Cliffhanger

This is a story of human courage and decency that transcends time and borders. It was Germany 1938, Kosovo 1999 or Myanmar 2018. Neighbours disappeared. Some removed, some murdered, some saved.

Would you have the courage to risk your life, and that of your family, to shelter a friend who is now deemed an enemy? It’s a tough one, isn’t it? Picture the scene. The year is immaterial.

If you’re one of the decent ones you’ll probably be educated, tolerant, rational. It won’t matter. You’ll be petrified when the door is beaten. What weapon is denting and splintering the barrier to a world descended into hate and discrimination? Most likely a Karabiner in Hanover; a Zastava in Pristina or perhaps a Chinese assault rifle in the Rakhine State. They kill as well as each other.

The persecutors will be brutal and focused. They have a job to do. And so they’ll beat that door until your terror of not opening it, becomes greater than your fear of inviting the evil inside.

It will start with a stand-off, of sorts. Questions barked, answers demanded. Threats too, of course. Don’t you know these are not people?, the oppressors will say. Maybe they’ll embellish the dread with a list of punishments. What will it be? Let’s see  – forced labour? A beating? Or something much worse?

‘Versteckst du einen Feind?’ You get the idea ... I’m not going to translate into Serbian or Rohingya, though similar words will have been said. But you can guess, can’t you? ‘Are you hiding an enemy?’

And what will you say? Can you keep your face bland and neutral? Have you reflexively glanced at the trapdoor, the hidden wall panel, or outside to the barn? Is the sweat on your brow and lip from fear or guilt? 

You haven’t convinced them so they start looking. Well, not looking exactly. More like, tearing the place apart. They don’t care. I told you. They have a job to do and they’re very focused. You blink and swallow as heirlooms and precious possessions are crushed, smashed and ground into the floor. It won’t matter where you live – a handsome apartment in Berlin, a stone cottage in Ferizaj or a house made of wood in Sittwe. Home is home and yours is being destroyed.

You can’t afford to show anger but your jaw aches. Your teeth are compacting. And, all the while, your heart is hammering in your chest and ears.

They stop suddenly. Careful what you wish for! When their attention returns to you, eyes boring into yours, you’d rather they carried on, wouldn’t you? Because now they’re really mad and you have to pay. A punch, a rifle butt to the head, a bullet even? Perhaps not the last. They’d rather return with the fugitive and you, the offender.

You hold your tongue, eyes screwed, and brace for the next assault when you catch movement out of the corner of your eye. Your seven-year-old daughter has come home from school, skipping through the back door. She can’t see. She doesn’t know. Her friend is in the cellar.

‘Ich bin zu Hause, Levi. Du kannst rauskommen.’ You suck in a ragged breath. Oh sorry, the translation. Do you need it? She said, ‘I’m home, Levi. You can come out now.’

Cold eyes turn, mouths twist.

THE END

Copyright © Diane Clarke 2019