War 31528

I was frightened of being pushed along with strangers who did not care for my cries. Or were my tears repetitious of what they had already seen before? This recollection of war is solely mine. To this day, I do not sit in judgment of crimes that were committed. Innocent people never understand war. We are thrown into a hell and from the first day, my sister and I were supposed to know what the Old World knew about wars. There have been many history books filled with explanations of most of them, but children like us, who have just begun school, have never read the volumes of history. We did not know their stories. We only knew about the apple orchard whose fruits filled our stomachs with green apples picked before their time and we learned to count how many trees were in bloom. Like a shot from a cannon, we were faced with survival. We no longer counted the blossoms. We counted the bombs that destroyed our city.

I watched as people were running; baby buggies loaded down with small children and other precious belongings, people wearing what had been taken down from closets, shoes tied together and slung over shoulders, old people with wheel barrows pushing loaded carts across cobble-stoned streets. Children were screaming in defiance at having to leave their homes, afraid of their destination. Shopkeepers were packing their goods into wagons; their horses seemed as anxious as they were to move along. Parades of people moved slowly in pairs of two and four as I watched. The parade had no instructions on how to walk. No banners were flying to give the marchers that magic touch. At that moment, I became frightened of what I saw. I quickly stepped back onto the sidewalk to make more room for those walking. I looked up at their faces. They had no expressions. Their eyes focused straight ahead to the end of the road that would carry them to their destiny.

I hesitated at first, but I reached out my hand and touched a man’s sleeve. He did not feel my trembling fingers, so I withdrew them quickly. I was angry that no one had stopped and asked about me and where I was going. Perhaps it was because of the endless rhythm of things being dragged across cobblestones. It became hard for me to see. The parade of people ran together. I wiped my tears away until their faces became clear once more. I stepped down from the sidewalk and moved among them. I ran up to the old folks whose pace had slowed. I did not even curtsy before I asked my question. "Is this the safe road to where war is untouched?"

I repeated my question over and over. They didn’t respond but merrily pushed me in the direction that they walked. A wheel from a wagon hit a rut and smeared my white stockings with dirt. This parade was not for me! I had a beautiful velvet dress with matching ribbons for my hair. I stopped and looked around. I no longer cried. This journey was for the poor. Papa would never allow us to travel on this dirty road. I left the parade, relieved that our things would never follow their steps. I was glad that they were leaving. I did not want to look at their worn out faces or hear their wooden shoes shuffle on the ground. I could see the mountain around me and smell the salty sea. I filled my lungs with hope and skipped a few steps, thankful that the parade could no longer be seen. I moved along, happy to be away from the city. I had walked a long way to find out about this war but nothing had been said. I really didn’t know what I was expecting to see or hear.