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 Oct 2015
Rangzeb Hussain
Her name is Magda and this is her story.

Cast your mind to another time, another place...

The year is 1939 and the place is Germany. The night is cold, the wind howls and upon the strike of midnight there is a thunderous hammering upon the door where little Magda lives. It is the Gestapo, ******’s secret police, they arrest Magda’s father and send him to clear minefields for the German army. Her father has not committed any crime. He is a law abiding citizen who works hard and is a respected member of society. He is arrested because he happens to be Jewish.

Less than a year after the arrest Magda’s mother receives a letter which says her husband has been killed.

Then, on another wild and frightful night there is thunder once more upon the door. This time the soldiers arrive and take Magda, her mother and Magda’s brother George, who is only four-years old.

They are driven to the railway station and packed into a cattle truck with many other people. The floor of the tight compartment is slippery with cow dung, the walls greasy with grime and dirt, and the air hangs heavy with the stale sweat of fear. The prisoners pray silently.

Magda can feel the heat rising as time passes and her mouth and lips become dry. The air is becoming humid, people are gasping, some have fainted, others are weeping. Magda has no idea how long she has been trapped in this claustrophobic dungeon. Her throat burns but there is no water and no food, just slow and painful suffocation. The journey seems to be without end.

Finally, when she thinks she is about to faint, the train screeches to a halt. There are screams and shouts as the prisoners are pushed and shoved out of the carriages and marched towards the barbed-wire gates of the death camp that looms out of the morning fog. Soldiers stand at the sides pointing rifles at the new prisoners. Magda jumps back from when she sees a huge dog snap at her. The spittle from the dog’s foaming mouth flicks across her wrist and she shivers. She notices the sharp teeth and the raging eyes of the dog. The soldier tugs on the dog’s leash and laughs.

There are men in black leather uniforms who are separating the prisoners into two lines, one for men and one for women. Magda’s little brother George is torn from his mother’s arms and thrown into the line where the male prisoners are waiting. Her mother tries to fight her way through the soldiers but she is thrown back and falls into the mud. When she gets up she sees the line of men close around little George and he vanishes. This will be the last time Magda and her mother will ever see little George.

The seasons change, the world turns and time passes. The year is now 1944 and the prison is a place of hunger, thirst, disease and death. There is nothing but fear and sadness as family after family is killed for no other reason except that they are Jews.

Once more, on a stormy night, there is a scream in the night and Magda wakes up. She reaches over and touches her starving and skeletal mother, she searches for her mother’s warmth and her protection, but on this night when her fingers clutch her mother she finds only the cold. Her mother has passed away during the night.

The next day the Allied Forces arrive and liberate the death camp. Magda is free at last. Her frail body is thin but she has survived. She knows that her mother only lived as long as she did so that Magda would survive.

There is an ambulance waiting and Magda is driven to a hospital and from there she is given the very last seat on a plane bound for Great Britain. She arrives in Birmingham and is welcomed with open arms. The people are friendly, warm, kind and smile when they speak. Magda cannot speak English but in time she learns to read and write and soon she is living with a foster family who treat her with love.

Magda knows that in Germany she was not allowed to go out and play. Her mother could only go to one shop for a few minutes under armed guard. The family had no freedom and no protection. Things in England are different. She can go to school, visit shops and parks, spend time with friends and go to her place of worship without any fear.

Every week she goes to Steelhouse Lane Police station and gets her documents stamped. She can only stay in England if she is a student otherwise she will be deported to Germany.  Thus, Magda studies hard and hopes to go to college. She is still sad inside because she knows when her education ends she will have to return to Germany. Sergeant Roberts, from Steelhouse Lane Police station, smiles warmly and advises her, “Magda, if anyone ever asks you what it is that you’re studying, tell them you’re studying to be a grandmother.”

Once more time spins and this time eighty years have passed and the year is 2011 and the place is Birmingham Town Hall. An elegant lady walks onto the stage, the light bounces on her curly hair creating a silvery halo around her glowing face and the audience wait eagerly to hear her speak. She is calm, peaceful and her voice is clear despite her age. She carries no darkness or hate or vengeance, only love. She looks at the audience and smiles gently and says, “My name is Magda and this is my story...”



©Rangzeb Hussain
 Oct 2015
Joe Cole
A simple question
Some of you Write of dark despair
Suicide and self harming
Others write of never ending love
The beauty of long passionate nights
And sunshine warmed days
But is that really honest poetry
Simply, yes because its what you believe
And so therefore I must be honest
Many of us write of times long past
Of sadness, death and loss
Of honest times in poetic verse
Me? Well I will always be me
I write of sadness
Also of creativity
The Tranquility of natures charm
But then that's just me
My way
But to all who write from a chosen path
Just occasionally take a divergent route
Then write honestly from your heart
Write the words we love to read

Joe
Diversify
 Oct 2015
LifeBeauty13
Longing to be a Writer,
a wordsmith of the spirit,
the possibility within my soul,
can I see the ability to really do it.
Aching to grow to become more,
yet so afraid to open my door,
Others will see and make their choice,
Whether or not to hear my voice.
 Sep 2015
daisies
Defined cheekbones,
your shy smile creeping its way onto your lips.
The desolation and the lone;
it will consume us and tie us up like flowers in your ribs.

You sigh and I imitate,
you cry and I soothe you into tranquility,
that place where you often be,
like that brisk truck ride to that shooting competition you had.

Two seperate worlds;
me and my expensive hobbies,
you and your country activities.
"You keep making me so happy,"
that line you kept repeating,
taking its time to linger in the back of my mind.

Falling for you was unprecedented,
I felt so powerless, bringing out
a character I never knew existed deep within me.
But then again you cannot be predicted,
a solitary Sagittarius,
how am I to say no?

For you were the guidance to my piece of my mind,
the hollow space between my ghostly fingers.
On spur of moment, it took you away then:
Distance.

Hereafter, flowers I once explicitly planted in your ribs
shall wilt leaving nothing but scattered debris,
as new flowers of your future beloved will replace mine,
and you'll forget the truck rides just like how you forgot about me.

If they do replace mine, and when they do,
I hope their soft stems curl up ever so sweetly around your ribs,
tugging at your bones to outline their intricacies,
blossoming wildly to tangle themselves next to your heart,
where I once used to belong.

They would coil and twist and wrap themselves around you,
engulfing you in an aura of saddening gloom,
leaving you with a malfunctioning mind
so you could feel my pain this time,
as you forget how to breathe.
Found this on a crumbled up piece of paper dated back to the 15th of June, 2013.
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