Using an image as inspiration

This is based on an exercise we did in a creative writing group last year.

Photo by Robert Capa (1913 – 2000)

Footsteps echoed on the cobbled street. Mama held on to my arm, in the same way as the bald woman held on to that child, the one everyone’s eyes were on. We had walked all the way from the outskirts of town to a street lined with shops and houses, all several floors tall. I had never seen such houses, or so many people, laughing and waving flags and banners.

It was a sunny August day and I was wearing my favourite summer dress. I hadn’t had a new dress since the beginning of the war, so Mama had unpicked seams and let down the hem every year. I was only allowed to wear it to church and on special occasions, so I was surprised that Mama let me wear it that day.

As we approached the front of the crowd, I noticed that the woman who held her baby so tightly was not bald. Her head was covered in stubble, like Grandpapa’s beard when he tried to shave without a mirror; it was specked with bloody scabs. And she wasn’t laughing. Her eyes were fixed on her baby’s face as she stumbled along, shoved now and again by a man in uniform. She strained to keep her face set hard, afraid it would crumble.

I was close enough to see the baby over her shoulder. It was smaller than my little brother, so I guessed it was about three months old. It was wrapped in a grubby shawl and appeared to be asleep. How could such a small baby sleep through the noise of the crowd?

It was then that I realised that the crowd was not laughing with joy. It was the sort of laughter I remembered from school when the bullies jeered at children who had no shoes, or no father. I shuddered as a bitter taste filled my mouth. I swallowed it back down – I didn’t want to throw up in front of the crowd. I spotted a girl from my class walking with her mother, a cruel sneer spread across her face. What had the woman done to deserve this?

There was a shout from the crowd: ‘Shame on you, horizontal collaborator!’  A man ran up from behind us and spat at the woman; it missed and landed on the baby’s head. The wretched woman used a corner of the shawl to wipe off the spit, which was replaced by a tear that escaped from her eye.