Revenge, by Peter Shilston

Everybody called him Sasha: he was never sure whether he had any other name. He could never remember a time when he had not been hungry or afraid. His earliest memories, which still resurfaced in his dreams, were of fighting: men shooting, buildings burning and bodies in the streets. He could barely picture his parents, who had both disappeared around that time. When the fighting had finished he was brought up by a woman who said she was his aunt, though she treated him more like a servant: setting him to chop firewood or shovel away snow, never giving him enough to eat and beating him if he complained. Eventually he ran away, and lived for a while by begging and stealing until he was big enough to get a job at Mr. Fenstein’s factory. He earned little there, for after years of malnutrition he was not strong enough for heavy tasks. His workmates jeered at him for his weakness and also because he could hardly read or write, and girls looked scornfully at his ragged clothes.

Then there was more fighting, and soldiers occupied the town. They spoke a strange language, but Sasha learned to pick it up; and when they found he was always willing to help them in return for food, they laughed and said he was a lad with promise. After a while they took him away for training.

The training was tough, and many of the duties very unpleasant, but Sasha never complained. Why should he? The barracks were far more comfortable than the doss-house which had been his home, and the food and clothing were the best he had ever enjoyed. For the first time in his life he was able to get washed and shaved properly, and have a decent haircut. Finally, when the training was completed, he was ordered to report to the railway station for transfer to his place of assignment.

As he dressed in his brand new uniform and looked at himself in the mirror, Sasha for the first time in his life felt a sense of pride. Now at last he had status: he was somebody! He walked through the streets and noticed that people who had once treated him with contempt now regarded him with wariness, even fear; and stepped off the pavement to make way for him. It made him want to smile, but he thought it best to keep his expression stern and hard. Now he was showing them! Now he could get his own back! And if Mr. Fenstein or anyone else failed to show him proper respect, he’d quickly demonstrate to them who was the boss now!

Sasha reached the station, where a train was drawn up. Much of it consisted of cattle trucks, but not for him! Oh no! He’d be travelling in a proper carriage with his new comrades, the other men of his unit!

It would probably be a long journey, because the destination painted on the train was somewhere he’d never heard of: Auschwitz.     

War Stories, by Anthony Bloor

“Lest we forget,” the chorus says. But if there’s no substance for the memory, what then?

I am gazing at a star. It’s a 1914-15 Star, one of an estimated 2.4 million awarded to all who served in any theatre of war outside the UK between August 1914 and December 1915. The reverse is engraved with a number, followed by PTE. J. and the paternal surname, followed by A. O. C. Who was this J, who served as a Private in the Army Ordnance Corps?

An online search takes us to the National Archives, and the number is the clue. We now have a regiment, another number, a filling for the J, and the option of paying £3.45 to view his medal index card. Who is this J? Census records, 1901: J is my father’s uncle, my father’s father’s brother, my great-uncle, born in Burton-on-Trent, 1894.

I remember our trips to Burton-on-Trent. Sunday picnics, walks by the river, the churchyard, my father searching for relatives, who might have been dead. But I don’t remember this great-uncle, aged 20 in 1914. When did he join? Where did he serve? What did he see? What horrors? What noise? And did he ever tell my father?

Somewhere down the line, there’s a blockage. I don’t remember meeting any of these relatives and my father, reticent at the best of times, didn’t tell us what J could tell us. What would he want to tell us? Did he prefer silence?

We can’t ask the old ones; silenced forever, so we shall never know. All we have is a medal, “lest we forget.” And memories of Sundays, the river, the churchyard, and my father searching for relatives, who might have been dead.

Memoirs of a Travelling Man, by Peter Morford

In my early days  my expense allowance limited me to the rather lower class of hotel. Ensuite? Most unlikely.  TV? Lounge available. Bar? Sometimes, but not in the small, family-run establishments.

            Meals were at set times. There would be a queue for the bathroom. The attitude of the staff was often at least aloof, as though they were doing us a favour by allowing us to give them a living. The guests were, for the most part, travelling salesmen and minor executives; suited chaps with small company cars.

