The colour crimson

Note: sensitive theme- touches on historical genocide

 "What you are doing, get it done faster….," Those fateful words engulf me as each syllable rings in my ears, the context of the script that my twelve-year-old daughter is reading aloud penetrating my cavernous mind sharply, as a thousand knives to the jugular. 

"Mama? Mama?" My Anne's soft yet firm voice is like opera music that I wish will never end. Two months thus far, and it never gets easier. Today, the adrenaline running through my innards is particularly aggressive, bringing bile to the surface of my throat. I thump my chest and cough hard. Another cold, it seems, and not a damn thing I can do about it. Isn't it funny, the most minute of privileges that each of us took for granted in the good old days before all of the chaos began? Root ginger and steam, I tell myself silently, as my eyes droop shut and my subconscious takes me back to happier times. Times of the smallest mustard seed of hope and promise of a better tomorrow. Times before the thought of requesting another visit from the resistance doctor wouldn't put the fear of my Lord himself into me. Horrible, petrifying stories of what happens in those camps run by the Gestapo. There were hushed whispers in the ghetto of the soldiers dressed in khaki green felt embroidered with the garish sign of death svastika-forcing our people into giant churches and barricading the doors shut before torching them. My blood runs ice cold as I picture myself and my beautiful innocent girls trapped in a monsoon of fiery blood orange-red flames, gasping for air as the sensation of someone twisting our windpipes grows ever stronger.

 It was my close friend Prunella's idea for us to hide in the attic of their small store at the back of Town, just a stone's throw from the original ghetto, where Jews are being dragged out into the streets and shot like stray dogs. My heart screamed No, but it was this or risking being shot and fleeing for another more agreeable place, such as Poland or Venice. Rabbi insisted this would be over soon. 

"We're being tested Edie, as were our forefathers, as were Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob," he said, squeezing my shoulder tightly in encouragement, "Now, what do you think would have come to pass had the Israelites refused to leave Egypt out of fear? Or had Joseph not been sold to those slavers by his brother? This war is meant for our deliverance, Edith. Stay strong," The lack of fear and presence of optimism in Rabbi Nathaniel had diluted the roaring fear that had been sitting at the back of my mind for weeks beforehand, and was the catalyst in my ultimately deciding to squat, or hideout, in Prunella's attic. She was determined to help us, as a friend of many years; yet her husband seemed mildly hesitant. Miep is a kind-hearted man and has helped my husband Otto by keeping him employed for over a decade now, even right up until it was passed down from the top that Jews should not work not own business, and the environment became too dangerous for him. There were daily shootings, hangings, and round-ups of our people, so I begged Otto to give up work and suggested we go someplace safer, such as his home country. You see, my husband, whom I love with all of my core and very cellular makeup, is Dutch. He is not a Jew, but it is common knowledge by now that he is married to one, and that we have two young daughters-my stunning doe-eyed big girl Margot, and strong-spirited, free-thinking Annie, who wants to become an author and go to America once all of this madness is over. She regularly has her Father and me in stitches as she regales us with her witty and often humorous stories.  

 We are all grateful to be alive, but I can tell that Otto has itchy feet. He is desperate to get out and be the sole provider again, not a charity case reliant on the couple who own the store downstairs for handouts. Prunella is as wonderful as any woman can be and enjoys regularly putting her past skills as a seamstress to use by making the girl's clothes whenever they grow, even a little. She says it's the least she can do, and if it brings them a little joy, then why not? She also brings a new pen for Anne every time hers runs out, as she is forever writing in her checked diary that Otto gave to her for her twelfth birthday. I try to do my best to keep the girls entertained, both physically and academically. I encourage them to do light exercise and even the occasional bit of barefoot dancing; of course, when it's derelict outside, so as not to arouse suspicion. 

 Tonight we are reading from our holy bible, sent straight from our Lord, our God, our Saviour. Jesus' last supper. I shudder as I note silently that it was once one of my favorite passages, one that I would eagerly encourage the girls to read and dissect before bed and often after service. I never envisaged in my wildest dreams that one day I would feel just as he had-as Jesus had. How can they hate us simply because of the place where we were born, and the ethics, morals, values, and religious principles that we hold in reverence? It makes no sense to me. I allow my mind to explore the many situations in mankind's history where the weak have been oppressed, but surely Hitler wouldn't be doing this if he thought we were weak. Maybe he sees our deep-rooted faith and vigilance in promoting it as a strength to be reckoned with. Otto used a strange and unfamiliar term when he moved us up here. It was three a.m. on a Sunday morning, just to be safe. Most German soldiers are known for frequenting the local pubs, bars, and brothels until all hours and even more so at weekends after the duty of murdering the innocent, and therefore we knew that we would be fine at this time. Otto had said…ethnic cleansing. He informed us that they were also rounding up travelers, negros, and a few other groups of people. He said that some were even in wheelchairs, and had been gunned down in the streets and their wheelchairs broken down to be made into something else to serve the cause. 

