A Triptych of Fear

The three children had their first and last memories in common. Their first memory was of their mother's smiling face, their last was the flash at the end of the rifle.

-ooOoo-

Jehangir could see the fear in the eyes of his sister. They were close, even though she was a lot older than he was. Hunger and a strong survival instinct forged a strong bond. There were only the three of them now that father had died in agony at the end of the smallpox outbreak that had taken his two brothers and another sister. Tears still welled up in his eyes at the memory.

Living - just - along the banks of Yamuna in Delhi was dangerous because of all the diseases and the troubles, but at least there was water and the occasional bit of work. The news now was of the invaders. Rumours were spreading about the white devils who killed, robbed and raped. The panic was starting to set in amongst the crowds. It was always noisy, but the shouting got louder and louder, the smell got worse. People began jostling for positions. They were heading towards the banks of the river and Jehangir was slowly being separated from the other two. He could see them just ahead, but he could not get to them. He started to panic. He needed them. They were his only islands of safety. He used his small size to squirm between legs, but as soon as he got to where they had been, he found that they had moved on.

He was getting tired now. He had not eaten anything for twelve hours. He suspected that even that was a bit of rat his sister had found. But it was not the hunger driving him. It was the panic all around him.

Suddenly, the tall-masted ship sprang into view as the crowd parted for a moment. It rested against the bank, and the soldiers were getting off. Jehangir could see the soldiers. He could see the rifles pointed at the crowd. The crowd now surged in the opposite direction.

They were pushing past him again. He suddenly saw his sister as a red-coated soldier grabbed her. Jehangir, little Jehangir, brave Jehangir ran to her, the fury burning in him. The British soldier turned, smiled crookedly and pointed his rifle at the running boy. Flash.

-ooOoo-

Moshe had lived in the concentration camp at Sobibor in Russia almost since he could remember. He smiled a lot despite the hunger and pain.

Everyone said he was a lovely little boy, with his jet-black hair, large brown eyes and loving nature. But inside lurked another him.

Moshe was not stupid. He knew they were after him. His mother tried to make light of it, but he knew. He knew because his mother made him hide in the latrines when they came. He knew because friends had disappeared and no one spoke of them again. He knew because he had heard the wailing. But if he smiled, he could keep them away. It had worked so far.

They will come tonight. They always come at night. The darkness and the dogs gave them away. Moshe hated the dogs. The dogs knew how to hurt. He had seen a little girl try to stroke one once. The dog had bitten her hand off and torn off half of her face. The handler laughed and patted the dog's head.

Sure enough, he heard the dogs as soon as it started to get dark. His mother rushed him to the stinking latrines at the end of the hut. Other children were being pushed in as well.

Rush ... he had to rush. Get some straw in his mouth to breathe. Where was the straw? The dogs were at the hut. No time now. Just get in. It stinks. It stinks worse than ever. Never mind, smile and find a corner. Get as far down as possible. Get under the stink as much as possible. Hold your breath, Moshe.

The dogs. I can hear the dogs in the hut. I can hear the screaming and shouting. I can hear the thump as a rifle butt hits target.

They are coming this way. Get under the stink now. But it stinks. The top is being lifted. No time to escape now. Look up smile. Smile at the man with the gun. Flash.

-ooOoo-

Esad could remember the good times in Croatia before the civil war started. Not long ago, the street in his village was filled with sunshine. He could remember picking apples in the orchard. He could remember playing with his friends - all his friends. But here that had stopped.

Today they had been playing in the street. He and his best friend, Tini, had been playing war. They were darting in and out of the trees, pretending to shoot at each other just like they were doing on television. Suddenly, someone shouted that soldiers were coming, and the grown-ups ran away.

He and Tini carried on playing. A tank rumbled down the road. Tini went to have a look. Esad watched from behind a tree as a soldier stepped out from behind the tank and shot at Tini. His friend's head exploded. What was left of his body just crumpled to the ground. There was no scream - nothing except the bang of the gun and blood, brains and body in the road.

He started to run back towards his home, but a bullet whistling by his head made him change direction. Better to dodge towards the farm. There is cover on the farm. The farm is getting closer. Another bullet missed me. Made it. Over the low wall. I can hear the tank coming closer. Better get away from here. Crawl along beside the wall. The soldiers are shouting. Tini, this was a game!

They are getting closer. The pig trough is metal. I'll be safe behind that. They're shouting. Down, quick. There is a woompf of the canon on the tank. I can see the flash even from here. My aunt's house explodes. Let's see what happened. Lift my head just a little. There's that soldier looking at me. Flash.

-ooOoo-

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

William Safire's Rules for Writers