One day, Nina awoke to some unusual sounds. From under her blanket she listened to what she thought was the whistle of the wind or thunder. But the tone of the familiar music was different. It seemed like something heavy had fallen on the ground and exploded. Was it hail: huge icy balls covering the earth, making everything disappear?
Finally she got out of bed, opened the window and got all covered in black snow. The sky was grey, filled with smoke and fire. She picked a black snowflake from her hair and examined it. Oddly, it didn’t melt, and there was something written on it. The snow was made of written words! Nina quickly grabbed her diary and slipped the snowflake inside.
In her dreams, many years later, Nina would often see the black snow against the red flames playing in the sky. For a long time, the magnificent beauty of the image eclipsed the buildings, the people, the children, and the memories devoured by that lively fire. But she didn’t know any of that yet.
Nina closed the window and went to the other room. Her children were fast asleep. She tried to wake them up but her little dreamers were in another realm altogether, so she gently wrapped them in their blankets and put them in her pockets. “They’ll be safe here. Just until I find out what’s going on,” she muttered.
Perhaps this is the right moment to reveal that there were two children, a girl and a boy. To help the story run smoothly, I’ll name them Ada and Dino. Suddenly awake, Dino peeked from the pocket.
“What’s going on?”
“I am not sure,” said Nina. “Burned books are flying everywhere.”
Ada, instantly alert, stuck out her head and jumped out of the pocket. Always the one to check everything out for herself, she ran to the window. Dino followed his sister, as usual. He screamed first, “The Horror!” and jumped back into the pocket. A few seconds later Ada repeated, “The Horror! The Horror!” and joined him.
To me, the recorder of events, a simple bystander, it was obvious right away what was happening. But protagonists can sometimes be blind and not notice the signs. If I had been close by, I could have shouted, “It’s the war! Run, Nina! Run for your life, take your children far far away!” But Nina wouldn’t have heard me. We, the writers, are just witnesses to history who observe people’s lives, unable to warn them even when we recognize the danger.
The children were safely tucked inside her pockets. The fear in their eyes was a guarantee that they wouldn’t come out again until she told them it was safe. She contemplated folding up her entire home and hiding it in her pocket. But she was afraid that taking too much of her past would weigh her down and she wouldn’t be able to move.
“Perhaps I’ll just take a few things, in case I forget who I am along the way. I will have these glimpses into my past and create new and interesting stories around them.”
She never did have a good memory and she liked to re-imagine everything that happened to her over and over again. She would rarely settle on just one version. So she put her diary with the recipes she ’d been developing in recent years, her Kyocera knife, some photographs, and her children’s favourite book in her backpack. All right, then, Nina thought. She took a deep breath and almost choked with the smoke.
We are part of something very important, she thought, and at once felt calm. My children will not learn about life from reading books, but from watching books burn. Always the one to play with words, she smiled at this touch of her usual self even in such circumstances. We are the witnesses to history! She caressed the walls of her house and closed the door behind her.
In moments like these, when a character I’ve chosen to write about appears to be foolish, I am tempted to abandon her and find another, more reasonable one. But children must not be blamed for their parents’ pretension. (Too often children suffer because of the stupidity of grown-ups.) She might come to her senses. So I’ll just continue and see where the story takes us.