With Every Passing Day

Chapter 1 1

The dim morning sunlight shining through the window casts a long shadow on Tată's dresser drawer. The petals are carefully spread across the cotton quilts, the rich red making a nice contrast with the faded blue of the sheets. I sigh a heavy sigh. I can't imagine how hard this must be on Mamă. They were married for over 15 years. I had my time to cry, but there was no helping her. I couldn't blame her.
The sun was getting brighter now. The birds were starting to sing. I came up around four, since the whole thing about Tată's death had made me quite restless (not to mention depressed), and I came up to his room. We all saw it coming, but it devastated us all nonetheless. I close my eyes. A huge weight was being lifted off my shoulders. I had never been close to my father, until recently. I felt horrible about not being able to spend enough time with him after he had passed away. But now I knew everything was all right. It was like all my worries washed away.
I fiddled with my locket, the name "Lucia" engraved in elaborate cursive. Tată has given it to me when I was just five years old, and I never really had time to appreciate it. I held it in my hand now. My palms were getting clammy,and I felt my vision blur. I was vaguely aware that my eyes were watering. I let my tears flow. If I had to cry for anyone's death, why not my father?
It seemed years had passed until I finally had the courage to walk over to the small closet towards the back of the room. Besides letting my thoughts run, this was the main reason I had come upstairs. His will had stated I should open the box . The box he advised us never to open, even when we were small and curiosity was essential at every second of the day. Mamă always seemed to understand him, and smacked us with a broom whenever we ventured too close. I timidly dragged the pale blue box, now covered with dust that had been accumulating for decades. It better not be some secret family fortune or anything , I thought. My father had been very passionate about his work, and had quite a reputation. We were pretty well off. I sucked in a deep breath, and carefully removed the lid. The moment of truth.2

Chapter 2
I let my breath escape slowly. No family fortune. There was an envelope addressed to me, and beneath that, a journal. A journal... I froze. We all knew Tată was a Holocaust survivor.
When he was alive, we all knew not to disturb him when he had the faraway look in his eyes. The faded numbers on his left arm were all too visible in those moments. Maybe this journal had something to do with his days in the concentration camps... Let's not get too ahead of yourself, I thought. I still have to read that letter. Yes, a letter, that actually looked pretty new. I opened the envelope, and checked the date. June 2, 1979. Two weeks ago. I took a deep breath, and started reading the letter.
My darling fiică Lucia,
Please don't get upset. I have lived a very good life, and I don't need you crying over me. I smiled a little and wiped my glistening eyes. It was so like Tată to say something like that.
Please take care of your Mamă for me, and your surori Patricia and Monica. I have left you here a journal that I had received as a present from my own Tată, when I was just a boy, about Monica's age.
Wow. Monica was 14 already! I kept reading.
This is a document of my life in the Auschwitz - Birkenau concentration camp, which I have never touched in over 30 years. Please, pass this on to your children, and keep it close to your heart for the years to come. It reminded me every day how fortunate I was to be alive. Be brave, Lucia, like you always are, and live life to the fullest whenever and wherever you are.
Dragoste cu tot sufletul,
- Tată 3

When I finished reading his last letter to me, I was pretty much half-laughing, half-crying. Be brave, Lucia. He always used to say that when I was a kid, before he became a World War II historian, when he spent countless hours in his office thinking, researching, contacting old friends. After that, his office was his life, until a couple of years ago.
My father was always a heavy smoker. But it got worse after Friedrich, the Auschwitz Friedrich, the "I'll never forget him for as long as I live" Friedrich, had died. Then, Tată just smoked more to shake it off, and he suffered the consequences. Tată was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was seventeen. That woke him up, and he spent his last two years with the family. Tată quit his job as a historian, which had took years of training, and like he always said, "lived life to the fullest".
My stomach was growling. I made a quick glance at the clock. It was ten in the morning. I had time. I carefully set my letter down to my side, and timidly reached for the black leather notebook, covered in layers of dust. Slowly, I opened the delicate journal, probably close to five times older than I was. As I read the first page, yellowed with age, I was not in Hartford, Connecticut much longer. I was in the bustling streets of Odessa, Romania, where the smell of fish lingered in the air and the fishermen were shouting. 37 years ago, in World War II era Romania.4


Chapter 3: The Journal5


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August 23, 19417

Tată gave me this journal today. It is very finely made. You can't find this leather anywhere but Bucharest! I thanked my father somewhere around 75 times today. It is hard to buy such things from stores in these times. Prejudice against the Jews is getting thicker by the day, and we all hope this will pass. Mamă is determined it will do so. Right now I am leaning against my wooden fence, my bicycle supported by the wall of my house as the sun sets. I must be getting inside. Curfew is not to far from now.8

