This week’s 100 Word Challenge is inspired by our visit to the Jewish Museum in Camden where we explored the amazing exhibits and saw the spice box with such an incredible back-story.
I can’t wait to read them and share them in class!
Miss T
This week’s 100 Word Challenge is inspired by our visit to the Jewish Museum in Camden where we explored the amazing exhibits and saw the spice box with such an incredible back-story.
I can’t wait to read them and share them in class!
Miss T
The truck drove closer to my house. I past familiar streets that I had forgotten when I was at war. This little village was so special to me and when I was at war I could not bear being apart from it. There it was the most familiar street of all. My family’s street. The truck pulled off to the road and drove away. I walked down the alley way and came to number 11, this was my family’s house. It had not changed what so ever. I knocked on the door and I could smell the scent of home.
I awoke and stretched, just another normal day for another normal person. I looked at my calendar on the wall. September 9th 1939. I stomped down the stairs, my usual cry of, “What’s breakfast today,” ringing in the echoey house. But a reply did not come. I heard the wireless and the word WAR.
Later that day a man came to our doorstep, knocking politely, and telling how young men must step up to be a soldier. Of course I stepped up, but my mother cried and begged me not to go.
Two months later,I am all ready missing the home and the smell of that beloved place, that not long before I hadvtsken for granted. How !ife has changed.
Sorry too long
We won the war! I’m Chris Davis, a British naval officer and I’m about to step on to British soil. All of the crew are long gone but I still want to say goodbye to my ship. I can already smell the frying bacon, the musty corridors, the scent of home. The coach trip is taking so long but we are nearly there, I’m so excited about seeing all my family, my old life. I’m home! After a long hug from mama and papa we have a lovely dinner and then play charades. I tell them all about my adventures over a bottle of rosé then we all head up to bed.
I was a small boy at the time. Going out to get the rationed shopping as I did every week. I arrived back home, but mama and papa were not having a friendly chat like usual, they didn’t come to get the door before I opened it with my keys. Instead they both sat in the sitting room, with solemn faces and mama holding what looked like a suit case with a tag that had all of my details on it. “Your father and I have been discussing this for a long time and we have finally come to and agreement. I’m afraid that the house is going to be bombed! you are going to be evacuated.
Sorry a bit over 100!
War is a horrible time. It’s the time of so many deaths, and lost loves. I fought in WW2. I had to see my friends die. I had to see dead bodies being abandoned. But the best bit of the war was coming home. We had won the war and I could see my family again. I still remember knocking on the door, and seeing their faces. I never thought I would. It was a Friday night, at dinner we all passed a spice box around. It smelt of sweetness. I forgot about the past. War was a horrible time.
Opposite Day
Rubble on the street,
they shall be defeat,
Rubble in my house,
we scrambled like mouse,
Rubble every where.
Rubble in the garden,
the ash has harden,
Rubble in my hair,
even rubble in the air,
Rubble every where.
Rubble on the Anderson shelter,
I really want to belt her,
by her I mean a German plane,
I know I sound quite lame.
Rubble every where.
Rubble on the Eiffel tower,
We need to bring back power,
Rubble in the sun and shade,
Or else the Germans will invade,
Rubble every where.
The Germans have won the war
I was seven when it happened. The Kinder Transport. I now live with my foster parents Mary and George in the centre of Cornwall and I’m 10 years old. They aren’t Jewish like my real parents. I have made lots of friends here but still wonder about my old ones. Did they get a ticket to the Kinder Transport or were they left to die? I still think about my real family and hope that one day we will be reunited, although knowing the labour camps, that would be very unlikely.
I miss my old life, I want it back.
You miss the scent of home when you go out. It’s a sweet smell, sweeter then fresh honeycomb. It has a taste of familiarity, a taste of love and affection. Soldiers. They miss the scent of home. It’s so far away, yet to them it’s just out of their reach. It’s a scent you always smell. It’s with you for eternity, from the day you arrive to the day you die. You can’t really miss home, because it is always with you. Although the scent of home can be far, it is always there for you, looking down from above.
One object can tell 1000 tales. That’s what I always say to myself . Recently I was in my house in Gloucestershire and that day I was having a big clean out of all my things. I had tonnes of boxes stacked up on one another . But there was one box in particular that brought back so many memories . It was filled with old magazines and news papers and there was no use of them what so ever . I picked up the box but it broke and a whole load of things fell out . Then all of a sudden I saw some things that I never thought I would see again . My passport from when I was about 8 years old , all the pages were torn at the ends and there was a sweet little photo of me in a little velvet dress. I remember my father had just got it for me and I was thrilled . Then I saw my brother’s yamulka he wore it all the time and I remember my mother stitching a little image of a football as it was his most favourite thing. I remember being taken on the train huddled up next to my brother and we were adopted by a cruel family who made us cook and clean as if we were servants . I never saw my mother and father again . And I think I Know what must have happened to them.
The dinner started like any other. After chatting and laughing, we sat down to say our prayers and light the candles. We all had our wine, or grape juice for me, and the food was laid out brilliantly. Even though there was very little to go around, my grandmother made it look like a feast. The last thing I remember before the incident was my mother handing me the spice box. As I breathed in the fresh scent, the door burst open. Nazis. They took my parents in handcuffs and dragged me away, despite my screams. Guess where we went.
The scent of the train was growing nearer, the smoke filling the air. I was pushed and shoved by the NAZI officers onto the immense steel train, the cries of children’s parents growing louder by the second. On the train there must have been at least two hundred other children, it was difficult to get a seat. Some people had to pair up! My mother’s hand was vigorously shaking mine until the train left. Slowly, the train started moving out of the station. I saw one child get pulled out of the window and onto the platform. The journey began.
I sat in the dirt, wearing my frayed striped pyjamas. Fingering the six pointed star, enveloped with sorrow, I mourned for my parents, worked to death by the Nazis, and my siblings, too young to work, so sent to the gas chambers. A tear fell upon my knee; I wiped it away. Nazi guards were bawling for the children to get in line. I crawled into a corner out of their vision. Knowing it could cost my life, I delved into my pockets, and retrieved my spice box. I inhaled it, and suddenly screamed. I was discovered. Death was imminent.
The scent of home
I was walking down a road that I had walked down years before. I had just left what had been my house, and I was heading towards my neighbors house. When she opened the door, I instantly recognised her face, and she must have recognised me, because she welcomed me in. We went straight into the garden, and we found a buried box of memories. The most prominent object was Mum’s little spice box. Just looking at it brought back happy thoughts of every Friday evening, in our little house. I took a sniff, and smiled.