The Inferno

Category A: Third Place (2024) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Shiven Rewal

I watch in horror as the bonfire lights up the dark of night and illuminates the streets of my Berlin neighbourhood. My nostrils fill with the heavy scent of smoke and burnt paper. The angry mob cheers each time something is thrown into the fire pushing the flames higher. Tonight, the youth wing is leading the destruction of texts that are deemed unworthy of the new Germany. I see students shout and scream as they throw piles of books into the fire.  I am mortified to see that many are my very own classmates. 

The same ones who, a few weeks ago, forced me to eat a pork sausage to prove that I was who I said I was. A forged identity document had allowed me to continue my schooling relatively unnoticed. But my dietary habits had raised suspicions and soon I was the subject of a whisper campaign. This had not gone unnoticed by some in my class who had signed up with the youth wing of the Nazi Party.

Among them was my friend Dieter. He was the one who convinced me to come out tonight and join the protest to which I reluctantly agreed thinking this would demonstrate that I was a good German. But only now did I realise the terrible turn of events that were taking place in front of me. I stood in silence witnessing the destruction.

Not only had the new regime singled-out my people, segregated us, seized our assets and forcibly separated our families, they were now hell-bent on destroying our literature, sacred texts, paintings and sculptures, everything that celebrated us as a people. I watched on, as item after item, was thrown into the fire. They had plundered the town hall, museum and library in search for anything they could use to feed the fire. Its flames devoured everything thrown to them and remained hungry for more.

Through the commotion, my eye caught the sight of the tall blond-haired boy who had stepped onto the podium. It was Dieter and he said some horrible things before ferociously kicking more books into the flames.

“Für den Führer!” he shouted his voice echoing across the square, ricochetting off the brick walls and into my ears. I pressed my palms into my ears, but I still can’t get his voice out of my head. I ran back home and wept at the destruction of our culture that I had borne witness to.

Not long after, my family left Germany – the writing was on the wall and we had to leave if we wanted to live. Much worse was to come: the pogrom and then the war. The events of that night haunt me to this day. But they also led to a fierce determination to write extensively and to put words to paper. I do this because our voices matter and because even if we cease to exist then at least somewhere we will live on through the pages of my books.