- Aurel Korzha9

August 26, 1941 10

I passed by the Odessa ghetto this afternoon. My brother, Enric, who is 17, couldn't obtain fake identification cards, to prevent us from being deported. My hope sinks like a rock, and yet... I would give everything not to be deported. Everything. I passed by Odessa today, me and the unfortunate people there separated only by a wire fence. The look in their eyes... I could be drowning in their sadness. I look out my bedroom window, and I can see the faces once again... begging for food, for freedom, for survival. It is too much.11

- Aurel Korzha12

September 2, 194113

I hear the train stop at the ghetto all too often now. Where those people go, I am not sure. But it is not a place where one would wish to be. How those people suffer...
It is almost every day that the faint sound of knocking on nearby doors is heard. You hear the strong voice, "get ready for deportation", and the door slams shut. Who used to be nearby neighbors are now being put into that place of suffering. The people in that ghetto could be living corpses. I am almost ashamed on how we haven't been deported ourselves.14

-Aurel15

September 9, 194116

The houses continue to empty, unabated. The tears as one hugs another, getting ready for deportation, suitcases full, emits a wave of sadness and realization that we will probably never see them again. We never have.
As I stare at the ceiling above me, I remember the days before I was put in a "Jew" school. The boys my age would spit on me, call me a "filthy Jew", and I occasionally came home to Enric and Mamă with a black eye, swollen shut. Enric would ruffle my hair and say,
"You are not filthy, Aurel. They are filthy for doing such a thing to you, and more than that, barbaric." He said it lightheartedly, but he always had seriousness, fear, in his eyes when he said that.
And I thought, They are not filthy - They just don't understand...
-Aurel17

September 12, 194118

I try to avoid the longing faces of the imprisoned, the barely alive. I see corpses on the ground. The soldiers treat as an everyday matter. Those poor people. I hope I will never be in their place. The thought is too much to bear. More and more do I see trains stopping with people, the ghetto becoming more populated by the day.
Why do they do these things? I don't think I will ever truly know. Even with all this war, I hope that this is just a catastrophic misunderstanding rather than an intended plan to put us all in these horrible places.
What do they have against us? Will I ever know...?19

- Aurel20

September 21, 194121

The deportations continue. The population has never hit this low. People are dying by the day, and it's difficult to glance in the direction of Odessa any more. It's worse than horrible - it's a...massacre. Like they hope to slowly kill us all. With the mass deportations, I wonder...
Are the Nazis planning something? Planning to do something with these starved people? I have my mind set on finding any vital signs, and I will not write until something has caught me as unusual. You have my word. Journal, I will keep you informed.22

- Aurel23

October 22, 194124

I have not written to you for a month. But I have found it - the answer to the deportations.
What you are about to witness in the form of words no one should deserve witnessing firsthand. When the dim morning sunlight of October 22 shone though my window, gunshots had awoken me. Many. The noise was unbearable. Mamă, Tată, Enric... all of us. We hid under my bed in my bedroom for hours. We did not bother to eat. The shooting did not stop until one in the afternoon, and we were starving. God had blessed us with our lives.
I am still shaking as I write. All those deportations...were they....simply to kill? The coldness of such an act starts my shivering, yet my blood boils with rage. Who would be so blinded as to kill so many people without mercy, nor sympathy?
Thousands of people died today. Thousands... and I am still sane enough to keep my hands steady as to write. I hear the gunshots start again. I fight the urge to cover my ears as I write. Enric's fast paced footsteps climbing up the stairs to where I sit are barely audible over the deafening gunfire. And as I write, people by the dozens are being brutally murdered. Why? That is the question. But will it ever be answered...?25

- Aurel26

October 23, 194127

I sit here, under my bed, wincing at every gunshot.
It is horrible. The shooting is still raging on. Nausea has become as dominant a feeling as fear. I do not have to venture far to my window to see the spattered blood and bodies in tremendous heaps. The thought that our local fisherman, Henrik, (who was deported to Odessa about two weeks prior) could be one of those bodies makes me clutch my stomach and cringe.
And if we were to be deported...
No, I must not think of it. It will make things worse. But I have to face the reality of this war. We are no more mortal than Henrik or all the other thousands that are dead now, tossed aside. So if I ever were to die, this journal is here to mark my existence. My life now will be engraved in this black leather journal forever. 28

