A* IGCSE Narrative Exemplar

The Elevator by Kwan WH

There was an efficient hum of activity in the hotel lobby of the New York hotel that day. Men
in expensive suits, women in designer dresses, and the staff in smart uniforms were all going
about their business. The scene was reminiscent of the days of old: art-deco architecture,
heavy carpeting, brass fixtures, and crystal lamps — luxurious surroundings at their finest.

Suddenly, a young girl raced through, her hair flying wildly behind her as she ran through.
Sylvia was late. She was in New York City visiting her parents. Her father, the famous architect
William Rose, was a rather wrinkled figure with blueish, grey eyes. There was an odd
sadness in his gaze despite the fact he was accepting an international architecture award that
night.

Sylvia ran to the elevators, not stopping to notice the ornate fixtures and the hotel’s
sophisticated design. She flew into an elevator. Strangely, there was a bellman inside.

“What floor, miss?” asked the old man.

Then, noticing the man, “Oh… 30th floor, please.”

Sylvia was silent now, except for her heavy breathing. She noticed the old man again. He had
a drooping shoulder and an odd sadness buried beneath those icy-like blue eyes. “I’ve never
been in an elevator with an operator inside. Are all the elevators like this?” she asked.

“No, miss, this is the last one,” said the old man. “Years ago, when she was new, all the
elevators in the Grand Hotel were like this one. It was the fanciest hotel in all of New York City,
you know….”

Sylvia looked away. Just when she was about to say something, the elevator suddenly came
to a stop with the chime of a bell.

“Gosh! What’s wrong?” she said, the fear evident on her face.

“Oh, this happens sometimes,” said the elevator man. “No need to panic, miss. I’ll just make
a call.” He reached down to the box near the floor that held a phone. His sleeve came up his
arm as he reached. That’s when Sylvia noticed the numbers.

There, tattooed on his arm, were five faded numbers, clear enough to see.

Sylvia froze. She knew what they meant. Her father had told her. They were the numbers that
the Nazis had inked onto the arms of Jews sent to the concentration camps. Her father had
escaped just before the war, but his family was left behind.

Sylvia stared at the numbers on the man’s arm. “Sir,” she began tentatively, “I couldn’t help
but notice… those numbers… the numbers on your arm.”
The elevator was still stopped. All was quiet except for their hushed words. The elevator man
gave a slight nod, his face expressionless. Sylvia continued, “My father is also Jewish. He told
me about the Jews in Germany during the war. It was so horrible.”

The man’s eyes softened as he looked up at Sylvia. “Yes. It was a difficult time.”

Sylvia noticed his nametag. It read, “Rosenberg.”

The old man continued. “It was a long time ago. Our family only had money to send one of us
to America. We chose my younger brother, Wilhelm. He was such a bright young boy! Always
wanted to be an architect. It was his dream.”

His tone became more sentimental. “I took this job fifty years ago. I knew that if Wilhelm ever
came to New York, he would visit the Grand Hotel. Like its name says, it’s the grandest hotel
in all of New York! It’s won awards for its architecture, you know. And if he visited, he might
just walk into my elevator. That was my dream.”

He paused. “I’m sorry. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Heinrich Rosenberg.”

For a second time, Sylvia was silent. Could it be? She knew about her uncle. His name was
Henry, or Heinry, or something like that. And his last name: Rosenberg. She knew her father
had changed his name – as many Jews did in those days.

“Excuse me, what did you say your younger brother’s name was?” Sylvia asked the man.

“Wilhelm. Wilhelm Rosenberg. Same as mine,” pointing to his nametag.

“And what happened to him… your younger brother, I mean,” Sylvia asked.

“After he left for America, we never heard from him. It’s been so long….”

A chill came over Sylvia. Just then, the elevator suddenly lurched back to life, and Sylvia’s floor
arrived. Thoughtfully, she glanced over at the man. “Can you hold the elevator? Please, wait
just a moment!” Sylvia ran to her parents’ room. “Dad! Dad!” she shouted. “There’s
someone… a man… I think he might be… Dad! Come quick!”

Her father stepped out of the room and into the hallway. He wondered what his daughter was
so excited about. There before him stood an old man, strangely familiar. The two men stared
at each other for a moment, and then the years melted away.

Heinrich spoke first. “Wilhelm? Is that you?”

It was the younger man’s turn. “Heinrich! Can it be? It’s you? It’s really you!”

The two men raced to each other and embraced for what seemed like forever.

And there, on the 30th floor of the Grand Hotel in New York City — the one with the fancy
artwork and the shiny wood panelling — the two men were taken back to a time long ago
when war had come to their little town in Germany and separated their family. At long last,
Heinrich Rosenberg and his brother, Wilhelm (now William Rose), were reunited at last, both
their dreams suddenly and surely having come true