Its 1916 Varna, Bulgaria. The war-torn turmoil of a town lay divided, the land an echoing shell of what was once ours. Once a proud Empire, it had become ripped apart into a society where your accent defined you as you are. Dragged maliciously into the war to end all wars, WW1 had torn us apart.
But WW1 had affected me personally. My own father had been a conscientious objector to the war effort, as a Jehovah's Witness, only to be mercilessly killed by his opinion. Our home lay in wreckage, as did most off our town, thanks to the Allies. Streams had used to trickle like ribbons through the land, flowing through the outskirts of the village, proving a reliable water source. But now, it was soot black, as if the land was bleeding.
Running through the relentless war tortured town, I found peace in the hills. As a child of the age of 9, I was set on the responsibility of helping to rebuild our family. Just me, Dafo, and Angel. Angel, 19 years old, had used to work near Plovdiv, in the Jamains dairy. But had come home when the war penetrated Plovdiv. Dafo, only 6, was running wild in a war infested countryside.
Polly and I ran down the rock-strewn lane, flicking up clouds of unsettled dust along our way. Polly, my rust coloured collie ran ahead, before darting back to nip my heals. My skirts swished rhythmically, my blue satin blouse swang ill-fitted over my gaunt frame. My clothes were covered in muck and soot, and my shoes were worn down to the heel. I had dark hair that tangled around my face, highlighting my chocolate brown eyes.
As we crested the hill, the sun slowly dipped below the mountains, their oppressive shapes outlined by glimmering light. Our small house (it was really more a shack) seemed sad, as the window frames dropped down, the glass blown out of them. The door hang ajar, the shadowy interior swamping the house. A clatter from inside revealed Angel inside.
"Lilian, get inside. Keep the mutt out too." Angel yelled.
I muttered a few words, before hushing the whining dog, tying a lead of twine onto his collar.
With no parents, she and Dafo would be forced to face the harsh reality, and the orphanage. This was her last night at home. Dafo had already been adopted, living wild in the countryside of Germany. Her fate would be decided tomorrow when Nikolay came.
...
Dressed in a pretty white frock, with kid gloves and a pink rose bonnet, Lilian stepped from the train, ending her long voyage to a remote place called New Zealand. Polly bounded next to her heels, impatient on the short lead. The station was surprisingly empty. She had been adopted by a couple who had lost all their children in the war. She remembered the charred and soot-black streets at home and decided that this was a new start. ....
At the age of 21, I had grown into a wild, nature-loving kiwi. My heart was still in Bulgaria, but my home was here. To my utmost surprise, I had realised that people here were the same, the only thing different was the language. As I stood, staring into a gilt-framed mirror, I contemplated my past. My eyes came into focus, settling on her reflection.
I wore an elegant, traditional, white lace gown, complete with a veil, covering My eyes. This was My big day. My eyes wandering over the room, drifting to the past. I had come through 2 sides of a war-racked world. I had been a Jerry and a Tommy, within a matter of days. When she had seen the war-torn streets of New Zealand, I had almost thought that I was looking into a mirror of Varna.
There may be racial tension in the world, but there is the truth. We are all the same, just some off us are special.
-Olivia Willoughby