            I remember a place in Essex. I had booked in advance and arrived at 6.30 to be greeted by a spinsterly harridan.

            “I have a reservation,” I said.

            “Name?”

            I told her.

            “You’ll be wanting dinner I suppose.”

            “Please.”

            “It’s at 7 pm sharp. Don’t be late.”

            Thus admonished I realised I had thirty minutes to change into something comfortable. Heaving my case up the two flights I found my room. I was about to remove my tie, then thought again. This was a formal place where suits and ties were to be demanded.

            The dining room had five tables, twenty chairs.  Two oldish men in tweed suits occupied the table in the window with its commanding view of the petrol station. Three other tables had one diner each.  I took the last free table. Four solos, one couple.

            As a remote clock struck seven the waitress came in. And what a girl!  Tall, short dress, tempting figure, blue-eyed real blonde of the Teutonic variety with the arrogance to match. Satisfied that we were all present she was ready to serve us. When I asked to see the menu she said,      “Souplambmitvegetablesicecreamandundcoffee,” all in one word over her departing left shoulder.

            Nobody wanted to break the silence. The old guys in the window stared at the view as if hoping it would change.

            When the Rhine Maiden brought our soup we whispered our thanks.

            It was still light when I finished my icecreamundcoffee.  The Rhine Maiden surged in to collect the last dishes. It was time for us to leave.  What to do with the rest of my evening?

            “Er – excuse me, where is the bar?” I asked the RM.

            “We don’t have a bar – there’s a public house a kilometre that way,” she pointed.

            “A TV room?”

            “On the first floor. It’s tuned in to BBC1”

            “The football’s on ITV,” I said bravely.

            “Herr Jenkins is already watching Panorama.”

            I decided to go for a walk in the rain.

            Breakfast was 8.30. Having beaten the bath queue I was first in the dining room. I chose the window table.

            Rhine Maiden wasn’t taking that.  She swept in.  “You’re sitting in Herr Jenkins’s, place,” she said. To my shame I apologised. In her moment of victory she finished me off with “That’s your table – over there.”  I took the five steps to my little fiefdom and sat down, just as Mr Jenkins and his friend took their place in the sun.

Ruminant, by Carol Caffrey Witherow

Janan sheltered underneath his father’s stall, swatting the flies off the meat.  The earth was cool there.  He hoped the caravan would come soon.  Would Mirzal’s voice have deepened in the past year, like his own?   Music blared from his father’s radio.   It was the best radio in the village; his father had been to Jalalabad to buy it.  

Last night he thought he’d heard the clink of the camels’ harness and the hushed voices of the tribesmen but the morning revealed no sign of them.  It must have been something else.

The approaching waves of dust made Janan sit up but it was just the American trucks.  The caravan was probably waiting for the soldiers to pass, as the camels wouldn’t like the noise.   The biggest one, the one Mirzal called Genghis, would look down his nose at the clatter they made.  The camels had seen many travellers, many warring tribes, in their long lives.  Did not Genghis Khan and Alexander the Great pass this way?  Some said even the Buddha himself had travelled this road.  

The trucks bounced towards the village, rolling through the potholes and craters.  “Hey, kid! Catch.”  The soldier, walking ahead of the trucks, threw him a bag of sweets.  Janan wondered if Genghis would like Yankee candy.  

As the patrol disappeared over the hill the boy heard the sounds he’d been waiting for.  He ran up to his nomad friends, carrying some sweets in his hand.

“Mirzal, welcome! I have something for Genghis.  May I?”

“Hello, brother.  Well, let us try one.”

The beast scooped the offering from Janan’s palm with his lips.  When the explosion erupted, darkening the sky, Genghis closed his eyes against the dust.  He continued chewing, his great jaw moving from side to side in the fleeting silence.

 .

Haikus, by Catherine Redfern

1. red and yellow leaves
    thick-layered
    on the art gallery steps

2. black scribbled
    on the horizon
    winter oaks

3. April morning
    his laughter entangled
    with the scent of hyacinths

4. these loved peoms
    the pages knw
    where to turn

5. birthday candles
    the memory of her twin
    flickering