Storymania - Janeska's Story by Ashley Burdett

Janeska's Story
Ashley Burdett

August 14, 1942

I can hear them…their voices are echoing in my room.
“Relocation…Rusalka…I must stop them,” my father is saying. I don’t understand. He is talking about the Germans making all of the Jews in Bukalta leave. He says we are being forced to go to Rusalka.
I have the same question my mother is constantly sobbing… “What is to become of us? What is to become of us?”

August 15, 1942

“Janeska! Janeska! Wake up! We need to leave!” I could feel my mother violently shaking me.
“Just a few more minutes, please…it must be before dawn,” I muttered from beneath my covers.
“Now. Wake up now. We must leave now!” She ordered urgently as she pulled me onto the floor.
As I lay motionless on the floor, she threw open the door to my closet and retrieved my suitcase. After tossing it on the bed, she ripped open my dresser drawers and began to throw clothes into the suitcase. “Get dressed, we need to leave.” She dropped a dress onto my bed and began to leave with the suitcase.
I scrambled to my feet, “What is happening?”
“Get dressed. They’re making up leave.”
I grabbed her shoulder and whirled her around to face me, “Mother, what is going on? Who are they? Where are we going? Tell me…”
“Rusalka. To the ghetto at Rusalka. The Germans are making us leave our home so we can live with the other Jews there.”
I squinted at my mother in the waning darkness. “Rusalka is three miles from here. It’s so close…why can’t we just stay here? There are Jews here, just like us.”
“But there are Christians here. We are to be completely separate from the Christians.”
“Why? We’re no different than they are.”
“Jana,” my mother kissed me on the forehead. “There is so much you need to learn. Now get dressed.”
As she left, fear began to set in. Why were we going to Rusalka? It is a town very similar to Bukalta.
With a sigh, I put on the dress my mother had left for me. It was a dark red one I usually wore to Temple. It looked the way it had before Germany took Czechoslovakia, except now a yellow Star of David was sewn onto the arm. How I hated it. A symbol of my religion was now a symbol of my oppression. Because of it, I was ridiculed and ignored. I never knew which was worse. If I could tear it off, I could leave this house. Then I wouldn’t need to be relocated. Without my star, no one could tell me from a Christian. I could live as one of them. No one would know, it would be my secret.
“All Jews outside!” The booming voice of a man reverberated through our house. I shivered. We were actually leaving… “All Jews!” For the first time, I began to wonder if the Germans cared if we were the Slodoskys.
I bounded down the stairs and met my mother in front of the door. “How many of you are here?” A tall, blonde man asked.
“Myself, Onya Slodosky, my husband, Dodek, and our daughter, Janeska,” my mother politely responded.
“I won’t care who you are. I just want the number of Jews housed here.”
“Three…” It was the first time I have ever heard my mother sound meek.
“Line up outside,” he ordered gruffly before moving onto the next house.
My mother handed me a bag full of bread that we were to eat on our journey. We left the house and locked the door, in hopes that we might return that night. In the pale light of morning, a few figures could be seen on the street. All of them were wearing yellow stars…
“Mother? Where is Papa?” I asked, as I struggled down the stairs. My suitcase was large and packed with nearly everything I owned.
She froze, mid-stride. After flashing me an almost mournful look, she responded, “I don’t know…The Germans took him this morning. He said they were sending him out early. Don’t worry Jana. We’ll meet him in Rusalka.”
The Germans made us line up. Men, women and children in a long single file line that seemed to span for miles. Within us, there seemed to be a common fear that united us. Who couldn’t fear the German soldiers who patrolled the lines with guns? I would not realize what the guns were used for until much later.
When the 1500 Jews of Bukalta were assembled, the Germans gave the order for us to move forward. For three miles we marched, weighed down by earthly possessions and unearthly fear.
Finally when the sun was high, we arrived at Rusalka. As I entered the city, I could do nothing by gape in awe. The Rusalka ghetto was a tiny, walled prison. It was near the center of Rusalka, but it could not been further away…All the buildings around the ghetto were of clean, red brick. Yet, the ghetto itself consisted of buildings covered with red bricks. The soot clings to everything, including my lungs. As we approached, I noticed a barbed wire fence surrounded the ghetto. Idly, I wondered about what the Germans were trying to keep out…until I realized, what they were trying to keep in…
The Bukalta Jews were packed into the ghetto along with the 5000 Jews already living there. When we had arrived, we were told to find a place to stay.
“Where?” one man yelled from the horde of Bukalta Jews.
The officer before us, pulled himself to his full height. “Who asked that?”
“I did,” came a call from the back. “Where shall I stay?’
The congregation split as the officer walked back to the man. After a heated exchange, I saw the officer’s hand move to the holster on his belt. Was he going to do what I thought he was going to do? The officer took his gun out and fired it at the man, who fell over, dead. As he walked back to the front, the officer announced, “This is the price of your ignorance…now leave.”
My mother and I searched for hours until we found a tiny apartment near the edge of the ghetto. This is where we are now. Just the two of us because we cannot find my father. No one has seen him, not even the people who have been here for a few days. Mother is going to look for him tomorrow, but she has forbidden me to leave the apartment. I don’t know why…
In the small apartment, there are very few furnishings including a table, 2 hard wooden chairs and bed. The entire room is very dark, except for the candle we placed on the table. A few turnips were left on the table. I believe that is what we are to eat for dinner.
Attempting to make conversation, I asked, “Mother, what happened to those who were here before?”
“They’re still alive. Probably just moved to make room for us,” she answered simply. This is the first time I think my mother has ever lied to me. I’m sure they’re dead. She knows they’re dead. Why does she feel the need to lie to me? She can’t save me from the next relocation. I don’t know when we’ll leave or where we’ll go. Does she know this? And I wonder…can she save me?

