Day 5 - January 1942

I hadn't moved from the mattress in three days except to squat in the corner of the room to relieve myself. Obviously, the Nazis didn’t think we were worthy of a toilet or shower. They could at least allow us to relieve ourselves outside, but we were under strict rules and weren’t permitted to leave the barracks aside from their commands. In those first few days, there were no invitations to leave our quarters. It felt like they were desensitizing us from any type of humanity.

I sat on the floor in front of my bed with my aching back arched forward, while I stared at cracks in the cement wall in front of me. I would ponder my bleak existence, wondering when they would let us know what would come next. I had heard a rumor that we would be assigned jobs to earn our keep, but no one had come in to inform us of that yet, so we waited. All we did was wait.

The only time the doors in front of us had opened or closed was when a Nazi delivered each of us a small loaf of stale bread and a teacup-size portion of cabbage soup.

I was hungry by the end of the first day, feeling the discomfort grow from the bottom of my stomach into an ache I couldn’t ignore. The second day, the ache turned into agony. Then, the third day, it felt as if my insides were feeding off my fat and bones. The pains came and went, but the weakness was the fiercest. I could hardly stand, and I wasn't sure I would have the strength to work when the time came.

The woman on the bunk beside me stared at me all day, each day since I had arrived. She was constantly reaching for me, almost as if she were pleading with me to save her. It was what the expression on her face said to me, anyway. She spoke French, and I was never very good with that language, so I had a hard time understanding her. Besides Czech, English was the only other language I focused on learning because I had planned on moving to America someday. Though, someday seemed unlikely by that point. I wondered how old the woman was because I noticed that after days and days without eating much or bathing, age was merely a number. The living conditions made everyone look and feel much older than they were, and for those whose bodies weren't strong enough, death was likely. I was determined to fight, but most of the women living in the block I was in probably felt the same way when they first arrived too.

Our rations were brought in to us early that day, and I devoured the bread and guzzled the soup, silently pleading for more. My stomach craved more food after I finished eating than it did before I took my first bite. However, food had become a necessity that needed to be consumed rather than savored, and it was never enough eliminate the hunger pains.

“They—are—they nous tuer.” It was the only time the woman beside me spoke out loud rather than muttering to herself.

“Non, je ne parle pas Français,” I told her, wishing I understood what she was saying, but she made it clear a moment later as she sliced her finger across her throat and dropped her head to the side. For a moment, I was confused, but as she pointed to the door, I put her pantomime together, confirming my fear of what was happening. They were slowly, but deliberately, trying to kill us.

I'm not sure how much time passed between when we finished eating and the moment everyone very suddenly became ill. I also don’t know if we were poisoned or if some or all the food had gone bad, but I don't believe much can go wrong with bread and cabbage soup. Almost every woman in our block began to vomit. Soon, the last meal was coming out of everyone one way or another, and the smell that followed could make anyone who wasn't already ill, sick to their stomach. For me it was vomit. I barely made it off the side of the bed before the heaving started. It was pure luck that I made it off in time, or I would have had to sleep in it that night.

When everyone was at the peak of their sickness, a few of Nazis came to the doorway to watch, as if it were their entertainment for the night. A few of them laughed at us as we curled up on our mattresses, miserable, shaking from the cold, but also sweating at the same time. Over the next several hours, most of the other women fell asleep, and all but one of the Nazis left since the show was apparently over.

I rested listlessly on the side of my mattress, staring at that one Nazi, wondering how anyone could find enjoyment in watching people fall so ill.

That particular Nazi didn't appear to have the same type of enthrallment like the others, though, so I had found it odd that he remained in the doorway. When he caught me looking at him, he lowered his hands behind his back, straightened his shoulders, and walked toward me with no expression on his face. It wasn't until he was a few feet away that I recognized him. He was the Nazi who brought me into the barrack three days prior.

He stood in front of me for a long minute, staring down at me as if I were an unrecognizable type of species that he had never seen before.

“Did you need something?” I asked, meekly, using every ounce of energy I had left to force sound into my words. Not only was my stomach folding in on itself again, but my throat was on fire from the acidic vomit I expelled just a few inches away.

The Nazi lifted his hand with a handkerchief balled up inside of his fist, then pressed it to his nose. It made me jealous that he had a way to block out the smell. He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out. Whatever it was, it was small enough to be concealed within his hand, and my curiosity was piqued. He knelt in front of me and timidly dropped the object down on the empty space beside me. “Is that poison?” I grunted through a hoarse whisper, studying the piece of bread.

“No,” he replied just as softly.

“Tomorrow, they recruit for jobs. You must be well enough to avoid transit.” There was a certain kindness in his eyes that confused me. Still, I would have been foolish not to consider that the bread may be poisonous, despite what he said. After all, I had spoken out of turn one too many times with that soldier, so I thought he might want to torture me slowly. “Eat it.”

