The old forsaken Memory

A Story by Pixieholt

An old man who recounts the story of his past days

There was this old worn down house in the middle of the street. It stood out from the rest of the houses, not because of its size; it was quite smaller than the rocketing duplex houses surrounding it, but for the quaintness that it seemed to reverberate with.

It was a charming small house, with a broken window, a broken glass in another window and quite a number of lighting cracks on the faded walls. Not to mention the recklessly overgrown garden and the run down fountain of Venus almost crowned at the base with a lot more of braided grass and tangled wild flowers of hues of purple, white and yellow.

I thought I have to mention that the house is quite a haunt for the local boys. I would watch from my window as they expertly swing their legs over the low rusty gate and take a damp path to the door of the house. It still stood solid; the door, that is-a fine piece of heavy chestnut material.

But I would also observe that they wouldn’t enter the house, instead those kids-in their black, Goth outfits and diamond studs-would sit on the stone steps smoking or drinking. Often they would bring in a mug of the local bear, bought at six pence from Atrid’s Beer House a few miles away, or indulge in a less expensive cigarette which John Allan would hand out at free for fear of being bullied.

I used to know the owners of the house. I was a young kid, then-a fair head boy with an inquisitive curiosity of all the workings of the neighborhood. It was there as long as I remembered, but of course, back then; it was a glory of a house, shinning on top of all the other houses.

It had apparently been on sale for quite some time but nobody wished to buy it, for back then, it could be called expensive and utterly huge with a front lawn and a backyard. It was Mrs. Merkel; a German breed, recently windowed had come along looking for houses to set in her five children.

I had seen, from this very window itself, how the real estate agent had shown her the place. Later I did not know whether she like or disliked-but I needn’t to wait for a long time. On the crisp morning of July 14^th, 1943 there pulled up a huge car, and Mrs. Merkel along with her five children walked into the house.

My mother told me to wait and let them settle-and after a restless few days, I was finally allowed to visit Mrs. Merkel. I was invited in and Mrs. Merkel introduced herself as Angelique Merkel and her five children.

Ana was fifteen then with straight fair hair, Kerber-10, Maria-9, Lizzly-7 and the youngest Oliver who was merely 4. Mrs. Merkel explained to me how she lost her husband, an American Oliver Solane in the World War along side with tea and biscuits. I soon bid goodbye and after that would often drop in the house.

My mother and Mrs. Merkel became good friends and I had taken a fancy on the wide eyed Ana Solane. Soon I would find any excuse to be at their home watching as Mrs. Merkel home schooled them. I too at that time was only 12 and home schooled but I believed that I knew what it was to be in love.

Soon Ana and I would go out. We would wander aimlessly all around the neighborhood, making up stories of all the people we came across and would ultimately end up at Jenny Sweet Shop where the white haired lady, Jenny Kascin would hand us sherbet dabs at merely 2 pence.

Those were innocent days filled with wonder and exhilaration. Sometimes the other siblings would join us but more often, it was Ana and I. I listened fascinatingly as Ana would tell me all about her life in New York and her father. I summed him up into a gentle being who worked hard for his bread. Later, with the outbreak of the second war, he was called upon to serve his duty to the country, leaving behind his wife and five children, never to return again.

Her mother was from a rich German family who had settled in America long back ago. With the Nazi sentiments up high in the air, most of her family went into hiding. Her father brother, though, a corporate in a bank industry, suggested Mrs. Merkel to live in a small place which should not be affected by the war. He said they would be alright; they were after all half Americans.

As the next two years rolled by, the war came to an end. Newbury was not affected but the damage to the homes of people was irreparable forever. Mrs. Merkel was thinking of shifting back to New York. I was depressed at the thought of Ana going away but it happened anyway.

The last of what I heard was that Ana was married to a bank manager; Kerber became a lecturer in Mathematics at Brown University, Maria and Lizzly were opening a store together and young Oliver had climbed ranks in the army.

At 64, I retired from the hospital and stayed on a lone guardian in my house. I had married once to an older woman, Jeanette Giroux only later to divorce.

There was this time-“Mr. Clafin, your tea is ready.” My housekeeper Dorothy was standing at the house.

I glanced down at the house again-and then turned around and left.

“I made some very special biscuits today.” Dorothy said cheerfully.

I smiled.

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Pixie Holt