August 19, 1942

How could everything happen so fast? In nearly a week, my entire life has changed. I have left all of my friends, my family, my school; everything is back in Bukalta. The things I have brought with me, my mother and my clothes cannot fill the void I feel. My father is gone and we don’t know where he is. My mother is never here. Every morning before I awake she leaves and does not return until after dark. Yet, she does return with food. But I cannot eat…not the bread, nor the soup, I cannot eat it. Food cannot fill the void either.
I don’t understand why I cannot leave this apartment. Mother forbids me to leave because she is fearful that I will get lost. But I think there is something that she does not want me to find out. I don’t know what it is…but it must be quite bad…
I almost left today. After days of obedience, I almost was able to leave. I was standing in front of the door. My hand was on the knob. I was almost free. When the door was almost open, I heard it. A gunshot, right outside the building. I don’t know if the officer was ending another life or just using his weapon to scare someone. But after that, I can’t leave. I will never leave. I am too afraid.

August 20, 1942

This is the first time I have been able to leave the apartment. When Mother was getting ready to leave this morning, the noise she made woke me up. But I just pretended to stay asleep. After she left, I rose, washed and dressed.
There is something strange about the Rusalka ghetto. An odd and painful presence is everywhere, including on the faces of the Jews who live here. Everyone seems to be terrified. I’m not sure if it is of the officers who patrol the streets or if it is the fact that we don’t know what will happen to us after the ghetto.
No one has seen my father since we left Bukalta. I asked everyone I encountered on the street, even people I didn’t know. I talked to Mr. Obernaya, our old neighbor, on one of the street corners. I did not recognize him when we passed. I couldn’t tell it was he until he spoke to me, “Jana? Dodek’s daughter?” He had said.
It took a few minutes of studying his face for me to realize who it was. I finally had said, “Mr. Obernaya?” How he has changed! Once a man of good humor and happiness, now he is sad and pained. Before he could respond, I hastily questioned him, “Have you seen my father?”
Mr. Obernaya glanced around the street, “Not since that morning.” He gave a long pause, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to say anything so I decided not to. “That morning…we knew the Germans were coming. We knew they were to bring us here. So a few of the men, including Dodek, attempted to persuade the Germans to allow their families to stay in Bukalta. The men wanted to spare their families from the ghetto and ultimately, the fate after here. I don’t remember quite what they were planning…But it obviously did not succeed for you are here.” With his explanation he quickly changed the subject. “Aren’t you young to be wandering the ghetto alone? Where has your mother gone? You should keep careful watch of her.”
I didn’t know where my mother was…as everything Mr. Obernaya had said began to make sense, I started to breath deeply and fix my hair. These are the two things I do when I am very nervous…My father was dead. No…my father is dead. How could my mother not have told me? Why didn’t she tell me that the Germans killed him? Why did my father think he could give his life to keep Mother and I safe? Why didn’t the Germans keep their promise?
With tears in my eyes, I said farewell to Mr. Obernaya and returned to this apartment. I have been here, crying ever since.

