, who is trying to smuggle them out. I left their ending ambiguous, and also tried to include lots of smaller allusions or parallels throughout the story for readers to try to pick apart if they wish, which is why I’ve tried to keep this reflection as general as possible. The final part is simply a description of one of the ruined sections of Berlin as WWII was ending in 1945, giving some sense of closure to the story of both the characters, and the overarching suffering of the Jewish population.

‘The Forbidden Pages’

by Sofia Papakosta

The daylight hours brought their own form of torment, yet the dread and suffering that engulfed me during that time were but a mere precursor to the unimaginable horrors that would come with the setting sun. Nightfall enveloped all in a suffocating miasma of despair, extinguishing any flicker of hope. The dim, grey light that permeated the labour camp only served to further magnify the oppressive atmosphere of impending doom, as if the very walls in our rooms were closing in upon us.

A momentary lapse in my concentration and the melancholic atmosphere enveloped me, pulling me into a spiral of despair. It was for this reason that I made a conscious effort to maintain my focus on my book, steadfastly refusing to surrender to the gloom. The only auditory presence in the room was the faint, mournful trickle of water, emanating from the exterior pipe, conjuring the image that the room itself was weeping in sorrow. As I felt my thoughts begin to fixate upon this sombre sound, I realised that to secure a restful night’s sleep, I must quickly distract my mind from its grip.

In an attempt to dispel this melancholy, I turned my attention back to my book. Recognizing the limited illumination provided by the flickering candle, I resolved to make the most of its fleeting light before the wick inevitably fully burned, rendering further reading impossible. I was absorbed in The Count of Monte Cristo, a long and perplexing novel, yet ultimately one worth the effort. The possession of the forbidden book was a gambit fraught with danger, I and the other girls were fully aware of that fact, still, when I got my hands on the item, which had been smuggled by a friend of a friend both of those people now consigned to the annals of the departed, I knew that I could not bear to relinquish it. The longing for its contents had become an integral aspect of my very being, an obsession that even death could not sever. My longing for literary sustenance had been a famine that lasted for nigh on months, perhaps even a year, but the hope and euphoria that the possession of this book instilled within me, rendered the risk a mere trifle. As I held the book close, the spectre of death seemed to dissipate into the ether, like mist before the morning sun.

I focused my eyesight on the bottom of the page. At last, I had reached the final pages of the tome. It had been quite the effort. Yet I had done it. And honestly, now I did not know what to do next. That novel had become an integral part of my daily routine and mental landscape, providing a source of solace and distraction amidst the toils of everyday life. Even in moments of despair, the story served me as a constant source of respite and contemplation. While the world around me was fraught with turmoil, within the pages of my book I found a refuge, a sanctuary to which I could retreat and find solace. As I neared the end of the story, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of loss at the prospect of having to bid farewell to the characters and the world I had come to know and cherish.

Narratives of Sorrow and Dignity

I kept my eyes on the passage, and a quote stood out to me:

“Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget, that until the day God will deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is contained in these two words, ‘Wait and Hope.”

The words on the page had captivated me, my mind alight with the desire to delve deeper into the text. However, just as my thoughts began to fully immerse themselves in the narrative, I was jolted out of my reverie by the burning sensation of molten wax upon my flesh. A cry of dismay nearly escaped my lips, yet I restrained myself, my mind cognizant of the dire ramifications of even the slightest utterance.

The candle, a conduit of light in the darkness, had flickered its final flame, and with its demise, my reading was also brought to a premature end. And so, I had to deal with the fate of having to finish the last page of the book tomorrow, although still a risk, it was a lesser one than getting up right then to try to find and light another candle. Thus, with a sense of resignation, I made the choice to retire for the night, for if I was certain of one thing, it was my vital necessity for a good night’s sleep, even though I hadn’t one of those in what seemed like years.

Before falling asleep, My gaze fell upon the slumbering forms of the other girls, Anna, Sarah, and Ariella. Innocents, undeserving of the misery that we all endured, yet, each morning they awoke, their spirits unchanged, resigned to the labour that the day would bring.

In a mere matter of months, I bore witness to their gradual deterioration, as the ravages of war and the harsh realities of camp life slowly ate away at the very essence of the girls. I recall the day I first met them, fresh off the train, their faces etched with fear and apprehension, yet still clinging to a glimmer of hope. I remember their bright faces, I remember thinking just how wrongly the emotion of worry suited their expressions. In those early days, we were all but ignorant of the trials that lay ahead. If only we had known then what was to come, I wonder if we would have mustered the fortitude to continue on.

But now, as the night closed in, it was time for slumber, time to ponder the pages I had just read and consider the tale as a whole. The bittersweet irony of the final words, the fleeting and artificial hope they had imparted. Those were musing for another time, as I succumbed to sleep, contemplating how I would re-tell the ending to the girls tomorrow. ***

It goes without saying that our mornings were a far cry from the idyllic awakenings one would desire. They were a litany of sufferings, punctuated by a gnawing hunger. We sipped at the meagre and insipid brew passed off as coffee, and, despite the minimal sustenance provided by the bread from the day prior, we ravenously devoured it all in an instant, such was the ever-present pang of hunger that assailed us. As harrowing as this existence may have seemed, these brief moments of respite were our sanctuary, before we were forced to confront the rigours of labour. But before we knew it, we were being ushered towards the factories, for the bell signalling the commencement of work had sounded.

