––––––––
As I gathered my thoughts the door opened and the children began to file in. A few glanced my way and I responded with an awkward smile, unsure how best to acknowledge them.
I watched as they selected their positions in the semi-circle around me. One or two extracted notebooks and pens from their bags, but without much enthusiasm. Mostly they slumped into their seats and carried on their private discussions seemingly oblivious to my presence, as if hoping the lesson would be somehow delayed until they had finished.
“Settle down, 9B.” The sharp rap of knuckles on wood brought the class to order.
With noisy sighs of resignation the children turned their attention to the teacher, some noticing me for the first time. They stared at me, perhaps wondering what sundry lecture I had been instructed to bore them with on this occasion.
“9B, that will do.” Mr. Wilkinson’s stern gaze dared them to dissent. The class fell silent. After a few seconds he said, “Today we have as our guest Mrs. Jones, who has kindly volunteered her time to talk to you about her personal experience of World War Two and the Holocaust. About how...”
I felt waves of panic sweep over me. I clutched my chair, closing my eyes, willing it to pass. For a moment I felt faint.
Mr. Wilkinson’s words came back into focus. “...therefore I expect you all to give her your undivided attention for the next forty minutes and, hopefully, to come up with some...” He paused for effect. “Some intelligent questions to ask when she has finished.”
There was a groan of dismay at this proposal and I realized few here wished to hear what I had to say.
As I looked about me at these fresh young faces, thirteen and fourteen year olds whose idea of trauma was to miss a favourite television programme or to be deprived of their mobile phone for an hour, I could see in their bright eyes a mirror of my own childhood, of my own indifference to even current affairs, let alone the past.
I remembered how irrelevant even the day’s news had been. How could I possibly ask that these children be interested in what happened to me, seven decades ago, long before their parents were born? Perhaps even before their grandparents were born?
I studied their clean features, their shining hair, immaculately ironed uniforms, polished shoes beneath socks neatly at half mast. In return they stared back, some sullenly, others in a spirit of hope over experience, waiting for me to start.
The sooner to finish, no doubt.
I chose my words carefully and began.