August 21, 1942

I never told Mother what Mr. Obernaya said. I never got the chance. I don’t really know if I would have told her if I did have the time. Apparently, sometime between my entry and when my mother arrived home I fell asleep.
“All Jews outside!” was the call that woke me up. “All Jews outside!”
“Mother…” I said. “They’re calling us. I think we’re relocating again.”
Mother jumped to her feet. “Dress. Dress. We must leave again….” Instinctively she began to throw on the dress that was nearest to her.
I began to put on the dress I had worn the day before. My others were in the suitcase. I didn’t have the time to take them out. “Take your bag,” Mother ordered as I began to leave.
“All Jews outside!” Came the call again, except this time it was closer. I looked over my shoulder one final time at the apartment. My mother pushed me from behind, “Leave now,” she ordered anxiously. I heaved my suitcase and began to carry it down the stairs. “Faster!” How could I move any faster? Everyone from the building has crammed into the tiny stairwell. It was pitch-dark and I could not make out anyone’s face. I probably could not have been able to recognize my mother had she not have been constantly urging me forward.
Down five flights of stairs we climbed. Step after step, closer and closer to a fate that I did not realize and failed to understand. Each step was agony. My fingers began to go numb from the weight of the bag. Why had my mother packed so much?
Slowly, one by one, we all managed to find out of the stairwell and into the street. The chaos was unspeakable. Thousand of people were running. Officers were shooting and screaming, “All Jews outside now!” or “Line up! Line up!”
“Jana!” My mother grabbed my arm. “Don’t leave me!” All of her strength was pushed into my arm. She seemed afraid to lose me.
“Mother…You’re hurting me,” I breathed.
“You can’t leave me!”
Suddenly, from behind, I was pushed onto the ground. A young officer stood over me. “Get up and get to the front of the ghetto! Now!” He yelled. I pulled myself to my feet and went after the suitcase I had dropped. “Don’t touch it!” He kicked it into the crowd of people. “To the front of the ghetto. Don’t touch the bag!” With his gun, he motioned for us to move before disappearing into the crowd.
My mother grabbed my arm and began to wail, “Where are they taking us? Where are they taking us?”
I could not answer her question. Every Jew from Rusalka was pouring from the buildings into the streets. None knew their fate.
Right now, we are at a train station in Rusalka. I’m assuming that’s where it is because I have not seen a sign. I am hiding this journal under my jacket. It was quite a shock to find the journal in the pocket of my dress. But perhaps it has been the only positive thing of this awful day.
The officers are telling us the train will be here in an hour. But where does it go? Who else has ridden on it? What happened to the people at this train station before me?
For the first time, I am truly afraid. An iciness hangs in the air, even though we are in August. The officers are making me nervous. When they walk past, I can see their guns from the corner of my eyes. When they walk past, I can feel the floorboards creak under their weight. When they walk past, I can hear the footsteps. But what happens if they stop? What if they find me writing?
I think I feel one coming again…I need to stop so that he will not hear my pencil…I do not want to die…

August 22, 1942

I can barely see…there is almost no light. I think it might be day, but I cannot be sure.
Mother and I are on the train. She has not stopped crying since we left Rusalka. I have attempted to console her, but now I must give up. How can I give her hope, when even I do not have it? I have tried to tell her that the train will take us to another ghetto, but through her sobs she has mentioned something about death and fire.
She is beginning to frighten me.
When the train came, none of us could believe that we were meant to fit into it. Cattle cars. They packed us into cattle cars. Inside, the cars are dark even though there are long slits near the top to let in light. There is so little air…I cannot comprehend how a cow can survive this.
How can people survive this? There are eighty people in here! Eighty full-grown people. Eighty-people and a baby. I can hear him wailing on the opposite side of the car. Most of us cannot sit because there is no space. People are complaining of how bad their legs ache but we do not know when they will find rest.
Worst of all, we have not eaten since we left Rusalka. All of the bread, Mother and I had were in my bag. All the bread was taken by the officer. I don’t think they will feed us at all during our journey. My stomach is aching from hunger.
I do not know where we are going. One boy rumored our destination to be Birkenau. I don’t know what it is, but this only made my mother cry harder. It must be a “concentration camp.” I don’t know quite what to think. Birkenau doesn’t sound so bad. As long as I can get off this train, I will be glad to be anywhere.

