The Journal - Speculative Literature

by: Laurie Kaye

(c) Laurie Kaye

December, 1939

Brzezyiny, Poland

Dear Journal, I sit here peering into the still ebony darkness that invades my eyesight. My mind is feverously rushing, replaying recent occurrences over and over again. I shudder as the cold wraps its stinging tendrils around my frail figure. Instinctively, I pull the fluffy covers tighter in a frantic attempt to conjure up any sense of warmness and security from its fluffy interior.

I watch the glistening raindrops glide down the slick windowpane, delicately casting swirled figures on the tinted glass. The furry of the wind, mercilessly masticating silence, rips tender branches from their leafy foundations. Its howling ballad echoes through the stone walls of this chaotic abode.

This wind, transforming the landscape into a precarious territory, has summoned my consciousness from a deep sleep. As I sit here, my mind wanders into its deepest fears. Ever since Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, only one topic floats through these walls; only one vision frequently invades the mind of its inhabitants. My parents attempt to shield me and my siblings from the truth. They feel that the bloody details are not appropriate nor necessary to disclose to those so innocent and naive. However, their wholehearted attempts are in vain for I am not immune to the hatred that crouches at our door and scratches relentlessly at our windows. Although I am merely the tender age of eleven, I am not blind and deaf.

The reality of it all now comes plummeting down like an anvil. Yesterday, one sign was painstakingly removed and another was tacked up. This sign renames our street after Haursweisel, a famous German anti-Semitic writer. Now Jews are no longer allowed to reside on this street in order to avoid disgracing Haursweisel. Tomorrow is moving day. We are planning to seek refuge in Skierniewice.

April, 1941

Skierniewice, Poland

Dear Journal, So here we are, starting our life all over again. This is truly a formidable task. I feel that it will never be accomplished because so much has been reluctantly left behind. When one temporarily pauses from the string of events that encompasses a day and takes stock, this loss is overwhelming.

I feel like a criminal, yet I have not committed a single crime. I have been cast away by the very people who were once my neighbors and friends. My emotions run wild and I am unable to even start to define or express my thoughts and feelings. At first, I am angry at their ignorance and betrayal. Then, I am disappointed by the entire situation. Finally, I am disappointed that I am disappointed. Why am I not now angry? In short, I am fundamentally confused about the entire ordeal.

May, 1941

Road to Brzeziny, Poland

Dear Journal, Deja Vu. It must be a vision from the past. Skierniewice was ordered to be freed of all Jews. Seeing no better alternative, my father has decided to return to Brzeziny. My mother wanted to flee to the Ukraine but my father was adamant in his decision. It will be his way or no way. This topic has been a great source of arguments. I cannot bear to uproot my life once more whether it be to the Ukraine, Brzeziny, or anyplace else.

To make matters worse, our financial assets are dwindling. Food is scarce and meals are far in-between. I wander through countless days of hunger. It is the kind of hunger that seems to burn a hole in one’s stomach. My brothers and sisters cry for food, I just yearn for it silently. I feel weakened and lost. It is as if others rush through the day and I simply float beneath them in a starving delirium. When will I wake up from this nightmare?

March 25, 1942

Brzeziny, Poland

Dear Journal, MY BROTHER HAS DIED TODAY! My mind realizes that Moshe David is gone but my heart blatantly denies it. This ordeal has left me paralyzed. I attempt to scream, but only silence floods from my open mouth. He was so young; only allowed to experience a mere nine years of precious life. He showed so much promise and had his entire life ahead of him. We believe, with a fairly large amount of certainty, that the cause of his death was starvation.

I cannot cope with this loss. It eats me up inside and paralyzes my soul. Not a minute goes by that I do not think of him. Not a minute goes by that I do not miss him terribly. I wonder why this has happened. Why are we being punished? Have I committed moral turpitude? I ask God every night for forgiveness. My prayers go unanswered and I am beginning to lose my faith in Him. Maybe He is nothing more than a fairytale or maybe I am praying to the wrong God. . Philosophy aside, all that I can determine is that things are becoming progressively worse.

May 19, 1942

Brzeziny, Poland

Dear Journal, Yesterday, my dear mother and four year old brother Issac Abraham were taken away to a place called concentration camp. I do not know where or what that is but I fear for their safety. I fear that I will never see my mother’s smile and never hear my brother’s high pitched laugh. Lately, concentration camp has been a destination for many Jews in the surrounding vicinity. One day, a group of Nazi Storm Troopers approach your door, order you to gather a few specific items, and change your life forever. These people never return. No letters are received, no contacts are made and it is as if a community has fallen into oblivion. As each day progresses, our community becomes a mere shadow of its former self. All that is left are broken homes, broken hearts and broken families.

I do not understand why this has happened. Why is our family being punished? Why is our entire community being shattered? We are simply trying to be good, honest members of a society that refuses to accept and honor the diversity of humanity. We are punished for who we are. Our very soul and core beliefs somehow violate the laws of this nation. Being Jewish is no more a crime than living or breathing.