- Aurel29

October 24, 194130

This has been by far the worst of them all. Breaking glass, screams, and doors hitting the ground has replaced loud, at least acknowledging knocks, and firm voices demanding to get ready for deportation. No, they just shatter glass, break down doors, and grab shrieking people, pulling them away to their demise.
It is hard to write with my vision blurred, tears falling on this delicate paper, both of anger and sympathy. My right fist throbs violently from when I hit a wall twenty minutes before. My insides shake with stifled sobs. I pray you have a strong stomach.
I witnessed such an event of a family's home being brought down by a group of Nazis. The Nazis were German, which I see occasionally, but most are Romanian. At least Romanians tend to be a bit less cruel, since many Nazis from around here new some Jews before the war. But this was not the case...
A man with dark brown eyes and a long beard, I estimated in his late thirties, came out with his little boy, and wife, pulled out by the shouting Germans. His wife was with child. She had long flowing red hair, red cheeks, and soft green eyes, a bit younger than her husband. The boy had rich, dark, curly hair, but innocent, affectionate green eyes like his mother. He reminded me very much of Enric, but Enric's hair was shorter, and a bit wavy. One Nazi pulled a the little boy roughly by the arm, and he whimpered in pain. The Nazi just laughed bitterly and pulled harder. The boy's father tried to reach for his son, and he shouted at the Germans in a harsh, spitting language I had heard many times before. This family was also German. Perhaps they moved here to escape the horrible persecution in Germany. It was much worse than here.
The man screamed something desperate, reaching for the little boy, his son. But it was no use. The Germans exchanged half-amused, half-disgusted glances like they were looking at a pack of flea-infested stray dogs. A few more foreign, stiff orders were sent out by the commanding officer. A young Nazi, only a few years older than I, shot the man and killed him as he swiftly pulled out his gun and pressed on the trigger. There was no pause. The little boy yelled,
"Papa!" and the mother just shrieked hysterically. When the Germans had enough, they pulled the little boy away, and clamped a rough hand over his mother's mouth. Bold as she was, she bit the leading officer's hand and spit on his shoe. She shouted what sounded like a chain of curses. They did not understand a word of what she was saying, but seemed to well comprehend the tone of her voice. The leading officer swore heavily, still wincing in pain, and shot her immediately.
The boy was now whispering what sounded like
"Mam...mma...". The officer harshly grabbed the arm of the little boy, and smirked darkly,
"Your parents must learn to behave." That I understood. He spoke in Romanian. He knew the language! The boy looked confused, but his teeth clenched with anger.
They killed those poor people for no reason at all. The little boy was helplessly pulled away.
My eyes fill with anger at the whole incident. And the question remains....
Why?31

-Aurel32

October 25, 194133

The shots are no quite as often now. But that doesn't mean it halted to a stop. People are still being killed... Innocent people...
Enric walks in every now an then to see how I am doing. Mamă not as frequently, only in the mornings and at night. Tată is only here at curfew, since he works most of the day to support the family. He insists Mamă not work, that it is too dangerous an they might take her away. Tată works in a bookstore, which may seem innocent enough. But nothing is safe in these times - everywhere you go can be captured.
Enric knew what I had seen outside my window yesterday. He looked outside his own window, and witnessed the event as well. He heard me hitting my bedroom wall, and came to comfort me. His eyes were glistening with tears. I had never seen Enric cry. Never. But we just sat there, under my bed, for hours... watching the sunlight hitting my wooden floor dim to darkness.
- Aurel
October 26, 1941
Please forgive me... for my ha n dwriting... my hands are shaking and it's hard to keep them st eady. Will their hate for us ever cease, at least die down? It is like a blazing fire, the hate, devouring all in it's path, hungry for more... Why must it be like this? Why!
They took my father... my Tată ... when he was in the bookstore. And I saw it...w e all saw it... witnesses to the ever-growing flame of hate.
His bookstore can be seen from across our narrow street. We can practically cross it to get to Tată. As soon as I heard the shattering glass, I bolted to my window. Horrified, I realized it was Tată's bookstore. Enric carried my terribly shaking mother to the window, and we all watched in silence. Her hand trembled in mine.
The German officer, that poor excuse of a man that killed those poor boy's parents, pull my father out of the bookstore and into the truck. As the officer shouted orders to the soldiers, Tată's deep blue eyes met ours, with a sad gaze. He was thrusted into the truck like an animal, and with one last look at his family, the truck rode away, and we were never to see Tată again. Tată was the only excuse why we were not deported. He was a decorated World War I veteran, and that alone saved us from the ghetto.
My right fist is bleeding because of my persistent pounding the wall, and Enric watches as I write this, cradling me in his arms, his own eyes bloodshot from crying. Mamă's faint sobs can be heard from the kitchen. And if I may say one thing: If they took our Tată, we are bound to be next.34

