The Traveller
My coat flushed behind me as I cantered through the woods that night. The taut air hissed at me and my horses hoofs trampled on the flinty pathway. I felt the anxiety creep up on me. The bare branches grasped onto my hood; they dragged me to the ground. Was I to be bold, or to be ashamed and startled? For I did not know whether to turn back, or to keep going, to chase my haunting duty. The trees were closing up on me so I decided to keep going. My horse started to gallop and I almost fell off. And I saw it, once again.
I can remember now, the first time I came to this house, a group meeting. The residence I was glaring at with fear and shock used to once be a happy place, with joy and glee. It was 1940; my 12 friends and I had joined to set up a safe home for the Jews. We had bought this house for the safety of our friends. We filled their hearts with joy, not the misery of their lost ones. We parted when one of us was found, and killed. We had promised each other that we would meet here, on the 2nd of October 1951. I know they remembered, they couldn't have forgotten. But there was no sound around me but the whistling air bristling agents my ears. I knocked on the hard muted door. No one replied. The light began to fade and it was hard to work out the red bricks of the house. it was silent, simply silent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .