Earlier this year Gabe entered the NCTC Creative Writing Competition. He received notification in late March that he had placed again this year! On April 12th we all went to the award ceremony.
The Key Note Speaker was Michael Jernigan who was deployed to Iraq in 2004 who's platoon was hit by two 155mm artillery shells buried under the ground. The attack left him permanently blind. The traumatic experience gave his life new purpose. He says, “It wasn’t until I lost my sight, that I gained my vision”. Too often people solely rely on their eyes to see, but miss out on life’s most precious moments, the ones you can’t see, but only feel. Michael truly embodies what it means to be a Marine, “honor, courage, commitment”. He was incredibly inspiring!
After the presentation, awards were given. Gabe won 1st place in the Andy and Emily Klement Short Story Contest of Middle School Students!! He was given a cash prize and will be published in the school's April Perennial.
Andy & Emily Klement Short Story for Middle School
And now for the award winning short story (Copied here with Gabriel's permission.):
THE KNOCK
BY GABRIEL SERNA
Knock,
knock, knock…
The man who was running the
interrogation banged his fist against the table commanding me to stand. I looked him right in the eye, stood
up, and said “My name is Leib Goldstein, and I am a Jew.” I was pale and
sweating, knowing I had done nothing wrong, yet my life was on the line; my
very name was my crime. My mind was racing, but it kept going back to my
favorite verse in the Torah, “Have I not commanded you be strong and courageous
for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go?”
It was the day before the knock when
I lost my job. I ran a small bakery in the town square. Baking had been my life
for as long as I could remember. When my bakery was taken away, it was as if
they took away part of my heart. I didn’t know then that this would be the
least of the troubles to come. I walked into our house where my two children
were eagerly awaiting me.
“Father!” they cried as I walked
into our tiny apartment. The elder of my children, Esther, was thirteen years
old and had long, curly black hair, beautiful gray eyes, and a happy playful
spirit. In contrast my son, Max, who was twelve, had wavy blonde hair, and a
constant twinkle in his hazel eyes. His asthma, however, kept him in somewhat a
weak and frail state compared to other boys his age. On bad days, his wheezing
could be heard in the far corners of our house, but even so he was the more
mischievous of the two.
Knock,
knock, knock…
We were eating dinner the next day
when the harsh knock came. It echoed throughout the house and everyone fell
silent. I went into the parlor to open the door, knowing by the knock
who would be standing there. My heart was pounding as I swung the door open.
Standing before me were two Nazi stormtroopers. Curious to see our guests, the
children silently joined us in the parlor.
“Mr. Goldstein,” one said. “You and
your family are under arrest. You will come with us immediately.” He peered
over at the children, “Where is your wife?” He asked sharply.
“Not here,” I replied. “She died in
childbirth. What crime have I committed?”
“You are suspected of being Jews.” I
gulped, motioned for the kids to follow me, and we left.
Knock,
knock, knock…
The interrogation didn’t take long,
and soon, we were on our way to Flossenburg, the German labor camp. The trip
was long and hard. I saw Max’s asthma was already flaring, his breath becoming
labored from the fear and stress. It seemed like even the train was on Hitler’s
side as its constant click, click, click… knock, knock, knock sounded as it
rode over the tracks and never let me take my mind off this terrible reality.
We were escorted to our cells, and I
was separated from both of my children. For the remainder of my time in the
camp, I did not see Esther, but occasionally, I would see Max. Each week he looked
weaker than the last and his breathing had become much louder, but he insisted
he was fine. I was working one day and noticed my son across the camp. I
watched as he stooped down to pick up a brick. I gasped as his knees gave way,
and he fell. He tried to regain himself, but he was too weak to rise. He fought
for each breath. A German overseer who was watching walked towards Max.
“Get up!” the Nazi yelled. Max tried
to get up, yet, his frail body fell back to the earth. I watched in horror as
the soldier aimed his gun at my son, and without hesitation, he shot my boy. My
boy with the constant twinkle in his eye, was shot right in the head. The
gunshot resounded with a deafening bang. I watched helpless as they carried his
limp body away and at that moment, I collapsed to the ground sobbing. Another
overseer walked over and commanded that I get up. When I didn’t respond, he
shouted, “GET UP, NOW!” as he kicked my hunched and sobbing form, but I didn’t
feel the pain. I just heard a sickening knock, knock, knock…kick, kick, kick.
For months, I couldn’t concentrate
on anything as my mind saw my son collapse over and over again. I went to my
cell at night, and I cried as I had done every night since I watched Max die. I
didn’t just cry for my son, but for Esther, for everyone in that wretched
place, for the hopelessness of our situation, and for the dark hearts in the
souls of the Nazi soldiers.
Knock,
knock, knock…
At the time, there seemed to be no
end to this hell on earth. The days were long and hard and I wondered if any of
us would make it out alive; so many did not. I went about my forced labor with
no emotion, barely feeling human, the sound of my hammer constantly echoing a rhythmic
bang, bang, bang… knock, knock, knock.
Finally, the end of the war came. We
who had survived were released. I was reunited with my precious Esther,
marveling that she too survived this nightmare.
We moved back into our old house with the help of my sister who was able
to flee to Denmark and escape capture. However, our family remains incomplete
without our precious Max. Sometimes in my dreams, I still hear the harsh knock,
knock, knock that led to our darkest of dark days. Though it was a
horrible experience, God has used it to shape us into who we are today. Back
then, my identity as a Jew was my crime, but that was many years ago. Now, I
can stand and proudly say, “My name is Leib Goldstein, and I am a Jew.”
WASN'T THAT GREAT!?!
We are so proud of our little writer! Good job, son!!
