The Sketch Pad | Jack D - THE BOOK I'M DOING WITH KAY - Please comment!!

by DarkAlias (Jack D) in the dark side of the moon, rockin out with Pink Floyd

Yup! Here's Chapter 2! I hope this is okay, Kay! Please tell me if it's not! I'll change it then! Anyways, please please comment! Thanks!

Chapter 2

Drawing Conclusions

~~~~

Location: Germany, Arendsee

Year: 1941

Andrew’s POV

          My pencil swirled around in a continuous loop, swerving in and out along the lines, painting the picture through the thick lead shapes. The paper was nothing like what I’d used before; at Christmas time, I’d gotten a pad of paper, nice and thick, perfect for sketching. Of course, in my excitement I’d used it all up too quickly, and now I was stuck with the plain old writing paper that was being rationed out to everyone else.

          The lighting was low and the air was cold and damp, and a feeling of uneasiness hang low in the air. My parents sat on the sofa, listening carefully to the radio. Harsh static was coming through, loud and crackly. Their faces were long and solemn, but their eyes told a different story. Inside I knew they were terrified, just like all of the Jews were.

          The static was getting louder, and a picture was painting itself in my head: A canvas covered with fuzzy shapes, sharp and italic, crisp upon the paper. It was perfectly drawn, a mixture of contrasts of darkness and light, and the complex network of flicks and twists through the artwork.

          You see, that’s how my mind works: just one big painting. I was born for art. No, I exist for art. Every sound, every sight, every smell or taste or sensation sends of sparks in my head, electrifying, playing over paintings and artwork in my mind. I don’t bother trying to explain it to people; they just don’t understand. I wouldn’t live if it wasn’t for the fact that I could do my art in peace.

          But considering how the Nazis were closing in on us Jews, I was beginning to wonder if I would be able to do my art soon if I was shipped off to a concentration camp, like thousands of others had already been. No one knew what happened there; just that whoever was sent away wasn’t seen again. That was made sure of, whatever the Nazis did to the poor people once they arrived...

          My parents switched off the radio, a look of fear trembling in their eyes. My mother looked at me and I glanced up from my sketch, smiling at her. She gave a weak return, and a tear trickled down my cheek. The war updates played over in my mind. “Hitler... battles... many deaths... more Jews... shipped away... concentration camps... Nazis... Germany... war.” I shuddered. How long was left before it was our turn to be sent away with the others?

          Thinking of the war set off another shockwave of ideas in my head: A battle scene, Germans on one side of the mighty battlefield, the British on the other. Dark colours streaked out their pain in the horrific clash of guns and sorrow. A single drop of scarlet runs down the canvas, a single drop of blood...

          “Son, why don’t you head out for a while?” suggested my father. “You should get some fresh air; give your mind a rest.”

          “Alright.” I quickly placed my sketch book on the table and left the room. Our tiny house was made up of just three rooms: the living room, the kitchen and a small space where the three of us slept. So with only a step I was out the door and into the street.

          Compared to the rest of Germany, Arendsee was a small town, just a few streets, the shops plain and simple, the most unusual structure being the church spire. A few stray people marched down the street, carrying on on their business.

          I wandered aimlessly for what seemed like forever. I’d walked the streets of Arendsee many times; I knew the simple town like the back of my hand. All the while I was thinking of the War. Things were getting progressively worse, and I had the feeling that something terrible would happen soon.

          I glanced down at my shirt, and at the patch sewn onto the pocket. It was the Star of David; the proud symbol of the Jews. It had become law that all Jews must wear the Star at all times, so that others would know which of us were Jewish, and which of us weren’t. Germany’s leader Hitler didn’t seem to like the Jews, and I didn’t know why. I just knew that nothing good could come of his opinion.

          Suddenly a group of kids, three of them, round the same age as me swaggered up. They looked me up and down at scowled when they saw the Star stitched into my shirt. “Look, Nicky, it’s another one of them Jews!” snarled one to his friend, nodding towards the symbolic shape on my chest. “I thought all those had been locked up by now!”

          “Yeah, me too,” agreed Nicky, his friend. “Those scumbags don’t deserve to be on these streets! That’s what Hitler says! Me ma says it too! He should be locked up with the rest of them!”

          The three began to advance on me, grinding their fists. I glanced around, panicking and turned to run, but before they could they sent me sprawling onto the sidewalk- right into a big wet puddle.

          “Ha-ha!” laughed one. “That’ll teach him!” The others laughed and they strolled away, still grinning. I got to my feet, scowling, wiping away at my sopping shirt. Everything was drenched; my hair, my clothes, my face. With a heavy frown on my face, I made my way home, watching out carefully for the same gang of kids, my shoes squelching with every step.

          I opened the front door and slammed it behind me, brushing away some hair out of my eyes. I could hear voices coming from the living room, so silently, I crept forward and listened carefully. Usually, I’d never dream of doing this, but the War was making each if us more suspicious of each other, even our own families. We had to be careful, or else we’d end up dead.

          I could hear my mother’s voice, and high-pitched and worried. Peeking through the gap in the door I could see her flustered face, tear rolling freely, distraught with grief. “... The radio said so!” I heard her say. “They’re coming, the Nazis! They’re headed here! What’ll we do, James? They’ll take us way like the rest! The radio said so! The radio doesn’t lie!”

          “I know, I know, dear,” said my father, patting her gently on the back. “We’ll figure something out. We’ll have to.”

          Slowly, I backed away from the door, shocked and confused. They were coming? If so, I knew one thing for certain.

          We were doomed.