The Upturned Bike

THE UPTURNED BIKE.

I was eight years old.

Old enough to imagine

But not old enough to know.

*

'The Prime Minister is about to 

Address the Nation'.

I knew what this would mean.

The bombs would start to fall.

 The Germans would march

Up Connaught Road.

I would die.

*

My parents sat huddled

Over the radio.

I fled.

*

The garden shed 

Would be my place of safety.

I ran to it,

Slammed and locked the door.

And waited,

My heart juddering in my chest.

What would happen next?

*

The minutes dragged on.

My father 's bicycle lay 

Up-ended in the middle of the shed.

He had been repairing a puncture.

I began to spin the wheel.

*

No gentle spinning this .

I batted my hand against the rubber

Over and over.

The wheel whirred

Under my hysterical fingers.

I hear it now.

*

I awaited the worst.

*

I hardly heard my father's gentle tap

On the shed door.

'Everything's all right'.

And it was.

*

I was not a little Jewess

Destined for the gas-chambers.

*

Millions were to die.

*

Seventy years later

I bask in the sunshine

Surrounded by family.

*

I remember you

Ann Frank.

*

And the bicycle.

*

The next episode here:

http://rinklyrimes.blogspot.com/2008/09/120-chocolate.html