The Isolated Diaries: The Holocaust of 1941 by Katie Radgowski (early readers txt) 📕

Emma sat still, using her silver fork to dig into her carrots. The lamp above the dining table shook slightly, as her family around her ate in silence. Father scratched his chin as he looked outside the window, while Mother gently shoved the tomatos into her mouth. Emma's brother, William, was moving his two carrots around with his hands and smashing them into the gravy, making tiny sounds as if the carrots were cars crashing into a strawberry fruit stand. 

"Willam, stop playing with your carrots and eat them, young man!" Mother scolded. "I walk down blocks to get the tastiest carrots I can pay for, and this is how you repay me?" 

 "Sorry, Mother." William muttered as he dropped the gravy covered carrots from his fingers. "I just like to play with cars." 

 "Wipe the gravy off with your napkin, and carrots are for eating, not for playing. Your not two, William. Your eight and I expect better from you." 

 "Besides, son, carrots help you grow a mustache." Father joked as he rubbed his hand on William's hair. 

 Mother slapped Father's arm with her tiny hand. "Tim! They do not! They make you grow smarter and more active."  

 Silence followed. Emma hid her uneaten carrots behind the big blobs of mashed potatoes as she said. "I haven't heard from my friend in weeks." 

 "Is that so, sweetie?" Mother asked. "Why?" 

 Emma shrugged. "I don't know. She didn't letter me. It's very unusual. I do miss her so much. What happened to her?" 

 Mother looked at Father, her eyes glinting with worry. Father shifted in his wooden chair, making the pegs creak on the wooden floor. William started eating the mashed potatoes with his hands but nobody noticed, except Emma. 

 "Dear, there's something that's been going on in Germany right now..." Mother began. 

 "What?" 

 "Well, something's happening to the Jewish people, sweetheart. Something bad. It may happen to us, but I hope it will not come. Your friend may have got involved." 

 "Tell me, Mother." Emma said, rather sharply. "I must hear it. My friend is very important to me, and I need to hear what happened to Bonny." 

 "Jewish people are being killed." Father admitted. "By the Nazis. Something you don't need to worry about, my dear. Just some sca-" 

 "You mean Bonny was killed?" Emma gasped as she jumped from her chair, the fork clattering to the floor. "It can't be true! Mother, Father, tell me it isn't true!" 

 Mother sighed as she got up, dusting the crumbs from her apron as she held Emma's hands. "Listen, sweetheart, I don't know. She could've moved somewhere else, or gotten... killed. Father will try to find out soon enough." 

 Her finger wiped away a tear that was slowly spilling down Emma's cheek. Mother's face had a warm smile, with bright, glowing green eyes and wavy bangs of ginger hair spilling in front of her eyes. Her hair was back in a bun, as she was wearing green leathered clothes, black shoes, and a white apron with a flower sewed into it. She looked like a real mother, with a homey touch. 

 Emma hugged her, sniffing. Bonny was a tough, hard girl. She wouldn't die so easily. She would try to escape or fight with the guards.  

 "Okay, go get changed and into bed." Mother whispered as Emma backed up. "It's almost time for bedtime." 

 "Aw, Mother." William complained. "Can I stay up tonight?" 

 "No." Father replied to him. "You need sleep, mister, for school. Your grades matter more then ever right now." 

 William got up, licking his palms from mashed potatoes as he walked up the stairs, mumbling and grumbling. 

 Mother laughed. "He'll get over it. You can go and read upstairs, Emma. Just don't tell your brother. I don't want any grumpy trolls!" 

Emma agreed as she walked up the stairs. Her Mother sat down besides her Father, whispering to him. What was going on? What was the big problem? 

Emma sat in her bed, her quilt tucked around her. Her window was halfway open, the noise of the streets below breezing into her room. 

She sat, opening up a old, torn book. The pages were a bit rough and wet on the sides, with splotched ink that was puddled across the pages. Emma sighed as she closed the book and read the title, which said "Princess and Prince: Romance". 

Emma liked books with adventure, history and swords and battles. Romance was for soft, baby like people. Father said to Emma once that adventure books presents the inner traits within one, and Emma believed him, like always. Mother read's romantic stories, and usually shares them to Emma. But Emma tells her that she's not interested, but interested in the war books, with dramatic chapters and horrific battles. Mother told her sharply once that books like that were for men, and women kept to soft, quiet like stories that modivates them to do chores around the house, like cook dinner and clean your family's clothes. Emma didn't want that. 

