PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

“Sargeant Gianfelici is coming back today, we’re going to need you to clean up all your things before 6:30 am,” snapped Officer Dante. “Please don’t be late.”

I was undeniably startled by the sound of his voice. His intentions were good after all, I heard him try to whisper. Truth is, that man could be mute and still manage to wake up the whole country with his voice if he wanted to.

I turned on the light bulb and checked my clock.

It read 5:44 a.m.

Apparently my “extraordinary performance”, as Officer Turner had described, had only paid off for three weeks. I was going to have to go back to settle in the village instead of sleeping a corner around the office I worked in. To be fair, it was Sargeant Gianfelici’s cabin in the first place. It seems like a ridiculously complaint, considering all of Europe is going through a whole lot more misery than me having to walk thirty-five minutes to work – thirty-three to be exact, but I had gotten used to that “high-class lifestyle”. It always seemed ridiculous to me, that even in a hidden village in northern Italy full of refugees running away from the war, somehow social classes were still a thing.

I didn’t have any choice anyway, after all, I knew when I moved closer to the offices it was temporary. My old room wasn’t bad at all, but it definitely wasn’t as good as Sargeant Gianfelici’s. Sargeant Gianfelici was sent off to search for new refugees to help and apparently, he was coming back already.

So, here’s the deal, I am one of “the lucky ones”. I was captivated by the Nazi’s but manage to escape. I heard of this place and came as soon as I could, and it has treated me very well for a total of four months. I get to live here and eat fairly enough, and in return, I must work for the officers. For eight hours each day I submerge myself on office paper and help where I am needed, after all, it’s a World War, everybody needs help.

6:22 a.m.

I grabbed my stuff and headed out towards the mountain that separated the offices and the village of refugees.

6:39 a.m.

I was already halfway through the mountain. I hummed along an attempt of “Strange Fruit” by Billie Holiday; he nailed every single note on that record. I used to have a record player in my room down at the offices, of course my old room in the village didn’t even have a whistle.

6:41 a.m.

I decided to get out my cap, it was getting pretty sunny outside and I was starting to sweat. I remembered how my bed was much better than the old one, and how much I would miss it.

6:46 a.m.

I thought about how I early I would have to wake up from now on in order to get to work on time.

6:51 a.m.

The loudest noise I ever heard. I glanced behind me, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. All I saw were ashes. I stood there, without even muttering a word, and I never once again have doubted the phrase “every cloud has a silver lining”.