Modern History World War II Creative Writing

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Modern History World War II Creative Writing

*All names are of real people, who were in the ghettos, and or concentration camps.*

This Diary belongs to

Samuel Steinmann.

Born 1926 december 15

1941, March 16

They've sealed the Ghetto. The foul stench of dead bodies rotting is now contained by tall, looming walls that are certain to spell death for anyone who wishes to escape. The sharp steel of the barbed wires adorning the top of the wall glint in the sunlight, a menacing reminder of where we are. This stinking, wretched prison, where the, where people are sick, dying, dead, no matter which way Iturn. Looking out now, I can see about 5 young children, none must be much over 6 years old, begging for food from people who clearly have nothing to eat themselves, let alone give away such a precious resource. I can’t stand it. The only things I have left to call my own is this book, a pencil (if you can even call it that) and a whole lot of free time on my hands. I spend my days scavenging through the rubble of buildings that once stood tall, desperately trying to find things which I could trade in for food. To think that once upon a time, long, oh so very long ago, I might’ve had it all. And I took it all for granted.

I remember everything clearly, the day when my life took a turn for the worse. It was 1939 the 1st of September. The Germans declared war against Poland. That morning, they surrounded us from all sides, began air raids that lasted every night for a month. Living in Warsaw began to seem like we were cattle, all being prepared for the slaughter house. The death toll started steadily rising, and the days dragged for what felt like weeks. Dad went off to join the army, help with the war effort. He never came back. It was only mum and I, dad leaving broke mum slowly each day, we were each other’s life support. Finally, after almost a month of heavy bombardments, we surrendered. Within a few hours, German soldiers were marching through the streets of the ruined city, which once resonated with cheerful laughter and music. Their chants overtook any happiness that ever existed there. I snuck out and managed to capture a few candid shots of them marching through the streets with an old camera that used to belong to my father from when he was a manager of a well known newspaper agency. Once upon a time, a long, long time ago.

I call this one. “The Devils March Together”

I had lived there for most of my life. Considering the amount of time I spent in the city, the number of people I was in contact with were not very many at all. A few of my neighbours, some kids who were friends of kids who lived close by, the usual. Our family had a ready air raid shelter built in the backyard, a precaution against rumours about Poland going to war.. Rightly so too. To this date, I can’t help but wonder…what happened to all my neighbours? All those happy, joyful faces, unrecognisable through to the dried up blood, twisted grins…the image makes a chill run down my spine. I remember my father, sitting with me at dining table, telling me about WW1, I remember the way my father’s eyes bore into my own, and I remember realising, even at the tender age of 13, that was was no joke. I had been acquainted to the concept, yes, my father had been telling me the truth about war since I was a child. He knew what it was like, he knew the pain and the struggle – he fought in WW1 when he was just 18. I know people died in wars. And for the time being I choose to accept it. There was nothing anyone could do for the dead. Here's another photo. took of a nearby building, now in rubble.