I came here in a cattle car, and I left through the chimney. Mother? Father? Brother? Who are they? They are gone, alive in my memory only as long-ago images stained with decay and tainted by the smell coming from the crematorium. The very dust cries their names, but dark gray clouds shield that call from the heavens. In black mud they are buried as my ashes soar on the back of the wind.
I can see our house, but it is cold and empty. The dishes from dinner that night still lie broken on the floor, and the chairs are overturned as we left them. Our house is forever frozen in the moment we were taken. Gray dusk bleeds down from the ceiling. Who are those shadows who whisper there at night? Are they accusing wraiths or just echoes of the long-lost souls who once called that place home?
O, death! Why did you come dressed as soldiers? You infiltrated our lives, roused us from our slumber of innocent security, and sent us off into the uncertain darkness. We tried to believe that the war would never find us, but they came as everyone subconsciously knew they would. Yes, we were like fools choking on a chicken bone, wanting to finish our meals before crying out for help.
Mother, Father, I love you, and I do not blame you, for you could offer me no protection as the soldiers viciously pulled us apart. They had the guns, and truly, what good could a two-year-old have been in a work camp? Mother, your blue shirt, stained with tears shed during sleepless nights, I see it still. Father, your gray hat, the one you’d put over your face to pretend that it hid you, I remember its scent; hair tonic and tobacco. I turned as I was carried off and saw your tears. I cried too.
True, I was young, but I could see and understand much, as all young children do. As we grow, we start to lose that clairvoyance, though I was lucky enough to still possess it on that day. Perhaps it is because we are still untainted by the evils of the universe and humanity. Wisdom lies in that perfect innocence.
What would I have become? I had always liked music; perhaps my future would have made me a composer. Then again, I always the rhymes Mother sang to me; being a poet would have been nice. My life was before me; what would I have done with each of the days of my future? Perhaps I could have given something to the world, but that destiny was cut short.
Most of the other children cried as we were led down the dim halls. Nearly all of them were older than me, and many of them spoke different languages that swirled around my ears like a flock of summer butterflies. A big girl, about nine or ten, picked me up and started rocking back and forth. I hugged her.
A soldier with icy eyes told us we had to be cleaned, but deception sat on his shoulder, and I could smell his heart, rotted out with evil. I didn’t want to follow him down that cold corridor, yet what could I do? The soldiers were enormous and they had guns. The older boys should have said or done something, but they let themselves be herded as well, for shock ran among us like a snarling wolf.
We ended up in a room of tiles. They covered the floor, ceiling, and all four walls. At home, our bathroom had a tile floor with a clever pattern of bright, rainbow colors. I used to sit and stare at them, mesmerized for hours. The tiles here were gray; they were not fun. All the children were crammed into that tight place, and the air was thick with the noise we made. Most were crying, those who could were talking, but the girl with me was singing a lullaby.
The walls hissed, I remember that vividly. Clouds came into the room to dance with us, and the air was twistingly sweet. Older children ran to the door. They banged on it until they dropped, but the soldiers did not come back and let them out. Little ones just slumped forward and lay there for good. The girl who held me sat down against a wall, still singing. We died there, with her cradling me in her arms. Bodies were heaped up near the door; I met my forever sleep in that room of Death.
The men came in and bore our bodies to the furnace. I was still with my body then but did not feel its pain, so I lay there in the flames and watched myself and the others burn. Grimacing skulls blackened and bones disintegrated. Air from giant bellows blew my ashes up the chimney, and I flew with the wind. I was free, and there was nothing the soldiers could do about it.
Later, I saw the emaciated bodies of Mother, Brother, and Father thrown into a great pit full of people. Their ashes did not rise as mine did, for they were hidden from the daylight and forsaken by the universe. In a year or two, new soldiers came, conquered the bad people, and took the survivors away. Every building was torn down, and the graves were forgotten.
That was long ago; I died here, as did millions. I don’t know where they are now, but I remain here, though I have no reason to do so. Maybe, it is that I am trapped near my family, but no, I fly with the wind. The years have passed so swiftly, but still their spirits have not joined me. Yes, I will stay here in this place and wait for them, for I had so little time with my loved ones in life; perhaps I can share eternity with them. I came here in a cattle car, but I will leave with the whispered memories of the wind.