-Aurel35

October 28, 194136

I'm sorry I haven't been able to write to you for a few days. Mamă is still shaking, like she saw Tată decapitated. We are all very traumatized beyond words. Tată was always my hero. He taught me many things, such has how to hold a weapon, and sort books into the right sections of the bookstore. My fist is clenching almost compulsively as I think of that dirty Nazi who dare call himself an "officer". A bitter taste settles in my mouth.
And yet...
With all my effort, with all that he's done, I cannot bring myself to hate. I cannot. Is it that I am a child, or that I know they are not horrible people? Maybe these Nazis are just hypnotized by Hitler's propaganda. Maybe they are good people, just not behaving good...
I know I will not get over Tată's capture for months to come. But we must endure. Now is not a time to break down. I wish I could be like Enric... oh, how I wish it. He manages to keep a serious, straight face, but I know something is missing in him... I can see it in his eyes... What used to be a vigorous, lively green has paled to an empty, lifeless shade of grayish olive. But in the evenings, I hear Enric softly crying to himself. Not everyone must be as emotionless as stone.
The only thing that keeps me hoping, that keeps my flicker of hope alive inside me, is that my Tată may still be alive. He may still be alive...
I stroke the dent in my bedroom wall softly with my bandaged right hand. There is hope. I have a reason to hope. But I must find that hope...37

- Aurel38

October 30, 194139

I pass by Odessa more now, looking for a familiar face. My flame of hope is being blown by a wind increasing in strength. I fear the day when my flame will be blown into nonexistence by the strengthening wind.
I talk to everyone in the ghetto through bars, making sure not to be spotted by a soldier. I constantly repeat "Do you know of a Mikhail Korzha?" over and over, until my throat is cracking and my mouth runs dry, my eyes as solemn as theirs. They sense I am desperate, but slowly shake their heads.
Sometimes, Enric comes with me, asking for Tată. He flinches when he sees the emaciated bodies of the prisoners. They have become an everyday sight for me. Before the mass killings in the ghetto, riding my bike here was not an unusual sight. Every sad shake of their shaved heads turns his eyes as austere as mine. Enric's green tone pales with every passing day. His seventeen year old face has grown to that of an old man.
That is the difference between Enric and I. Though bluffing a serious disposition, Enric loses hope all too easy. I hold on to that slightest chance. Though the odds are against me, I hold on, with every passing day.40

- Aurel41

November 1, 194142

I talked with Enric today. He looked at me desperately and gestured with his head he wanted to see me. Mamă eyed us suspiciously.
When we entered his room, Enric sat on the bed, his eyes looking down at the floor. Slowly, his head not moving an inch, his eyes leveled mine. The look on his face was horrifying - a look of defeat and pure agony. The vigorous flame that died down every day was nonexistent.
We stared at each other for several minutes. Gradually, I walked to the bed and sat by his side.
"Enric... what is the matter?"
He turned his head the slightest bit.
"The German... Do you remember that officer? That took Tată?" His voice cracked as he said the last word.
I nodded my head, and braced myself for what was to come. Enric continued.
"Well, today, I was inquiring about him by the ghetto fence, and the German caught me by the arm and out the gun to my head. He said in Română, 'You are next'. He was about to kill me, but an old man in the ghetto yelled to catch the German's attention, and while he shot the prisoner, I ran into the house. But you see, he saw me when I ran away... he will deport us..."
Tears ran down Enric's face and I said,
"So that was what the shot was..." barely a whisper, and I felt moisture threatening to fill my own eyes. "What will we tell Mamă?"
"I don't know, Aurel." Enric stated it like a death sentence. "I don't know."
And we stared at the floor in silence.43

- Aurel44

November 2, 194145

The soldiers came today. Enric opened the door slightly, as if he knew who was there.
"Get ready for deportation, tomorrow."
I did not see the recognition or disgust in the officer's eyes when he saw who answered, but it reflected in Enric's pale eyes with pure hatred. His vigorous color returned again, and after several minutes, he spoke again.
"They want to kill us all." His voice was devoid of any emotion, but Enric's eyes burned with pure hatred. I nodded my head stiffly like I received a date for my execution and the way I answered was surprising even to me.
"Please tell Mamă for me, will you. I must pack." Like Enric, my voice showed no feeling whatsoever. It was as if nothing had happened at all.
I slowly took in everything around me as I ascended cautiously up the steps to my room. As I was neatly folding all my clothing into a suitcase on my bed, I heard Mamă's quiet sobbing and Enric's reassuring whispers. One thought crossed my mind in that moment:
This is the end of the world as I know it.46

- Aurel47

November 8, 194148

It has taken a while to find our place in the ghetto. They have confiscated most of our things and left with a few pieces of clothing. Food is insufficient but is rumored there is none in the camps. If we are lucky, we will stay here. The massacre a couple weeks ago was horrible, and no doubt there is still some shooting going on. I have to stay inside most of the day until it dies, down, which gives me much time to write.
We have one room. Mamă sleeps in one corner of the room, while Enric sleeps on the floor and I sleep beside him. He insisted I used the chair seat as a pillow. We use our sweaters as a blanket. But Enric hasn't such as a pillow. I pity Enric. It doesn't look like he seems to get much sleep at all. But this is the world we live in. We take what we can.
The house is stirring. It is early in the morning and feet are shuffling while gunfire continues. I must go get a piece of bread and some water, that is the only breakfast we can manage in the ghetto. It is better than nothing. I heard the Warsaw ghetto several thousand miles away is much worse than here. I must be thankful, even for that.
There is one thing I must mention, however. When we arrived at the ghetto, trains were at the station with numerous people going in and coming out. It looked like there was no room to breathe, and hundreds of people were loaded in. I was ignorant to all the horrors of camp life outside the ghetto. But now Enric brings home stories on his way back from the shoe factory which I find horrible but unfortunately true.
"They say those trains go for hundreds of miles to the concentration camps," He says. "Some people die on the journey. Many get sick, and the air to breathe is limited. Have you noticed how weak those corpses look when they load them off the trains?" Enric shuddered involuntarily. I did notice. Those people looked like they were about to collapse. I felt pure pity for them. Yet...
I will dread the day when I will take their place.49