 A funny word isn't it, betrayal? The mere thought of it makes my heart beat ever faster, as I think one hundred and twenty thousand times each day and night of the moment when myself and my offspring may or will be gunned down outside in these very streets. 

A sharp squeal tears me from my intense thoughts, as I hear wailing coming from the tiny bathroom that we share with the other couple and their son, who are hiding out with us. I jump up and immediately panic, racing to the washroom as a mad woman, eyes bulging and heart rate speeding up rapidly. I throw open the shabby wood door, not even concerned about keeping quiet right now, and see my beautiful youngest daughter sitting on the toilet sobbing, skirt bunched between her slender thighs. 

"Annie?!" I choke, bending down to her height and throwing my arms around her. I can smell a stagnant odor that assaults my nostrils. It is coming from my daughter. I gasp and look down at her. She is holding her hands up to show me. They are dripping and crimson with blood. "What the?! What has happened?!" My mind is going at a thousand miles an hour, desperate to source the cause of my daughter's wound. 

"Down …..there…….," she stammers, tears rolling down her pale cheeks. Her dark pretty eyes are red and her long thick lashes are wet from crying. I glance down quickly and then notice them on the floor. Her beige colors cotton pants are sodden with red liquid. I unintentionally raise my eyebrows, and then my whole body shakes as I howl with laughter. Anne looked perturbed as well as angry. 

"Mama! How can you laugh at me?! I'm hemorrhaging!" cries Anne, horrified at me finding the situation comical.

My oldest daughter and Anne's sister Margot, who has heard the commotion, comes into the bathroom looking concerned. 

"Get out!" shouts Anne, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"It's ok Margo," I say, smiling slightly, "It's ok, darling. Anne is menstruating. That is all. Thank God," 

Margot sighs and turns around, leaving us. Anne sinks and lays her head on my chest, her hands still bloodied and wet. A little flecks onto my pinafore dress. I hold her tight, the blood cruising through my veins slowing as the adrenaline of five minutes ago leaves my tense body. 

Once the girls are fed, cleaned, and safely tucked into parallel beds in their night shirts-Anne with some torn cloth to hold the bleeding-I climb exhaustedly into bed next to Otto, who has been helping the other family to fix a small cupboard for the majority of the day. 

"Our Annie is a woman, now, Otto," I say, sidling up to him to get warm. 

"It had to happen one day, Edie," he whispers, wrapping a protective arm around my waist and pulling me closer to him. It is just what I needed to hear. 

Tears prick the back of my eyeballs as I bury my face in his broad chest. 

"You have no idea how scared I was Otto,"

"Come on, let's get some sleep, love," he urges. With that, he gently brushes my hair out of my eyes and kisses me lovingly on the mouth. I close my eyes and drift off into a cosy, sleepy slumber with his arms encasing me tightly. 

As I come to, I hear loud voices filling the shop downstairs. I hear the protests of our friends, followed by wall-shaking gunshots, that make me freeze with terror. I hear loud steel-capped boots banging against the wooden steps loudly, and then a closer, louder ringing of gunshots. I want to move, but my body stays motionless as if I have been paralysed. I begin to scream and then try to move, but I can't move my arms or legs. I'm wrapped up in something. Restraints? A sleeveless medical gown? Is Hitler experimenting on me? Where am I?!

And then Otto's voice, soothing me, bringing me back around like a hypnotic pendulum in reverse. As I open my eyes, Otto is sat up holding me tightly, as he gently peels the sweat stained bed covers from my flinching body.

"Come on, love, it's ok. You just had a nightmare," he reassures, rubbing my back and looking at me anxiously. "You are ok, aren't you, Edie?"

"It will happen, and soon!" I say in a monotone, my eyes growing fearful and large again, "We are to be betrayed, Otto! Until we are merely bodies in the streets and the colour crimson runs into the gutters."