August 23, 1942

The incessant cries of my mother and the baby are slowly causing me to realize what is happening.
I can’t believe that in a week I have lost my entire life. My father is most certainly dead. I shall never see my friends again. My mother is no longer strong. How can I not cry? Do I not realize I have lost my life? Or do I still think this is merely a dream?
When do I wake up? When do I realize I am being suffocated by my pillow, not a boxcar devoid of air? When do I wake up and realize that I am safe in my bed, not on a train bound for Birkenau?
What is Birkenau? No one will speak of it. I have asked Mother nearly a thousand times! When I say, “Mother, what is Birkenau?” The only response I receive is a muffled sob before a deluge of tears.
At least I can see parts of the countryside in one of the cracks in the wood of the car. There are towns, trees and herds of cattle. It is almost funny how we are in a car, designed for the beasts we pass.
“Piegel! We are passing Piegel! Maybe we will stop at the station!” Someone has just shouted. Maybe they will stop. Maybe we could go for a walk in the town, buy something to eat, and then continue on our journey.
We have waited for quite sometime, but we have not stopped. I think we have gone right through Piegel. Right past the train station. Right past the platform. If I could tell…there were people there, mostly men. If I am correct, it sounded like they were shouting at us. None of us could make them out…
But I think they might have been jeers and curses…but curses? Why? We are the same as they. We are Czech. Everyone in this town is Czech, just like those in Piegel. So why must they curse at us? The only difference between us is our religion. We are Jews and they are probably Christians. The only way anyone can tell us apart is by the large stars we wear attached to our clothing. But we are all still Czech. That’s the only thing that should matter.
“Piegel is one day’s travel from Birkenau,” the man next to me just sighed. There is a hint of terror in his voice.

August 25, 1942

The train has stopped. But it has been stopped for hours.
No one is making any noise except for the occasional murmur of discomfort one feels from standing too long. Some people have been standing for a very long time. During the train ride we take turns sitting and standing. But since we have stopped, no one has asked to sit down…I think everyone is too afraid…
An air of tension hangs in this car. Everyone seems so afraid. My mother has stopped attempting to be calm. Instead, now she is crying hysterically.
“Mother, just be patient. You’ll see Birkenau will be paradise compared to this train car,” I have repeated to her a hundred times.
The only time she has spoken for four days was when she responded to my hopeful consolation. She glared at me, “You don’t understand. You never did. Birkenau is a concentration camp. Germans send the Jews there so that they may be slaughtered. Everyone from Rusalka went there. Yes, even the Jews who lived in the apartment before us.”
I could do nothing but gape. Still I can do nothing but gape. We are all going to die. Now I wish I could remain on this train for the rest of my life! I can live with the poor air, starvation and overcrowding. I just don’t want to die.
The doors are beginning to open. They are ordering us out. I must hide this book. To be found means certain death.

August 28, 1942

Her eyes…all I can see are her eyes. Her deep blue eyes rimmed with tears…for three days they have haunted me. It has been three days since I was forced to take her journal. I remember everything that happened…it still pains me to remember the look on her face when I wrested the book from her hands.
“Please, you don’t have to take it…no one will see it…I promise…please…let me keep it…please…” she pleaded with me in Czech, on the verge of hysterics as I began to take the book from her.
“If they find you with it in the camp, they will kill you, consider yourself lucky that I found it and not someone else,” I had answered her in Czech, nonchalantly as I slipped the book into the inner pocket of my jacket and walked away.
It has been there for three days. I had nearly forgotten about it…until I put the jacket on today and found it. The entire journal is written in Czech. Presumably it is about her life back home or her life in the ghetto or simply how she wishes she could return to her old life. Even though I speak Czech, I refuse to read it. This is a book of her life. We Germans have already taken everything from her people, why should I take from her the only comfort she has left?

August 29, 1942

How is she here? It has been four days since I took her journal but still I wonder why is she here? I wish I could read it, but I won’t…it is unfair to her.
I was out around the camp today. Most of the Jewish women in this camp have deep brown eyes…her eyes are blue…her hair is blonde. She looks German. Why did she not take the star off of her dress? No one would be able to tell her apart from German Christians.
She shouldn’t be here…she is so young.

