The Holocaust: A Survivor Of The Holocaust

1 . 1 3 . 1 9 4 1; Too old. Too young. Too short. Too tall. I could not understand how the Nazis could just kill. They killed mercilessly and without thought. They murdered simply because someone was too different. They took people away for being too Jewish. My family was too Jewish. My parents were too old.
My brothers and I were holding each other tight, trying our best not to think of the events of just hours before. We focused on everything around us—the little warmth in our bodies, the sound of the train running over the hard tracks of the railroad, the rough floor of the train. We were quiet, making no noise. By some kind of miracle, my youngest brother, Adam, was sound asleep in my arms. The brother closest to my age, Levi, was just sitting there, staring straight ahead. We stayed like this, inaudible, until the train screeched to a halt.
One-by-one, everyone got off of the train, lining up at the gate of the camp.
One-by-one, the Nazis picked people off and took them away. Some to be burned, some to be given a job, some to be brought to a different camp. I could hear what they were saying as they neared my family: they were asking questions. They were asking how old we were and what we could do. I will admit now that my brothers were not the brightest, nor were my parents. Levi was always the oversharer, believing that everyone should be truthful no matter what the situation, and Adam could do nothing but follow in Levi’s footsteps. They were in front of me in line. They did not
know. Adam was first. The officer he was speaking to was reminiscent of Goliath, staring him down threateningly. Of course, he did not call him Adam. They did not call him anything at all. To the officers, Adam had no identity; he was only another Jew that would be either a slave or a corpse after he talked to them. “How old are you?” “Seven, sir.” Too young. They pointed one direction, and Adam suddenly realised what was happening. He whipped his head around and turned to me, and his eyes were filled with horror. He rushed towards me and I kneeled down to comfort him one last time, but he was in shock and could not speak, only able to kiss my forehead before he was dragged away. The officer shook his head, then turning to Levi. “How old are you?” I begged him in my head to lie, that telling the truth would do him no good, but to no avail. “Thirteen, sir.” Too young. He had already accepted his fate and turned towards me to say something, but the officer had anticipated this and grabbed his arm, pushing him away in one swift movement. In the span of only five minutes, both of my brothers had been taken away from me, and what was left of my family was gone. “How old are you?” “Twenty, sir.” This, obviously, was a lie. I was only eighteen, which was not a terrible age, but it was better to be safe rather than be taken away or killed. This answer seemed to satisfy the officer, who raised an eyebrow. “And what are you able to do?” I did not lie about this answer. “I can cook, sir.” The man nodded and sent me to a room. I was forced to undress, hanging up my clothes and shoes on a hook. I was brought forward to be tattooed, mentally preparing myself for the pain; when it was my turn, I thrusted my arm forward with as much courage as I could muster. I watched as they punctured my skin and the dark ink flowed through, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of knowing that I was scared. Then I was sent to a shower. I had not really known what it was, but I recognised it when I saw it. It was meant to get me clean. The water, however, was way too hot. Somehow, they still found a way to torture us while making us look clean. It was different, though, and I savoured the scalding hot water running down my back. I stayed in the shower willingly until I was sent out. I was given a black-and-white striped smock dress, a hat, and wooden clogs that gripped my feet in the most uncomfortable way possible, but it was clothes and shoes, so I told myself not to complain. After all of this I was sent to a block near one of two kitchens. I was squeezed into a bed with people I did not know, and quite honestly, I did not care to know them. A few of them were having soft conversations, but frankly, I was just worried for my siblings. I knew they were dead. I silently thanked the officers for not killing them in front of me the way my parents were. I touched the spot on my forehead where Adam had kissed me, wondering why, of all things, he would kiss me there. I thought about Levi, and how I had not been able to say anything to either of them, no goodbyes whatsoever before they were sent to their deaths. My parents were gone. My brothers were gone. I was alone. It was a wonder I was able to fall asleep.
1 . 1 6. 1 9 4 1; I was cooking, it turned out, for the officers. There was a separate kitchen for Jews, for the officers did not want their food to be in the same vicinity as theirs. Why, then, did they have Jews such as I prepare their dishes? My fellow cooks were spitting in the soup and rubbing dirt on the bread, but I decided against it, finding it petty. Cooking was the only thing I did. The officers had lunch at different times and there were many of them, seeming to be constantly hungry. They seemed to favour the way I cooked, putting me at the job as frequently as possible, which did not give me much time to sleep or eat myself.
