The Wall Beyond the Forest

My name is Friedrich. I’m 11 years old. We live in a big grey house on a hill, not far from the fence. Father says it’s a “secured area.” He works for the Führer. He’s always busy with the officers. Mother says we’re lucky — we eat well, I have clean notebooks, and my school uniform is brand new.

Every morning, I wake up early. The smoke always comes with the dawn. It stings my eyes. They say it’s from factories. But I’ve never seen factory chimneys like those. They’re thick, black, like the shadows in the dreams I try to forget.

I like climbing into the attic. From there, I can just see, beyond the forest, those long buildings surrounded by barbed wire. People walk there in lines. Quiet. Always quiet. They all wear the same clothes — like pajamas — and some have stars sewn onto their chests.

One day I asked Father:
— Who are those people? Why don’t they speak?
He clenched his jaw and said:
— They’re not people. Forget them.

But I can’t.

There’s a girl over there, about my age. Sometimes, when the guards aren’t watching, she lifts her hand — just a little wave. I don’t know if I’m allowed to wave back. So I lower my eyes. But her eyes follow me, even in my sleep.

Mother tells me the Führer is building a pure world, with no lies or traitors. That those people behind the fences have hurt Germany. But I don’t understand what a little girl could have done to deserve smoke, silence, and hunger that I can see carved into her face.

So I started throwing pieces of bread to her. One day, she smiled.

Since then, I don’t listen to Father as much. At night, I go down to the garden with bits of food hidden in my coat. I don’t know if it’s brave or foolish. I only know I’m scared.

But sometimes, I dream the wall falls down. And the girl runs toward me. And we play in the forest. Like two children. Not enemies. Just alive.

The end