Page 70 - 2024-2025 Creative Writing

Leaving

I’ve always loved the smell of old newspapers. The ink stains on your fingers, but it

feels like holding the world in your hands. While other boys played stickball in the

hallways and alleys, I stayed inside, devoting headlines and articles like they were

meals prepared just for me. My parents called me “their little economist,” though

they never said it without a tone of sadness. They wanted me to be like others who

were laughing, running, and being careless. However, I was born with a mind that

clung to facts and figures, not games.

I didn’t know it then, but those headlines were writing our futures. My father’s

market business was failing, not because of him, but due to us being Jewish. That

word followed us everywhere, heavier than the sacks of potatoes he carried home

each evening. When they came for us, I wasn’t afraid at first. In my naivety, I

thought it was a mistake. How could a boy who spent his days dreaming of

economic theories be a threat? Yet fear came through rapidly. The newspapers I

adored so much had taught me words like progress and efficiency. Now I saw what

those words could mean when twisted into something monstrous.

They packed us into trains like cattle. I thought about the headlines I had read,

stories of hope. I held onto those thoughts even when the world blurred into

darkness. Would history remember me? Or would I just become another forgotten

name?

[Inspired by stories from] The Holocaust; April 21st, 1942

D. Egshig 11A