The other cooks irritated me. Though we were all angry at the officers for taking us away, spitting in their food would do absolutely nothing to help us. Our spit would not end our misery. Our spit was nothing revolutionary. Our spit was no kind of poison, no matter how much the others thought that to be true, and there was no point in doing it. The day dragged on. I have only been working like this for two days, but I know this will now be my life. Wake up, roll call, be given one cup of ‘tea,’ cook, be given one bowl of soup, cook, be given one piece of bread, and sleep. The other cooks, at least, got to change jobs every so often. Not that I didn’t like cooking. Before we were taken away, I used to cook for my family. My mother had taught me how to make a variety of dishes, and I always used to add my own twist on them. I would add new spice in the yoykh, a different kind of dip for the turnovers, and my family always loved it. I stirred the soup. Here, I was not allowed to add anything. It was like the forbidden fruit. We were taken back to our block and given our one piece of bread. The other cooks, greedy as they were, ate the entire piece in one bite. I was careful to eat mine slowly, processing each bite I took. Eventually, when everyone else’s bread was gone, I still had half of my piece left. A few of them got in bed, but another few eyed me jealously as I finished what was left. I ignored them, climbing into bed myself. There was a group of them talking, and one of the ones that were eyeing me while I ate glanced at me and rolled her eyes. “Khazer.” She said this as if I cared what she called me. We were all the same. I was still awake, but I compelled myself to go to sleep.
1 . 2 6 . 1 9 4 1; A vial of poison. It had fallen out of an SS officer’s pocket that morning, and it seemed too good to be true. Nobody else saw it. They were all still doing what they did, swirling the soup halfheartedly and spitting in the food. Was it worth it? I would be killed for what I was doing. They would find out, somehow, and I would be killed. I hovered over my pot of soup, and I remembered my brothers, meeting my eyes one last time before they were brought to their demise. I remembered my parents, and the look in their eyes before they were beaten for resisting. The blood covering their mangled bodies, lying limp on the road. The way they still tried to comfort us, even while staring straight into the face of death. My mother and father had resisted one last time, but my brothers did not have the chance to. I uncorked the poison and poured it into the soup. I added my own twist on my cooking once again.
1 . 30 . 1 9 4 1; The officers that had eaten my soup were sick; I could tell. Their faces were pale and they stumbled around weakly, still, somehow, doing their jobs. The ones that had not been poisoned carried on about their day without noticing the ill state of the other officers. Wake up, roll call, tea, cook, soup, cook, bread, sleep.
2 . 1 . 1 9 4 1; An officer had collapsed and died on the spot, finally catching the attention of the other officers. Now that the first one was dead, more gradually started dropping like flies. “Poison,” one officer said. “Disease would not kill them all at once. This is due to poison.” The other cooks were looking at each other, their expressions a mixture of confusion and worry. The food was the only way to poison an officer, and none of them knew I was the one who had done it. The officers that were alive, furious, brought all of the cooks outside. We were lined up one-by-one, similar to roll call, and once again, we were being asked questions. “Which one of you poisoned the officers?” The brute Goliath from the first day asked menacingly. “None of us did, sir,” the first person in line said. Belinda, her name was. Too dumb. Another officer came forward and shot her in the head. “I will give you one last chance,” he said. “Who poisoned the officers?” No one spoke. Too suspicious. The next person in line was shot. “It was her, sir,” the lady who had insulted me said, nervously pointing at the woman next to her. It was blatantly obvious she was lying, and the officer shook his head. Too cruel. The lady was shot. I looked to my right and there was nobody beside me. I was last in line. The rest of the cooks were picked off one-by-one, and what I found strange was each of them tried to say something to spare their lives. Did they not know that we were already dead? Too quick. Too anxious. Too arrogant. Too fearful. They got to me, but I was silent. “She is the only one who has not spoken this whole time, sir,” one of the other officers said to the one who was killing all of us. I looked him straight in the eye, and it seemed to register in his head. I did not care now that he knew. Death was inevitable. We just stared at each other, neither of us talking, as he tried to get me to say something, anything, that showed how scared I was. I was not scared. I wondered, once again, if poisoning them had been worth it. I thought once again of my brothers, of how faces that had once been filled with joy became faces that were blank and sad. I thought of how my parents had made a last stand, praying openly in front of the officers. I thought of the tears streaming down Levi and Adam’s faces, the tears that streamed down my own. I thought of the way my father kissed my mother on the forehead before they were separated and beaten to death. I realised then why my brother had kissed mine. I locked eyes with the officer once again, and he smirked, expecting me to finally talk. I said nothing. Too clever. His face changed then, from a smug smile to one of pure hatred, and he pressed the gun to my forehead and pulled the trigger.