“Why would you help me, and why should I believe you?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in a bit closer. The scent of his breath was fresh, and it was the most pleasant smell I had encountered since I arrived there. “You shouldn't,” he says. His German accent was very thick but understandable enough.

My mind hurt with confusion, trying to read the thoughts floating through his eyes, but it was as if he were blocking me from them. He was still squatting in front of me when the smallest of smiles pressed against the whites of his teeth. “I'm not one of them. I’m a prisoner like you, but a prisoner on the other side.”

I didn't know it was possible to feel sadness for those who have been destroying Jewish lives for so long, but there was something about him that made my heart feel something other than despair. I felt a very small sense of sympathy. He was dressed like the enemy and able to come and go as he pleased. Therefore, it was hard to consider him a prisoner in comparison to the way I was living. “What is your name?” I asked.

To me, they were all called Nazis. Just as we didn't deserve the courtesy of an actual name, neither did they.

“My name is Charlie.” He seemed apprehensive to share his name as he looked around the room to make sure no one else was paying attention. I didn’t think he had much to worry about considering every other woman in the room had either passed out or fallen asleep by that point.

“I've been internally referring to you as ‘the girl with the big mouth’ over the past few days.” His words caused a subtle commotion in my mind, and if I were capable of laughing, I might have done so, but the hunger pains beneath my ribs wouldn't allow that type of movement.

“I have been called that before,” I told him. Mama always taught me to speak my mind, while Papa would say that a lady doesn’t speak out unless in an agreeable manner. It's not that I've had trouble accepting propriety, but I’ve had a history of questioning convention simply out of curiosity. After having so many basic rights taken from me, I had an endless number of questions, and I was determined to get answers and learn the truth.

When I first I arrived there, I already knew better than to speak up, but with that man, I couldn't stop myself. He seemed kinder than the others, so I figured it was my only chance to ask the burning questions I desperately wanted answers to.

“I'm not surprised,” he said. “What is your name?”

My name. He wanted to know my name? Jews no longer had names. We were called Jews. I was called a Jew girl. We weren’t individuals anymore. We were just one entity, and nothing else mattered. Even before I was taken, the only place I heard my name was in my home with Mama, Papa, and Jakob. It was forbidden to use our names anywhere else. It had been that way for years, and sadly, living without a name became normal. “My name is Amelia,” I told him.

He reached his free hand out, turning it over, palm up, and I didn't understand what he wanted. He urged his hand forward a bit more as if I didn’t understand the gesture. With hesitation, I struggled to lift my hand from my lap and dropped it gently into his. Charlie’s hand folded around my fingers as he looked around the room once more for onlookers, then lowered his head and placed a soft, quick kiss on my knuckles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Amelia,” he said.

The sound of heavy steps echoed in the hallway outside the room, forcing Charlie to stand erect. He took another glance at me, then at the bread sitting beside me. “Thank you,” I offered in a hush and bowed my head down as I quickly chewed the sweet bread that was much softer than any piece I had been given here.

“You’re very welcome,” he said. Charlie made his way back to the door, his shoulders back, chin angled toward the ceiling, and left me staring at the back side of the door with wonder as my mind raced with possible reasons for the interaction.

My thoughts were soon interrupted when a conversation filled with laughter and German words ensued in the hallway on the other side of the door. I wanted to imagine he was not one of the Nazis laughing, but what did I know? Their form of entertainment was sick, and it was hard to determine when their laughter was for fun, or in preparation for something far more devious.

I still wondered if the bread Charlie gave me might kill me, but left to choose between the possibility of being poisoned, or sleeplessly lying on the coiled mattress while suffering from starvation for another long night, it was worth taking the chance on the bread.

I finished the bread as fast as I could chew, feeling the crust scrape down the sides of my throat before falling into the empty pit of my stomach. My mouth and throat had become so dry from vomiting and dehydration that it was hard to push the small pieces down, but I continued choking on them until the roll was gone—until every little crumb was devoured.

I rolled onto my side, facing away from the puddle of vomit I left behind, and closed my eyes in hopes of sleep or death. Though, my mind wasn’t shutting down easily that night as it replayed the sensation of Charlie's lips touching my bitterly chapped, cold, and dirty skin. It was, however, a pleasant change of imagery after constantly reliving the scene of Mama’s insides being scattered along the sidewalk.

The thoughts scared me, knowing what could have happened if anyone had seen the exchange between Charlie and me, but there was a spark of thrill I couldn’t deny—a current of electricity that brought just a little part of me back to life, even while knowing I could never trust a man from that side of the war…the side that killed Mama.