Awaitng Fate

He stood in the station with his number neatly written on a piece of card, a small brown case with his treasured belongings by his side clutching onto a large monstrous gas mask. Wearing his Sunday best in his tatty old football boots he stands straight and tall and proud, just as his mother had advised. Streak marks of lines upon his cheeks from the tears that have rolled down his face. His elder sister grasps his tiny little hand as she smiles sweetly, her beautiful golden ringlets,fresh face and rosy plum cheeks. The pair stand united within a swarm of other young children of numbers...he cries for his mummy, she hushes him quietly and wipes away his tears with her fresh crisp cotton handkerchief.
Strangers with warm smiling faces come to choose the children they desire to take in, bundling them away to their homes out in the countryside where it is thought to be much safer. Pure innocent little beings who have no possible understanding of the consequences of war, just to nervously, unknowingly all awaiting their fate...

Sixty years later, that same little boy stands proud and tall in a hospital waiting room, wearing his Sunday best, with a fresh crisp cotton handkerchief tucked neatly in his top pocket, holding his number tightly in his hands he paces the floor...yet again nervously;unknowingly awaiting his fate.