Emma got up from her bed, brushing some mothballs from her pajamas. She hadn't worn these pajamas since she was only nine, but since she was small and rather skinny, she could fit into any clothes. 

Emma walked over to her nightstand and placed the old book on it. The wooden nightstand creaked a bit, and Emma had to shove her knee forward so one cabniet wouldn't slide from it's cozy space. Emma had old furniture, since Father bought them from the markets so they wouldn't spend food money on fancy couches and stuff. Emma usually swore to herself that one day her bed would fall apart right when she's sleeping on it. 

Emma jumped, startled, as she heard a knock on the door. She sighed, forcing her heart to calm down from the sudden noise as she called softly. "Come in." 

Mother walked in. Mother was wearing a long, white pajama dress that went to her ankles and had blue cotton fabric sewed into it that were shaped like blooming violets. Her hair was back in a ponytail now, and she was wearing white gloves over her hands. Mother was carrying a gray tray that was filled to the brim with small, golden like candy.

"Here, dear." Mother murmured as she placed the tray on the nightstand. "Have some butterscotch candy." 

Usually, Mother made butterscotch dimpling candy pops every night. They were homemade, and she made them with suger, caramel, ice and another secret recipe. She doesn't tell William or Emma, but Emma was determined to find out. 

"Thanks, Mother." Emma said as she grabbed one and popped the candy into her mouth. It was sweet and delicious, her tongue licking at it's creamy surface and her mind bobbing at the taste. "It's great."

"Yes, I'm sure it is." Mother replied as she sat down on a chair next to Emma's bed, as Emma sat on the bed's matteress.

"Honey, I want you to know that whatever happens, I'm here for you." Mother suddenly said as she reached for Emma's hand.

Emma nodded. "I know, Mother."

Mother silently got up and walked out. Emma didn't know why she went so quickly, but she didn't mind. She wanted to be alone.

Emma got up and raced to the window. The street lamps were coming on, their pale light washing the cobblestone streets yellow. Emma could see horses pulling wagons filled with fruit, vegetables or homeless children or adults. Slowly, the lights flickered off from the other houses across the street. Vendors closed up their stands and walked home, pulling their stand on a wooden wagon. The street settled down with darkness and quietness soon after the sun fell. 

Emma grabbed a small notebook from her pocket in her pajamas. She mostly wrote poems, or just advice, in her notebook. She wasn't so good at poems, but poems soothed anyone's worries when you write it down brightly on paper. 

Emma looked out of the window. What should she put down? She grabbed her special orange ink pen, that her grandfather got her at a special market stand. It smelled like fresh, juicy oranges when written down and it's ink sparkled in the light. 

Emma suddenly had an idea after she stared out the window. She grabbed her pen and wrote; 

"Cobblestone is red 

 Lamps are bright 

 Vendor men are nice 

 My street is bright, 

 E.B" 

Emma paused. That sounded nice. When she meant bright, she meant it had lively people and animals, with smooth streets and clean houses. Emma lived in a nice neighborhood. 

Emma sketched a rose on the corner. She also drew a man, with a black, oily mustache giving a little girl a large apple and drew a lamp shining over the cobblestone street. She drew a horse carrying a wagon filled with strawberries and children climbing over the fruit, squashing the strawberries with their heavy feet. 

Emma yawned after a moment of sketching. She closed her notebook and put it in her pocket, along with her sparkly pen. Emma rose from her bending near the window and closed it, the night noises stopping. 

Emma walked over to her bed and climbed in it, covering herself with her colorful, patched quilt that her brother gave her years ago. Blowing the candle off next to her bed, she curled up and closed her eyes, darkness closing over her mind for the night. 

Emma was sitting on the couch the next morning, listening to the radio as the newsman reported on plane's zooming above their town in five hours, dropping bombs next to the coastline. William sat on the chair next to the door, shivering in fear as he thought in his little mind that one bomb would drop on their house. Mother explained to him that the thought of it was foolish. Emma agreed, but she had her doubts too. 

Mother was in the kitchen, making some raspberry butter pancakes for breakfast. Father already left for work, being an early bird in his old age. With Father's look of brown eyes, blonde hair and a strong posture, he looked young but was quite old. It made Emma feel old for having an old father, but she tried to annoy it. 

Mother had grabbed the radio from Emma and put it in the kitchen, listening to a favorite tape of hers as she made the batter. William raced after her, helping her squeeze and peel the oranges for orange juice. William liked to take the seeds and grow