The Genie of The Lamp’s Sojourn in Alfred’s Antique Shop, Leipziger Street, Berlin, Germany, 1935-1938 by Sarah Barnett
There used to be laughter in the shop. Alfred would joke with the customers about me, not knowing I was listening. I loved his granite voice, scraping humour from his plated heart. The smells of the artifacts would waft down my spout, dust, must and rust, layers of history. The bell would tinkle as the door opened, inhaling the young, exhaling the old. I’d hear tittle tattle about the weather, children’s giggling interludes. Often the little ones would lift my lamp, rub it, wish for me, but they didn’t believe, not really, magic had been lost down the ages. I need faith to coax me out.
I remember when Alfred found me. Centuries had passed since I’d lain dormant in the sultan’s palace — tarnishing among rolled carpets decaying to threads, losing their will to fly — before sinking into the sand as civilisations crumbled above me. Later, I was dug up and placed on mantelpieces, a worthless trinket among candles, tinderboxes, ticking timepieces. I sensed Alfred’s love from his first touch, his tender strokes of my vessel’s curves. He realised my worth, haggled hard. Had I finally found a believer? I longed to pour through the spout, blow off the cobwebs of my coiled existence, unfurl before his astonished eyes. But even he couldn’t release me, for all his talk, opening his soul to me, I was merely there to absorb, hold on to his lonely words.
I can’t remember when it started to change, when they stopped coming, when all that came through the shop door were taunts of ‘Jude, Jude!’, needle-sharp hatred piercing an old man’s once thick skin. No more ‘What a lovely day, Herr Stern,’ no more jokes about Aladdin, no more jangling of coins. Alfred went hungry.
I am getting worried about Alfred. The shop has been silent for a few days. SMASH! Glass shatters. I hear wood splintering, scuffling feet. BANG! What’s that? I hear the crackle of flames. Singed brass fills my nostrils; I’m getting hot in my lamp, my dream of freedom ebbing away. What if I perish, never knowing what Alfred would have wished for? To have fled with his wife and son, rather than stand guard over what they had left? To have not turned away from what was happening, believing good would prevail? For his pain to end? I want to grant him three wishes, but I’m lost once more, buried among the shards of Kristallnacht.
Originally a journalist and sub-editor, Sarah Barnett’s words have been performed by Short Story Today and Act Your Age Productions. She’s been published in Flashflood 2021 and 2023, Paragraph Planet, Five Minutes, Retreat West, and Free Flash Fiction. She also has a speculative novel in the works.
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Such a haunting story. Wow. I’m glad I found this one!