Chelsea Davis
Narrative Essay
English 10 H D
Paused Pocket Watches
As our group of keen students crowd in through the small entrance of the museum, the feeling of gloom silences our animated conversations. As the tour guide speaks on the tragedy of this village, massacred by the Nazis, thoughts of confusion whirl inside my pre-occupied mind. I half listen and half stare down the cute french boy working in the gift shop. I quickly lose sight of my friends as they scurry towards the entryway. A glimmering glass case on display catches my attention. Inside, are pocket watches of the townsmen that were found after the attack, all stopped exactly at the same time. Inscribed is: “We invite you to pause and take a moment in time today to remember those who lost their lives.” With this heavy thought, I remind myself that I will simply walk through the site, take a few moments to remember those who died, and proceed with my day. To me, history is a textbook. It’s cue cards to memorize. My first glance at the remains of the village flip my presumptions.

 

The ambience of tragedy drenches me like heavy rainfall. The feeling is followed by my first glimpse of crumbling houses, burnt from the rage of soldiers. I stare in awe of the reminiscence of each broken building. I am reminded of each innocent family. There are simply no words to be said for this many useless deaths. I continue to make my way through the haunting town, as if it is still alive.

 

Tenderly observing each inch, I explore the streets, the nooks and crannies. Everything left in it’s place after the attack, like a moment in time. I can’t help but think that this could have been a village buzzing with tourists today had it not been for the corrupt views of humanity during the war. With a tornado of intense feeling rushing in my head, a tiny gecko suddenly trickles past my feet. It flaunts its exuberant life with a skip in its step, running in the cracked alley completely oblivious to it’s surroundings. In the background, the buoyant singing of birds disturbs me. They are blind to the seriousness of this event, and something about their continuous joy makes me uncomfortable.

 

I watch the trees dance with the wind in the demolished town, and the flowers grow through the gunshot holes in the walls. The brilliant sun reveals each shattered window, along with each dead heart. As my classmates frantically take pictures for their parents and tourists read the plaques along the way, I am forced to remind myself that this was an event that actually took place.

 

My class passes through the cemeteries and starts to exit the site. Something tells me to stay and soak up more of this town. Anger and confusion taste bitter on my tongue, as I still see the world moving so fast after a tragedy like this one. As I look down the street, my friend motions for me to board the bus. Sliding back into my pre-occupied mind feels wrong, so my feet stick to the ground and I don’t move an inch. My teacher told me that each student would learn a lesson on our trip, and I know I have discovered mine in this beaten village. Even after tragedy, the world continues to move. Like one of those paused pocket watches, it’s my job to stop in this moment and remember.