- Aurel50

November 12, 194151

The days grow colder still, the weak and hungry dying on the streets. It seems as the soldiers patrolling the narrow pathways are as great in number as the residents that inhabit it.
No matter how small in quantity the soup is in my bowl, no matter how much my teeth chatter when the breeze blows in from outside, no matter how filthy I am when going without a bath for several days, I am determined to stay alive. I keep reminding myself:
Remember, Warsaw is so much worse than this. Think how you will suffer when you are deported. This is heaven.
This is not heaven. But it is better than hell.52

- Aurel53

November 14, 194154

Mamă is growing weaker from the lack of food. I try to give her some of my soup, but the woman is so stubborn she won't as much eat for our sakes.
"Oh, Mamă, this is insane! You must eat something!" I would persist.
She simply replies, "You are growing. You need your food."
All Enric can do is furrow his eyebrows in frustration.
Don't get me wrong, Mamă drinks water, however germ infested it may be, but she does not eat. One of these days I'll have to force feed her. She is losing weight drastically.55

- Aurel56

November 15, 194157

I cannot describe precisely in words what happened today. It was amazing.
Reader, do you remember that little dark-haired German boy? His parents were killed close to 3 weeks ago. He's here in this ghetto! That in itself is no amazing, but I met him as I was walking to go get water for Mamă, just stepping outside the door into the streets. And then I saw him. The little boy.
When our eyes met, he stopped dead in his tracks. I saw a hint of recognition in his eyes. We stood there standing for several minutes. A tall man had almost knocked him over in the trance.
When he heard my mother groaning from nausea inside the house, he peeked in curiously. His eyes were frozen in shock, probably stunned at how emaciated she was. Me and Enric were worried terribly that morning that she was going to die. We were never very close to Mamă, but we had made it our priority to care for her after Tată was persecuted. He left a huge hole in her already bruised heart. The shy blue-eyed boy whispered something incoherent and thrusted a piece of bread into my open hand. Abruptly he wheeled around and disappeared before I had a chance to say one word.
I finally got Mamă to eat that day (after explaining the situation, of course). She had that as well as some of my soup. Me and Enric exchanged excited glances. we were making progress.
But will I ever see that boy again?58

- Aurel59

November 16, 194160

The boy visits once more with his bread. I smile graciously in return to show my thanks, but he is still shy and turns away briskly. I would probably feel the same way if Mamă and Tată were both shot in front of me.61

- Aurel62

November 17, 194163

The bread delivery is becoming repetitive. It finally looks as the sun is shining our way. When he saw that Mamă was in better condition, he smiled to himself, gave an acknowledging nod in my direction, and walked away humming. He spoke to me before he left (in German):
"Es tut mir leid, Sie hatten zu Zeugen ihrer Todesfälle an diesem Tag. Sie waren die besten Eltern konnte ich wünschen kann. Obwohl ich bin froh, dass meine Schwester starb, bevor sie geboren wurden, in die Welt, in der wir jetzt leben in."
I did not understand one word, but I knew it must've been about that fateful day when his parents had been shot, because I saw a tear slide down his cheek as he said it.64

- Aurel65

November 18, 194166

This boy is keeping my mother alive. I finally got his name out. I think it is "Friedrich". My tongue has a hard time pronouncing it. But it will adapt in time. I extended my hand toward Fredrich before he left. Though shy, he shook it firmly and walked away as usual.
I told Enric about Friedrich after his job at the shoe factory.
"Enric," I had grinned, "all that bread for Mamă is coming from a little boy that gives it to me every day. It was the same boy..." I paused. Just recalling it was horrible. Enric pressed me on, intently listening. "...whose parents were shot on front of the house." Enric's eyes turned somber.
"Oh yes, the little German boy..." Enric mused. "Poor child. Seeing his parents murdered like that." His face darkened when he remembered the German officer who had shot them.
"Nazi pig!" He spat, and coincidentally it landed on my shoe.
"Oh, sorry!" He said, trying to keep back a grin.
"It's fine," I joked, "They're torn enough as it is."
"So anyway," I continued. "I finally got his name out. The boy's name is Friedrich."
Enric's face was unreadable.
"Friedrich...hmm..." He tried to make the words sound right. But in vain. He wasn't any better at German than I was. "Fredrich...Fredrich..." He rubbed his chin. I chuckled slightly. Enric was far away. I hummed my way out the door and went to fetch Mamă some water.67