May 25, 1942

Brzeziny Poland

Dear Journal, My father has been taken away to work as a slave in a coal mine. His last words to my sister and I were, “stay together”. I pray that one day we will be reunited along with my mother and brother.

May, 1942

Lodz Ghetto, Poland

Dear Journal, I am so tired and my hands ache from the continuous sewing. Here in the Ghetto everyone works and no one prospers. My sister Ita and I work a half a day sewing in the stuffy factory that is situated in the center of the ghetto. We are fortunate to be living together in a one room apartment with my cousin Rosie. Rosie is a stout girl with an air or unmatched vitality. She never stops laughing and becomes ecstatic about the most insignificant and entirely unentertaining happenings. She, only slightly older than Ita, takes on an almost parental role towards me. She conjures up light from total darkness and creates an atmosphere that always exceeds the grim expectations of reality.

Ita, angular and pessimistic, is the polar opposite of Rosie. Ita rarely utters a word. Instead, she relies on an intricate language of hand gestures and facial expression. I feel tension rising between the two constantly. However, they strive to contain their feelings in order to dodge unnecessary turmoil. Although life is difficult, I must maintain a hopeful outlook in order to avoid certain insanity.

September, 1944

Oswiecim(Auschwitz), Poland

Dear Journal, For two years I have wondered what concentration camp was, now I know. This is truly hell on Earth. Every night, I pray to God for an end to this madness; a termination of this evil we call war. I now think that either He is not listening or the transmission has gone bad.

This nightmare began a month ago when my sister Ita was arrested and ordered to go to this place. Remembering my father’s advice to “always stick together,“ I decided to go with Ita. I figured that at the rate that the Ghetto was being cleared out, I would soon be forced to leave anyway. At least, now, I am able to temporarily preserve the remnants of my family.

The killing here is tremendous and the stench of death is a continuous reminder of the magnitude of these crimes. My nose has gradually become accustomed to the smell of burning bodies that engulfs this camp. We are tortured for no apparent reason. Yesterday, my sister and innocent others were put in a room chin-high with water where they stood for hours. Here we have nothing, not even the simplest necessities of life. I vow that if I survive this torture, I will never take a warm bed or good food for granted.

November, 1944

On The Road To Bergen Belsen

Dear Journal, I don’t know what lies beyond these curved roads; what monsters lurk in the future. We were told that our group was selected to go to Bergen Belsen. No further information was volunteered. The fear of the unknown seeps into the minds of all the prisoners. We, much like animals, were herded into a string of dilapidated cattle cars. The smell of death surrounds us as the sick, dying and dead are haphazardly thrown in the crowded corner like a discarded pile of children’s toys. Those still standing, are forced to endure days on end without food or water.

As I stand here, I wish I were dead. Painless death is a better alternative than a life full of emotional and physical pain. The glimmer of hope has faded.

November, 1944

Salzweidel, Poland

Dear Journal, Our life here is slightly better than in Bergen Belsen. Anything beats sleeping in an open field in the middle of November. After our group was chosen to work at Saltzwiedel, I was doubtful that life would get any better. Working in a factory is difficult, requiring long tedious days. However, we have found friends.

Many Jews here are pleasant and attempt to make the best of a bad situation. One kind soul, much older than I, is like my mentor. Her name is Blema Cohen and she is a fit fifty year old with an aptitude for poetry and an innate love of children. Several months ago, she was brought here and was forced to leave her children behind in the Ghetto. The minute she saw me, she approached me and tenderly pulled out a folded picture from her pocket of a girl about my age. She commented on the remarkable similarities of our features and our uncanny duplicate expressions. From that moment on, we were fast friends.

The only problem, however, is the continuous tension between her and Ita. As each day progresses, Ita becomes increasingly bitter and argumentative. Ever incident is exaggerated, she is habitually silent and suspicious of everyone. May it be a Jew or a gentile, they are out to get her. Ita is deeply leery of Blema. According to her, “Blema is just too friendly. She is fake and will sooner or later take advantage of my naivety.”

May, 1945

Saltzwiedel, Poland

Dear Journal, WE ARE FREE! The feeling is ineffable. I want to scream, to cry, to leap, to jump, but my body is in a state of jubilant shock. The Americans have prevailed over Germany here and have liberated this camp. It is truly bedlam as the freed prisoners mob the streets and rob any shops that lie in their paths. I grabbed five coats and Ita took a gallon of sour cream

My dearest journal, In the spirit of my exuberance and in the light of my newfound future I regretfully must betray you. You are the story of hate and the concrete memory of the inhumanity of humanity. I need to move on. I must eliminate this hate in order to move forward with my life. Thus, our friendship must end here.

Author’s Note:

This story is based on my grandmother’s experience as a young Jewish girl during World War II

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