My Worst Fear: We Must Not Forget

Today is Stephen King's birthday, and the Writer's Almanac posted a quote by him that stuck with me. I'm not sure why. I haven't read much of his work, but clearly he is an accomplished author. He said he just writes about what scares him. His mom told him when he was little that if he said his worst fears outloud that they would never come true. He said that's been at the root of his career. I've been collecting some bits and pieces for small episode posts. Some of them more serious than others, but most non-ficiton. Today, I decided to follow the inspiration of King and write about a fear I have. It's nothing I've ever listed on things I'm afraid of, but it certainly sits up there as one of the biggest. While the fear is real, the episode is clearly fictional. I'm not sure if I'm going to leave it or finish it. I'd be interested to hear some feedback.

 

I couldn't tell if I was awaking from a dream, or if the sounds around me were real. The awful cries of babies being torn from their mothers, of the men shouting the names of their wives and girlfriends as though it was the last time they would look into each other's faces. The steady clapping beat of marching combat boots, and the single-word sticcato commands shouted harshly in a foreign language. My vision was still foggy with sleep sand and my thoughts were straddled between my dreams and reality. If this dream was to reveal itself as such, it would prove to be a terrifying nightmare. If it was reality, well then what do you call a terrfying nightmare when it really happens? 

As I sat up and my head cleared, I sighed in an instant of relief that it couldn't be happening. I had heard the cliches about learning from history, and certainly the world would not, could not, be doomed to repeat such an atrocitiy. I exhaled, deflating any hope that it was all a dream because I noticed my roommates were gone, and I could hear chaos around me. People scurrying up and down the hallways, whispers, shouts, slamming doors. Outside I heard again, the sounds that awoke me just moments before. 

"Rebecca!" There was pounding at my door, and the corner of my Led Zepplin poster fell off its tiicky tac and rolled over Robert Plant's face. Five booming fist pumps knocked my favorite picture frame off the shelf and followed another plea, "Rebecca, are you in there? Get up, we have to go!" I ran to the door, still not sure what was happening and opened it feverishly. Out of breath, sweating, and screaming, Adam was on the other side looking desperately unsure he would find me. But he did. 

"What's going on?" I asked fearing the answer. 

"Thank God you're still here." No explanation, no conversation, we didn't need any, we never did. My brother just took my hand and we began running, as if our lives depended on it. In the hallways of the dorms, people were frantic. No time to stop and text, everyone was on cell phones or shouting out the names of people they were looking for. In between the electrical room and the study lounge, there was a narrow hallway that led to the back door with a window. We stopped and stood cautiously to see what was going on outside. I was paralyzed by fear when I peered out the window. It was a historical film, it had to be. No way humanity could allow this to happen again. It just couldn't be.

The beautiful green lawn at the center of campus, usually filled on Saturday mornings with friendly football games, readers under shady tress, and young lovers enjoying the warmth of the sun, was seized by soldiers in brown uniforms sinched tightly at the waist with shiny black gunbelts and pant legs tucked into equally shiny black boots. Some of them held small pistols in their hands, others had large automatic combat weapons. But all of them had the same red band around their arms. Recognizable to anyone, the red bands hosted the swastika, symbol of hatred, evil, and cruelty. The commands that had awoken me earlier were the soldiers barking at the ring of prisoners circled around the perimeter of the campus, marching under the duress of armed soldiers' threats.

There they were, like the millions of Jews, Gypsys, Handicapped, and others who were wiped out in the Holocaust. Some of them my friends, all of them my brethren. Our worst fears were coming true right here. In the 21st century. In America. Hundreds of Jewish college students rounded up and stripped clean. Virtually nondiscript and comfortably enrobed in their matching army uniforms, the Nazi's tore off the prisoners clothes, leaving them barefoot, naked, exposed. Each imperfection, each feature of insecurity, on parade for all to see. Each uneven breast, each beer belly, each dimple of cellulite, each flat buttocks or stretch mark, all momentary preoccupations to be replaced by a stripping of much more than clothes. Strong, smart, powerful young people begging for their lives and the lives of their loved ones, knowing what would come in the months ahead. Crying, screaming, begging, they were beaten and threatened and dragged. Three of the young men stepped to the center of the circle synchronously, as though to silently and intuitively make a suicide pact. They were successful.

The shots of the guns firing snapped me into consiousness. I felt as though I had been watching for hours, but it had only been a minute or two. Quite possibly the most horrififc two minutes of my life. Adam grabbed my hand and told me to look at him. With his other hand he endearingly touched my cheek and then he held my chin. "Stay with me, and whatever you do, don't stop running."

"Where are we going to go?" I asked. "There's nowhere to hide. It looks like they're everywhere."

"I don't know. But we can't stay here." He was right.