- Aurel68

November 19, 194169

Mamă is still weak. But no one is expected to heal instantly from starvation much less in a ghetto.
Fredrich and I only communicate by hand gestures and the like, but he seems to want to teach my German. I complied. I have learned that 'Hallo' means 'Hello', and 'Auf Wiedersehen' means 'Goodbye'. It is rather difficult, playing the charades, but it will benefit me in the future.
The words do not fit in my mouth, but they will sooner rather than later. I am determined to do so.
Mamă has never really been the ideal 'loving, sweet mother' you used to see at the cinemas. Before, we might have had a decent home, but it was always critical remarks rather than compliments or even the concern of "Don't play over there!" or "Be careful!". I often times used to wonder why my father had married my father in the first place.
But now, she seems to take more notice to us, thanking us for our care occasionally and brief smiles. I may be in a ghetto, but it is fine as long as I know my mother cares for me and Enric.70

- Aurel71

November 21, 194172

The days grow colder and shorter. Food is getting scarce. Friedrich stopped by today to apologize for coming empty handed, but helped us around the house, mostly with Mam#259;. She seems to be taking a liking to him. In a sense, I envy Friedrich, because he has gained more attention from my mother than me and and Enric have received our entire lives.
"May I introduce you to Friedrich, Mamă." I spoke slowly after we finished scrubbing the floors. "He is about nine, I think." I turned to Friedrich.
I pointed at Mamă, and spoke slowly, "Daciana."
Enric chuckled slightly. We all knew 'Daciana' meant 'wolf'. Mamă glared at him.
Ignoring the whole incident, Friedrich extended a gentlemanly hand and bowed his head down slightly. Mamă couldn't help smiling, and thanked him. "Pleased to meet you, young man." She replied to the gesture. "What a fine boy you are."
He did not understand, but flashed a perfect row of white teeth. I seethed with envy.
And so it was that every day from then Friedrich pledged to help scrub the floors. At least we have some help around here, along with that my mother smiling.73

- Aurel74

November 23, 194175

The floors are much cleaner, now that I think of it. Friedrich spends most of his time here, for it must be hard living alone. But we have no space here. It wouldn't be possible to make a home for him. He didn't seem to mind.
You may think I forget that my father was persecuted a few weeks or maybe even a month ago. But I don't. As I talk to Friedrich, my eyes always scan the crowds for him, but I find no one. It is like looking in the sea for a lost book or doll. It pains me every day when I realize I may never see my father again.
Enric and I don't talk much. We just worry when there is any food available at all. Sometimes we go days without eating. Bread is a delicacy if when not stale. More and more often does Friedrich come empty handed, but such is the season of winter. I am intent on surviving.
- Aurel76

November 24, 194177

Remembrance of holidays, birthdays, and special occasions are slipping through our fingers. They don't matter anymore. Our lives have been so distracted and traumatized by the war that these things often escape notice.
"Mamă, what day is it today?" Enric inquired quietly after fetching some water.
"Monday, son." She replied, without looking up from her bread.
"No, Mamă, what day?" Enric furrowed his eyebrows. He was obviously irritated.
"What do you mean?" She replied, looking up now, and exasperated expression on her face.
I thought hard. Then realization hit me. It was Enric's birthday.
"Oh, yes, Mamă, Enric is eighteen now. He is a man." I answered for her, and Enric glowed with pride.
"Oh, happy birthday, then." Mamă said, expressionless. "Oh, yes, and Enric... be sure to fetch some more water for that boy when he comes - what's his name - Friedrich. He tends to get thirsty while he works." Enric's face went from surprised to just pure anger.
"Yes, Mamă." he seethed, and furiously brushed past the alarmed Friedrich standing by the doorway to fetch some more water.78

- Aurel79

December 1, 194180

(Forgive my handwriting, it is hard to write with no support.)
As I stepped outside today, I noticed a train stopping at the ghetto to unload the many on board. Sharp orders ring out from the commanding officer, and a sea of people are loaded off each car. They may be alive, I thought, but their eyes are dead. They are no more alive than the starved corpses I see dead on the streets. I shudder impulsively.
As if hearing my thoughts, Enric lightly squeezes my shoulder and swiftly sits down next to me on the ground. There is silence for several minutes as he curiously peers over my shoulder to see what I am writing. My finger glide over the cold metal fence which we lean against, separating the Odessa I once knew to this prison I know call my home.
But then...
A few inches from the other side of the fence, I notice a flower. It's white radiance reaches towards me, and gives me a reason to live. Amidst the cold, the dead and the killing, it still finds a way to survive. It's innocent white coloring is interrupted by a few droplets of deep red blood.
I glance over my shoulder to check on Enric. Speechless, as I am, we gaze wordlessly at the flower separated from us only by a cruel, heartless piece of wiring that keeps us from escaping imprisonment.
And it is now that I am inspired to write.81

