The eerie night of
October 31, 1943
An eerie light stood there right above us,
Round about as large as the room,
Auntie and uncle and me in the middle of the bed,
Mesmerized, holding on to our sheets,
Not a word, just staring at the light,
We where in the middle of it,
Yet nowhere in that small village was there any electricity,
We were in the middle of nowhere just green trees and granite cliffs,
Those were the stones that uncle was cutting, that was his job,
He started every morning at sunrise,
And came back, just before sundown,
The only light there was, besides the stars and the moon of course,
It was nineteen forty three, war was raging, Hans Jorge, was in the marines, the submarines that is, a most dangerous way to fight in a war, few came back,
I heard Auntie whisper staring at the total illuminated room, its Jorge, he’s dead,
Frozen I lay there between them, my auntie now crying, I loved Hans Jorge, he was a fine wonderful person, soon I turned and squeezed her hand, why are you saying that, all she could do was to point at the light, then things became very calm as the light very slowly faded, and then it was pitch black in the room, like it was on every other ordinary night, a little owl was hooting, it also had been attracted by the light because of the insects it heard there, but all now that was left, was just a slight low humming sound fading away into the distance. Two days later a courier came with a black edged note, a black cross at the top and Hans Jorge’s name in large letters, and the usual expression of regret and his proud service to the Fatherland.
The light never came back; it was now as always pitch black as usual in the night, and so was on ominous sombre mood of dejection and being forlorn between this world and the other, just questions remained, unanswered.
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