“ It ’ s Not My Fault ”
Jamie Kurtzman
Grade Eight
I heard yelling, followed by sirens. Chaos ensued. The Nazi officers came bursting through the
door. Was there a riot? They were frantically looking around and snatched me up. Suddenly, I
saw black, followed by the huffing and puffing sound of the running Nazi who grabbed me. I
heard all sorts of other horrid noises too - the bang of gunshots, the screaming of women and
children, and the crash of glass shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. I had no idea what was
happening. I was whipped out and saw a young man and a little girl huddled in the corner of a
room. I don ’ t understand German, but I knew they were in trouble. “ Had they done something
wrong ?” I didn ’ t think so. Seconds later, I found myself beating down on them, over and over and
over again.
That night was a misery. After I smashed some wine cups, the Nazi who carried me was tackled.
He dropped me, and I rolled under a table. Then there were more gunshots. The man must have
been shot by the Nazi officer. Blood splattered, and screams continued throughout the night. I sat
with that awful feeling for years until a young boy picked me up in 1951, still covered in that
young, brave Jewish man's blood.
I tried not to think about that night, but I couldn ’ t stop myself. I had smashed windows, counters,
valuables, and even people. “ It wasn ’ t my fault, ” I had to repeat to myself. After all, I am just a
baton. It can ’ t be my fault. Seven years later, that ’ s what those evil Nazis were saying in court. “ It
wasn ’ t my fault! ”
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