White Amongst a Sea of Red
Hopelessness is engulfing many
their faces devoid of life
Of emotion...
Yet here you bloom
Just beyond my reach...
So fragile, my friend
Unwitting of the horrors
A fate many have succumbed to...
You glow, my friend
With life so many do not have
And reaches past the fence which separates us
Basking in your fire of liveliness
Which gives us the will to live...
You stun us, my friend
We stand helpless by your beauty
Captivated by your every move...
As you sway with the wind's rhythm
Take care, my friend
Bloom amongst the dead of winter...
Without a worry to cross your path
Survive, my friend -
My faith does rest on you...
Enric tousles my hair playfully.
"You remind me of Tată, with those thick brown curls of yours."
I gaze up at him admiringly.
"White amongst a sea of red..." I whisper, as we marvel at the flower in silence once again.82

- Aurel83

December 2, 194184

I have woken in a furious sweat, but I am careful not to wake Mamă or Enric up. I suppose now would be a good time to calm my nerves under the dim early morning light and describe to you my dream.
It was really a memory that I recalled in my sleep when I was eleven and Enric had just turned fifteen. He had followed me to my room after breakfast; we were joking and in a good mood. 1938 was not as nearly as bad as now.
We sat for several minutes, trying to think about what to do.
"You know..." Enric began, rubbing his chin, "Even for your age, you have intensity and wisdom well past your years." Enric studied me. "I can see it in your eyes. It's like an ocean of knowledge." He chuckled.
"Well, your eyes..." I mused, "Are like... burning fire. You may be brave, but you can always be so reckless sometimes." I grinned. Enric just rolled his eyes.
"Oh, well I've never seen you swim, or run track, or swim, or..." Enric hesitated. "Did I say that?" I breathed hard to hold back my laughter.
"Yeah, you did." I replied.
"But who was the one who was too afraid to write Alina a poem, so he made his little brother write it for him?" I retorted with an evil grin.
A few seconds passed, and we practically burst with laughter. "Water beats fire!" I exclaimed, trying to catch my breath.
"True." Enric surrendered.
"Man, Mamă will think we are insane acting like little kids, Aurel!" Enric simpered.
I chuckled.
I was back to reality. Enric was not 15, nor was I 11. It was not 1938. And Enric was not always the glowing brother he had been before the war. Everything changed when we heard the news. Enric became serious, and I rarely saw him smile.
But times have changed.
- Aurel85

December 3, 194186

I use the German language to escape my nausea when my stomach yearns for food. Winter in the ghettos is worst. When the time comes for Hanuukah and celebration, the only things you have to celebrate, if there is any, a chance you'll survive the coming months. It's taking it's toll on all of us.
Enric, who used to be the big, muscular track star, is reduced to bones. So am I. Food is scarce , and we get what we can. The trick is to stay inside and try not to move much - you use less energy, so you are less hungry. But even that does not keep from starvation.
I see a few corpses every now and then scattering the streets, and most tend to ignore them or give a sympathetic glance to the ones holding the dead body. But it still shakes me. Hardly ever do you see a gunshot wound now, the SS lets lack of food take them. I can see every bone in their bodies - I have to fight the urge to gag even with the thought.
Mamă lets Friedrich and I practice language instead of cleaning. I think she understands. She is probably the thinnest of all of us.
I know how to say simple sentences in German, like "Thank you" and "You're welcome" and also "How are you today?"
I have become accustomed to the difference of Nein and Nacht. I know when Friedrich speaks of "Kristallenacht" he means The Night of Broken Glass. It sounded worse than here. It probably was.
Learning distracts me from reality. And in these circumstances, I hope it always will.87

- Aurel88

December 4, 194189

I have been introduced to the school in the ghetto. I am now enrolled. They give us time to write in Language class, so I am writing to you now. Friedrich sits near the back while I sit second row on the left. The desks are tattered, and sometimes we can't write with anything. Paper now is a rarity. Yet whoever has a journal or similar to that may write.
I feel at home here because many are just as starved and hungry as we are. Some are worse. A boy who sits next to me, Jankiel, is particularly so. He is so close to those corpses lying on the streets that I feel he will topple over and die at any second. We are offered soup, and he is allowed extra helpings. Doesn't seem to be contributing to his weight nonetheless.
Jankiel is about my age, maybe a year or so older. He is always polite and very gentle, though sensitive. Rare for a boy in these times to be sensitive, but it also contributes to his thoughtfulness and appreciation for everything - even his own life. I can see the disbelief in his eyes when he realizes he is still alive. I try to be as nice to him as I can, for I cannot guarantee he will be in school for long. I wish him the best.
School is nice. It distracts me from the ghetto life, and sometimes I believe I am in school again, on the other side of the fence. Others may see tattered desks, and insufficient textbooks - I see a haven where I can escape my thoughts of deportation that come across all too often.90

