Supermarket Stories

Usually when I go to the supermarket, I eavesdrop on repetitive stories engrossed in gossip of other people or the constant verbal negotiations between wants and needs. Today, though, I was surprised to know that my eavesdropping went towards something far more different and other-worldly than that of the town's gossips. 

Heading over towards the pumpkins, my mother's small shopping list in my hand, I passed a fragile little old lady wearing a light blue jacket, the kind that one would enjoy being inside during cold weather, tidy tan pants, and a light pink scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. From what I heard, she was of Polish descent. She stood rather close to her communicative recipient, a middle-aged woman in a bright orange jumper, and boasted the words "Hitler" and "concentration camp". That was enough to catch my attention. "You know," she said in a thick Polish accent, contoured with some Australian, "I was 17 when a German boy asked me to the formal." "Oh you were!" returned her alleged accompaniment with delight. I tuned out for a moment, sticking to the task at hand and attempting to dismantle my sister's yearning of my attention. I pretended to examine the pumpkins up close to get some more of the conversation. "You know Hitler, yes?" "Why yes of course!" "He took me and my family." "You went to the concentration camps? You were one of his victims?" "No no no, I wasn't taken to the concentration camp, I was taken to one of the farms, you know, those farms."

I wanted to listen some more, but by then my sister suggested that she was conversing with her carer so I felt rude. I walked off, hesitating on several occasions due to me wanting this woman's story to be heard. I walked further and further away. I debated in my mind for several minutes on whether or not I should interview her. What could I say? What if that lady with her was her carer? What if she refused to allow me to ask her things, or refused to allow me to photograph her or share her story? I could not risk the humiliation. Another part of me could not risk losing this opportunity. It was a rough battle in my head and I found myself struggling to walk off. I walked back around the corner, finally thinking that I should approach her, and as I saw her in the distance continuing with her story I became hesitant again. 

I did not take the opportunity. It turned out that the lady she was with was a stranger. Standing near the potatoes, the old lady must have reminisced on her time on Hitler's farm and decided to share her story. The last I saw of her, she held tightly to the stranger's hands as she told her something that seemed important enough to be fully heard, smiling through it. The old lady walked off towards the meat. The stranger then resumed shopping, picking out potatoes, and it was then that I decided to finally go ask for her story but it was too late; like her legacy she disappeared, into the many supermarket aisles. Meanwhile we finished scanning our items and we had to leave. 

And it hit me - everyone has a story. Think about how many people you pass in the supermarkets, and how man stories there are that are untold, just like the story of this little old lady whose recipient could not care less. I keep thinking about what she endured, and I am upset with myself for not asking her personally. I should have abandoned all fears and grasped that opportunity but I did not. I luckily listened enough to know the backdrop of the conversation. Every stranger has a story, do not limit yourself to their backdrops. 

The Wax Museum

The Wax Museum, a place I had always wanted to visit, whatever location, and today I chose to do this whilst holidaying in the humid Gold Coast. Alfred, a shirt, stout knowledgeable old man from the Caribbean led the tour consisting of me, my sister, my mother and father, and a single mother with a younger daughter and elder son.

We were led to an underground area, similar to what I expect a serial killer's basement to be like - big, dark, eerie and shied away from the world. Each display was closed off by strong iron bars, and the stark wax figures stared into my very soul. We came across Nazis first, where we were told about Hitler's second in charge, one who had a fetish for cross-dressing.

We then moved on to hundreds of varied torture machines of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Alfred talked us through each display, each torture device, giving us a long harrow description containing historic references, and then ending each with a light-ended joke. I stood by him the entire time, attempting to comprehend as much of his Irish accent as possible. It proved difficult, but my ears soon became accustomed to his heritage tongue.

Amongst all of the information I had heard today, I only remember a few. The Disembowelment Machine - one where the torturer pulls out the criminal's intestines and places it on a cylinder-like roll, and he would pull a lever to wind the criminal's entire guts out. I'm bad cases, torturers would pull out the criminal's guts, tie it around a tree, and make them walk around it to wind out their intestines.

We saw exact replicas of the sword and post Anne Boleyn was beheaded on, learnt about the founder of the university of London and his friend's preserv ed head and body, shrunken heads, one of which belonged to a teenage boy - it was the only real thing in the museum, and still had his chin hair. Shrunken heads are only faces, I learnt, shaped by hand after being boiled, using stuffing consisting of mud and pebbles. We learnt that mummies were overall covered in honey after the long process of preservation, and that honey is the best antibacterial - it never goes out of date.

We learnt about how witches were burnt, how a man was killed because of his Christianity, how some people were thrown on islands in iron masks to die, how town gossips had to wear torture masks wherein two blades held their tongues threatening them from speaking for a while, about ankle crushing devices, about chastity belts for sitting and for standing - sitting ones had no spikes on the outside. We learnt about the stretching machine, wherein I learnt the human body can stretch to the body's foot-length before irreparable damage was done.

To make those with secrets speak, they had iron boots placed on their feet, wherein the torturer poured hot oil in them, scolding their feet. If that did not work, they poured hot oil on their fingers. Then, they would kill them off by placing an iron mask on their heads with a nozzle on the top and a nozzle leading to the mouth. First, hot oil would be poured through the top nozzle, then through the mouth nozzle, killing the victim slowly.

There was a horrid machine, I think it was a Neck pillary, wherein when worn, would pull close to each other the victim's neck and knees and hold them in that position so that all circulation slowly, and eventually stops. I learnt that still, to this day, criminals cannot be buried with innocent people because they have sinned, that some criminals were cut into four pieces after their torture, and were buried north, south, east and west, so that their soul cannot ever find one resting place. I learnt that the reason why it is difficult for a person while hung to place their fingers in between the rope and their necks is because their left and right arteries that branch from their necks to their arms would have been cut off, making it hard for them to raise their arms at all.

Until now, the sick feeling in my stomach has not left me. Today, I had paid twenty dollars to learn about the unforgivable crimes humans have performed on each other. Had I known I would witness all of this and more, I would not have entered.