ANNIVERSARY OF THE MEETING TO DISCUSS THE FINAL SOLUTION, BERLIN, 1942

20th January

Striding out and not a glance at anyone; focuses on what will happen. Repeats to herself the imminent  conversation with these despised non-people.  The liars who continue to perpetrate a false myth. 

The meeting place came into view. Metal railings create the boundary between suburban pavement and pristine front garden.  The partly open gate welcomes the invitees who are guided by the anniversary and the lights on both sides of the path to a double fronted Georgian house. The two rooms, brightly illuminated, indicate with clarity that their world is on show. The tightly pruned rose bushes seem severe in the glow.  Two tightly clipped topiary trees illustrate the owner’s symbols of peace. 

The music comes and goes on each opening of the door as new arrivals enter.  Mozart plays as the guests move around, glasses in hands.  There's an eclectic mix inside as though a bus has disgorged it’s passengers.  The common denominator is grey hair and black clothing. It looks, and is, a sombre affair as if an outdoor celebration is dampened by a thunder storm.

Preparations complete, full of confidence and a brisk walk takes her swiftly to the front door.  Black dress cut just below the knee for respectability is only partly hidden by the open, flapping shiny black coat. She could be one of them.  Conversation stops as her presence is noticed and they gather around her in silence.  Far too brazen to be cowed; she stands stock still as the gathering parts a little.  Faces him, jaw juts out and yields not an inch, and stares at him.  

They know each other.  Both have done their research and he is aware of her politics and the propaganda that she spouts.  It is reprehensible to him, her beliefs.

He’s gigantic for a Jew, and without any warning a fist connects with her firm jawline and her head glances off the low table on the way down before she folds into the floor.

Unconscious for now, but senses movement.  Jolts, lurches, rumbles and there are hard, cold  wet, boards underneath her.  A pungent smell of urine, vomit and other odious human fluid soaks her clothes.  The living moan, whine, jostle to find warmth as wheels rattle to the rhythm  of the death march.  Days seemingly pass and then the wagon stops and the door bangs open.  In her silent world lips move and then she is outside crawling in snow.  She stares upwards to see the black smoke rising.  The stench of the bodies around her now being supplanted by a sickly smell.  

She wakes up and spews.  White clad arms support her.  Everywhere now is white, clean and the only smell is that of a hospital.  Someone says ‘you were brought in unconscious.  Do you know what happened?’  It’s all distant as though unreal.  She doesn’t answer and stares at the whiteness of the sheets. Whiteness for purity. She still believes that the Holocaust did not happen, but now there is a doubt.