August 30, 1942

I saw her today. She looks so different. No longer is she weak, but she seems almost defiant. Her blonde hair is gone, taken by the German soldiers of the camp. Now she is nothing more then a bald head…like all of the other Jewish women…and yet she looks so different.
She has a certain desire to live that is portrayed in the way she stands. When they called her for role call, she did not stand like the other women, slumped over with tears in their eyes. She stood firm, eyes forward and awaited her number to be called. She seemed like a young soldier…almost like a man. “K-8943,” the roll call officer said to her as she stood.
Her new identity, K-8943. She is no longer the nameless Czech girl to me, she is K-8943. After the officer called her number, she saluted him. Very few people would ever salute the oppressors of the people. Most women cry or try not to cry…I have never seen a girl salute an officer before.
Apparently, neither has the officer. When we were eating Janosch, the officer, said to me, “Mikolai, did you see the girl who saluted at me?”
I answered, “Yes, it was hard to miss.”
Janosch agreed, “There is something truly different about her. For some reason, she doesn’t seem to be bothered about this camp. I find it rather odd…”
“She’s probably just given up. Most of them do, but usually just not this early. It’s been five days, hasn’t it?”
Janosch gave me a concerned glance, “Strange that you would know that…”
I couldn’t take any more of his interrogation…I had to leave. I excused myself and came back to my room. This journal is slowly driving me insane. I want to read it…but I know I shouldn’t. I speak Czech…I can read it. My mother was from Czechoslovakia and taught me well in her language and the customs of her people.
But I won’t read it…

September 1, 1942

I was placed on soup duty today. I do not know why. I think the prisoner who usually gives out the soup was killed yesterday. This was my first time dispensing soup to the prisoners. The soldiers placed a huge pot of water-like soup in front of me. It was my job to use a ladle and dispense a tiny bit to each prisoner.
When they lined the prisoners up to get the soup, I almost gasped. Nearly a hundred people for a pot of soup that held enough for twenty. How was I supposed to give the people so little soup?
I couldn’t look them in the eye with the amount of soup I gave each of them. These people are dying and I wish I wasn’t here. I don’t hate them like the others do. Janosch hates them. He asked specifically to be transferred to the women’s camp…he routinely violates them.
I was reassigned here after a revolt at the first prison I was assigned to. The prisoners revolted and I couldn’t bring myself to kill them. For some reason, my German superior ordered me here at the women’s camp. He could have had me discharged, but he wanted me to stay in the camp…he put me here probably because he thought women wouldn’t revolt. For some other reason, he didn’t tell anyone about what happened. He simply asked for my transfer. Maybe it was better…

September 2, 1942

Again, I was on soup duty. Today the soup was a disgusting mix of water and potato peels. But I gave it to them anyway…
She was in my line today, K-8943. She stared at me with indignant eyes. The same eyes that stared at me the day I stole her journal. I wonder if she recognized me. I attempted to win her forgiveness by giving her an extra soup ration.
She did nothing more than stare at me with indifferent eyes.
The indifference in her eyes surely masks the hatred she feels for me…

September 3, 1942

Soup duty for the third day in a row. She was there again…she gave me the same indifferent, almost dead look despite the extra soup ration.
The rest of the day went on as normal except for the conversation I had with an old woman. I remember it word for word. It was so odd.
“You have developed a fondness for Janeska…” she had said.
“Who?” I asked.
“The girl you give extra rations of soup to. The girl you appear to be very fond of.”
“You have no idea what you are talking about,” I began to walk away.
“Do you know what her name means?” She asked me.
I had to know. “What?” I feigned impatience to hide my feelings…
“God is gracious. I could tell you why her parents called her that…but I’m sure you have more important things to do,” she smirked.
“Why did her parents give her such a beautiful name…I mean, why did her parents call her that?”
The woman smiled, “I am Agnezi Obernaya, her neighbor from Bukalta, the town she lived in before Rusalka. Her parents and I have been friends for a great number of years. Her mother and I would talk of how we wished to have children. But I could never have any and it appeared her mother would not either. Until, one day she became pregnant with Janeska. Her parents waited anxiously to see if her mother could carry the baby because of her age. In the beautiful month of July of 1925, Onya, her mother, delivered a beautiful baby girl. Her father was so overjoyed that he blurted out, ‘Janeska,’ which means God is gracious. Because of her father, her name is Janeska.
“She was a joy to have as a neighbor. Courteous, polite, and constantly writing in her journal. In fact, that’s all she would do in the summer. From the time she learned how to write, all she would do was sit in our garden and write about her life. She is truly a dear-.”
“Please…I can hear no more,” I choked out.
“There is so much more I can tell you about her…” the woman seemed overjoyed to have someone listening to her. To find an ear of sympathy in the camp seemed to cause any prisoner to become increasingly excited.
“Please, no more…”
“Both her mother and father are dead…I am the only thing she has in this camp. If you would like-.”
I raised my arm to strike the woman and she cowered. I couldn’t do it…I couldn’t hit a woman of such frailty, a woman of such age and wisdom. Instead, I found in my pocket a stale ration of bread, which I gave to her.
After what the woman said to me, I couldn’t resist the temptation any longer. I read Janeska’s journal. The atrocities of what we have done against these people are unspeakable. No longer can I justify this way of life.
They deported the Jews that are here from Rusalka. My mother was a Czech…also from Rusalka. She was a Jew much like these people. These Jews are almost my kindred. If my father had gone to Czechoslovakia, then these people certainly would have been…

