Writing the Picture

Writing a picture, is it possible? Let me explain. two years ago, or at least I think it was two, me and my family visited the city of Prague. We visited the memorial of the Jews who left Prague and the surrounding area for the Death Camps and never returned. I cannot begin to describe the horror of that place. It is a simple room and on the walls, are written the names of the dead. Thousands of names from floor to ceiling. Upstairs is a small gallery of pictures drawn by the Jewish children in the concentration camps. One struck me with such force that I was thinking of painting a picture to show my feelings but since I am an awful painter I will attempt to write the painting instead.
The child was nine I think. The picture she drew was done in crayons. It was not beautiful or incredible, just an ordinary child's representation of her and her friends playing beneath a tree in the park. She drew it there, in that place, where death stalked her at every moment. There is one thing that made this picture stand out. The three figures are in a circle with hands joined. Across the figures is the harsh lines of a red crayon, trailing its way across the page. None of the three are left without this deliberate scar, snaking its way along and back along the paper.
At first I pictured a guard, stalking past, scribbling angrily on that brief reminder that his captives are people but that image was dispelled and replaced by a much more chilling one. The little girl sat in a room, staring at her drawing and reaching down slowly to pick up the crimson coloured crayon and slowly, deliberately in some dark premonition and quiet despair drawing across those three happy, carefree figures the blood that will be their only legacy. She weaves the stick of childhood missed across first their faces then their bodies then their legs. Beside that stained piece of paper, forever now behind glass, a short note saying simply that the girl, Isabel, did not survive the war.
The picture I wanted to paint? Her face, there was no picture or photograph but I knew it as well as my own. Isabel was of medium height, with long black hair and soft grey eyes. She had high cheekbones and a pale complexion. She was, is, the image of martyrdom. Is this all some stupid fantasy, the runaway imagination of a young, impressionable English writer? Probably. But a part of me can't seem to shake off the idea that what I have just committed to paper is truth. What kind of truth? That I think only Isabel will ever know.