There used to be a lot more girls working with us. Yet slowly, the war ate away at them too, and at some point, the harsh conditions of the camp won them over to the side of the deceased. As I started retelling the last chapter, my brain noticed the daunting differences in the number of girls working with us which has declined rapidly from before. There used to be so many of them, now we were just over 20.

The girls listened to what I had to say, silent for story time. When I had retold them everything I had read I paused.

“But that’s all I got to read. Then my candle went out. I’ll read the last page later.”

“Ok. But I still don’t understand why he would say that.” Replied Anna. She was always the one with the questions.

“Said what?”

“That thing… that thing about hope,” She mumbled hesitantly. “Wait and hope. Why that?”

“But it’s true though isn’t it?” I replied.

The girls looked at each other in a sceptical way.

“Well I don’t know, is it?” Sarah introduced herself to the conversation.

I was baffled at the girls’ scepticism of the idea of hope. To me, hope was a driving force, an integral aspect of my survival. I found myself in agreement with the sentiments of Monte Cristo, who believed that hope, coupled with patience and perseverance, could transcend even the direst of circumstances. But the girls, their minds clouded by the brutalities of war, had lost sight of this fundamental principle, their doubt deeply ingrained and all-consuming. Though I could comprehend the cause of their disillusionment, it nonetheless brought me great sorrow. And so, I had to stand my ground. Defend hope.

“Yes… y-yes it is.” I said defensively.

“So you think that despite all of this, we should still have hope? ” Answered Sarah, her words imbued with a subtle, yet acerbic sarcasm.

“Of course I do. All of us should have hope.” I stated again my words. Almost like a stubborn child, refusing to accept any other truth.

My words hung heavy in the air as if awaiting their fate to be decided. I paused, allowing my audience to fully digest my message, to consider the hope that I had so earnestly espoused. Though I knew that my viewpoint would be met with dissent, I bore the girls no ill will, but only desired that they comprehend the existence of an alternative, where hope was not a thing relinquished.

“I still have hope.” Ariella’s measured words cut through the silence like a beam of light, illuminating the truth. She was not a woman of many words and so her statement had immense weight, and her concurrence with my viewpoint touched me deeply. In contrast, Sarah’s scoff, tinged with derision, did little to shake my conviction. I could not blame her for her scepticism, and her dismissive “Sure,” accompanied by a patronising chortle, failed to diminish the import of Ariella’s agreement.

“I wonder if you’ll still have hope when they shoot all of us on the spot after they find your damn book.” Sarah shot back spitefully.

And that was the end of our discussion.

***

The passage of time has mellowed the memory of those perilous nights, when I ventured out at great risk, in pursuit of a tale. And yet, even now, I cannot help but believe that it was worth the danger. I risked everything for the sake of a bedtime story, but it was a gamble that yielded immeasurable treasure- the unbridled hope that sustained me in those dark times. It was the hope, patience and unwavering determination that ultimately led me to the light of freedom. I am forever grateful for my life and for the luck that saw me through. It is a gratitude that will forever remain ingrained in my being. With hope as my guiding light, I forged my path through the darkness and emerged victorious.

Reflection

As the author of this short story, I was deeply moved by the plight of the Jewish people during the Holocaust, and wanted to explore the theme of hope in the face of unimaginable tragedy. The character of the Jewish girl, imprisoned in the labour camps, represents the resilience and determination of those who were forced to endure such atrocities.

Through her secret reading at night, the girl is able to find a sense of escape and solace in the world of literature, despite the darkness and despair that surrounds her. This serves as a symbol of the human spirit’s ability to find hope and meaning, even in the darkest of circumstances.

Writing this story was a challenging and emotional experience, as I wanted to do justice to the real-life events and the people who lived through them. I hope that through this story, readers will be able to gain a deeper understanding of the Holocaust and the importance of hope in the face of adversity.

Girl in The Red Coat”

by Athanasia Symeonidi Goumenidi

Reflection

My artwork portrays a little girl wearing a red coat, as she stands alone in the foreground, having behind her the complete chaos of the Holocaust. Her figure stands out from the crowd due to the vivid color of her coat, in an otherwise blurry and blackand-white scenery. This artwork has been inspired by a scene in the iconic movie “Schindler’s List”, in which the appearance of the little girl represents Oskar Schindler’s moment of epiphany, as he starts to notice the horrifying reality of the Holocaust. The bright red color of her coat represents the bloodshed. The fact that it is worn by a little girl walking around alone, is meant to symbolize the innocence and helplessness of the Jewish people who are being punished for no reason, thereby making the audience draw a connection between Jewish people and innocent young children who cannot be blamed for any abuse or violence they are exposed to.