September 4, 1942

I have become more reserved due to what I have read…today was only soup duty again. But I did not see her.
It still pains me to see my mother’s people treated this way. Even though she was a Christian, many of her friends were Jews. They are probably either here now or they have already been killed. It is something I do not like to think of…

September 6, 1942

Janosch…I can’t believe him. Janosch…what has he done? What have I done? What is going to happen? Is it my fault? My heart is racing and I cannot keep my thoughts straight.
I remember the corporal ordering me to get more ammunition. Ammunition…from the ammo depot. It was late and dark. So I ran. When I got there, I heard noises. Almost like those that I have heard before.
Throwing open the door, I noticed two figures in the corner. One was noticeably male and the other appeared to be female…a prisoner. “Mikolai! Get out of here! Get what you need and be gone!”
I flipped on the light nearest to the door and gasped. “Janosch? What are you doing here?”
“Mikolai, get out of here,” he growled.
I looked over his shoulder. Janeska seemed to be trying to press herself deeper into the wall. There was a fear in her eyes. I don’t know if she was trying to escape him or if she was ashamed of what she was doing.
“Not this one. Not this time Janosch. Girl, get out of here!” I yelled. Janeska peered into my face. She seemed uncertain as to whether she should listen to me. “Girl! Leave!”
She looked away and ran out of the room.
“What do you think you are doing Mikolai?” Janosch shouted. “You have no right to stop me. That is my right! I’m allowed to do what I want! No one said you could let her leave!”
“No, you don’t. I’m allowed to let her leave, to help her. You have right to violate the women in this camp!” I spat at him.
He glared and then suddenly pounced on me. He pressed his fingers deep into my throat and he growled, “She will pay for what you have done.” After standing up, he left the room.
What have I done? What is he going to do to Janeska? He was my friend. I have been quiet for the past year, while he committed unspeakable acts against these women. But I had to stop him this time. This time it wasn’t just a nameless prisoner. This time it was Janeska.

September 7, 1942

So far Janosch has not kept his promise…I am forced to think about what he might do every time I look into the mirror because of the deep blue bruise around my neck. What might he do to her?
But today was selection for the women. For this, the women are forced to take off their clothes and walk in front of a panel of doctors. They decide who is not healthy. Generally the unhealthy are sent to the crematory.
I did not watch. I have never watched because this has always disgusted me. I cannot stand to think a person I saw will be killed. It makes my stomach turn and my blood run cold.
Instead, I reread Janeska’s journal. I cannot understand how the Germans treat the Jews. We treat them like animals but they are as human as we are. I think I just unlearned rule number one of the military.
I don’t even know how I got into this. I’m not sure if my father pressured me into it or if I actually believe about glory and fortune. I surely haven’t found any glory or fortune in gassing women and children. I haven’t found any good to come from the way we treat the Jews…

September 9, 1942

What has Janosch done? What has Janosch done?
On the loudspeaker, they called the number of those who failed to pass selection. “D-9013, F-9147, K-8613, H-7317, K-8943, D-6501….”
K-8943? I remember the disbelief I felt. I remember the way my eyes glared at the loudspeaker in complete horror. Janeska’s number was called. Janeska was to be killed. How I wanted to save her…how I wanted to take her from the camp and take her back to Bukalta.
I remember seeing the prisoners who were to be killed. All were frail and thin. She looked so strong. She was so beautiful…the last memory I have of her is the look she gave me as they led her away. It was not a look of defiance or anguish, but rather a look of submission…we had finally broken her spirit…