Writers Statement
Being of French and German descent and having grandparents who lived through World War II, I grew up with stories of what life was like as a child during what is now considered one of the most deadly conflicts in history. Despite my grandparents not having seen the front lines themselves, their stories sparked an interest in World War II as a whole, how it connects to my roots, and how it can cast a long shadow in the form of generational trauma.
Cicada chirps echo in my ears, forming into one continuous ring.
My eyes flutter open and I watch a swing sway above me. The back of my head throbs. The blue sky above is adorned with cotton white clouds, and a tree heavy with green apples shudders in the gentle breeze, casting its shadow across the daisies that litter the ground. I must have fallen off my swing. Where is… Where is Mother? My head aches. Everything hurts. A number, no, a date flashes in my mind. August… August third. Nineteen… Thirty? Forty? Nineteen thirty-five. No, that can’t be right.
My eyes drift around in my head searching for an anchor in a sea unfamiliarity. Blades of lush grass turn brown and curled, small twists of wire sticking out of them. A blurry figure steps towards me and my head hurts. It hurts so much. The figure comes into focus. My mother. Accompanied by a smaller figure. Tilda!?
A sound like thunder makes me jump, my hand lifting to cover my face. A wave of heat cascades over me, the skin on my cheeks tightening into a scorching mask. I withdraw my hand from my face and it comes away covered in blood.
Blood.
My eyes search the field for Mother, tears spilling down my cheeks. No. No. Something’s wrong. Tilda has a snout and four legs and Mother wears a uniform stained with blood and mud. Mud from the trenches. Blood from the… the… I lift my arm to reach for something that isn’t there. But I know it. Metal, and loud with smoke and pain coming out of its mouth. It pushes you back with the force of its rage. I know the word now.
Gun.
Voices start to churn around me overwhelming my senses. One calls a name that’s familiar but I know isn’t mine. Or is it?
“Müller,” murmurs a cracked voice. Someone tries to pick me up but I let out a fractured sort of scream. They try again, this time with a stretcher. It sways like the swing and it takes me to a place where everything is truly okay. But nothing good ever lasts forever. My eyes refocus and I find myself staring straight up at a sky that is filled with smoke and ash. It wasn’t like this moments before. What’s wrong? They bring me into a tent and a sob sounds from somewhere behind me. A hand touches my head. A bright light shines on my face. It hurts. The swing still sways.
Back and forth…
Back and forth…
Back and forth…
A child’s laughter brings me out of my trance. The girl sits on a wooden swing,
her bare feet tucked underneath the weathered board. My head doesn’t hurt. The
girl turns towards me and I start. Her face is scrunched up in a laugh, shining locks
dancing around her head like auburn leaves in the morning wind. I watch her swing,
pushing the wooden board as she glides higher and higher. A bird chirps an uneven
song from the branches of the apple tree. I return my daughter’s smile and murmur a
silent prayer, hoping that for her, a swing will never be the key to long-forgotten
horrors. I pull my cap back over my head so that the scarred mass on the side of my
skull is hidden from view. It won’t ruin this perfect moment. A sigh of relief escapes
my lips.
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