- Aurel91

December 5, 194192

Jankiel's health is deteriorating every day. The soup doesn't seem to help much. As I glance at him right now, sitting next to me, his eyes are sunken - but nonetheless always filled with joy. I barely know Jankiel, but you can just sit and wonder how all the happiness in the world can fit into his soft, brown eyes. It makes the room glow. The instructors seem to feel it too, because they can't help smiling when he walks in.
Friedrich and I have planned to offer our help by walking him home, or carrying anything he might have with him. Fifteen or not, Jankiel is very weak, and we intend to make his possibly last weeks the best they can be in these conditions.
Friedrich also intends on meeting me after school every day to teach me more German. It will come to some greater use (aside to communicating with Friedrich) some day.93

- Aurel94

December 6, 194195

Jankiel grinned like a mad puppy when we offered our help yesterday. While we walking, Jankiel had thanked us.
"I really appreciate your help." He had glowed. "No one ever seems to approach me." Friedrich didn't understand a thing - he shot a puzzled glance at me - so I spoke for him.
"Are you insane?" I replied. "The girls are all over you!" He stopped and stared at me in disbelief.
"You really think so?"
"Well, of course!" I nodded in reply, still shocked that he didn't noticed. All the girls in our class stared at him, ignoring his emaciated form. Even with that, he had that handsome look that all boys would die for - it was like a magnet.
"I'm telling you, you're a human lamp, Jankiel!" I laughed. ankiel just chuckled and rolled his eyes.
His house was similar to mine. As soon as the door opened, three little kids came running out to greet their big brother.
"Jan is home!" They all yelled in excitement. Jankiel bent down to mess up all their hair.
An exasperated mother followed the children. She noticed us in surprise.
"And who's this?" She inquired curiously.
"Classmates." Jankiel replied. "Aurel, and ... um ..." He stuttered, jabbing his thumb towards the lost Friedrich.
"Friedrich." I finished.
"Right." Jankiel scratched his head. "Yeah, the shorter one only speaks German. But he really is nice."
"Oh, that's fine." The woman smiled. "Just checking." She sighed in relief. "Nice to meet you, boys. I'm D-na Sabau." She extended a hand for both of us and we shook it firmly. Friedrich gave a formal greeting.
"Frau Sabau." Friedrich nodded.
"Showoff." I muttered to him in German. Friedrich stifled a laugh.
"Well then." She continued. "The triplets." She stated, gesturing to the bouncy youth peering at us curiously. "Emil, Martin, and Lucia. All four." Lucia. What a beautiful name. I thought, smiling warmly at the pink cheeked little girl. She reminded me of Jankiel.
When I got home, Enric nearly yelled at me as Mamă was outside.
"Where the hell were you!" His eyebrows furrowed in frustration, and he could've exploded at any moment. His eyes were filled with rage and concern. "I thought that pig Nazi Franz -" He winced at the thought of Friedrich and his parents, " - blew your brains out! You have no idea what that would do to me!" I just stared back at him, helpless. "Now, where were you?" He continued, still seething.
"I was walking an emaciated boy home to his starving family." I replied, not flinching.
"Oh." Enric breathed, his eyes softening. "Oh." He hesitated. "Sorry - I mean, that was thoughtful." "Mhmm..." I was lost in thought as a confused Mamă walked through the door. As I heard another fit of yells, I shot a frustrated glance at Enric who looked ready to burst with laughter. I rolled my eyes. Here we go again. I thought, exasperated.96

- Aurel97

December 7, 194198

Life continues as usual. At school I come in and even seeing Jankiel alive makes me happy. I really should stop looking at him like a living corpse. Maybe things will turn for the better - you never know.
Only the occasional nearby gunshot during class makes me wince. Odd how I never cared to learn about the SS working here in the ghetto all this time. Jankiel tells me all about their "personalities".
After we heard some yelling and a deafening gunshot to follow, Jankiel cringed.
"Oh... that one's Franz. I wouldn't get near him when he's in a bad mood - even when he's in a good mood. Rumor is he ripped a boy to pieces with his bare hands. I wouldn't want to touch him." Jankiel gulped.
"I know." I nodded gravely, thinking of Friedrich.
Jankiel kept rambling on about "nice Nazis" and "he-was-a-criminal-before-the-war Nazis" and "filthy Ukranians". I kept remotely quiet, thinking about Friedrich's parents the whole time.
If there was a "nice" Nazi, I'd have to see it with my own eyes.99

- Aurel