Welcome to Hell

Conten

Content warning: depiction of holocaust

The clicking of the wheels on the tracks is the only thing reminding me that I’m still alive. I’m sure my eyes are open, yet I can’t seem to see anything. The thick stench of human excrement fills my nostrils as I struggle to breathe. Although it’s barely March, the air flowing through the train car is warm and heavy. I hear silent sobs all around me. We’ve been standing like this since they took us two days ago. A collection of limbs and sweat and tears. That is all we are to them. And although I am not yet eleven I know how this will end. 

I’ve heard the stories. All the children in our shtetl have. We know that we will never see our parents again. Our siblings. Our friends. Our teachers. Because no one makes it out. Very few are chosen. Very few are sent to the right. Very few are permitted to live. I stand, replaying these morbid truths over and over again in my mind. An eternity passes. The door slides open with an earth-shattering screech. Our eyes sear and burn as the long absent light floods the car. We are shoved off the train. We exit onto dirty platforms teeming with people. I see some running, trying to fight. They are met with unkind impatience. They will not be sent to the right. Others are walking, their eyes glazed over in confusion. Is this how we’ll meet our end? Can this actually be happening? I scan the crowd looking for some iota of familiarity, but I find none. 

We pass through an entryway, a gate. A slogan written on it in German reads: “Arbeit Macht Frei”. “Work will set you free”. This is Auschwitz. This is where it ends. 

This is where it ends, and no one will even remember. No one will even remember I was here. 

I have no choice but to obey when we are forced into a single-file line. I keep my head down not wanting to acknowledge my fate. The line hesitantly creeps forward. In a moment's time it will be my turn. I picture my family standing on lines like this. My mother will be weeping as my little sister Esther clings to her skirt. My father will be the picture of stoicism, but I know that he’ll be fearful despite keeping up appearances for my brother Yosef. My scantily clad body is wracked with chills. I can’t tell if it’s from fear, or the bone-chilling Polish air, or a combination of both.

 Ahead a man sits behind a desk. There are some interesting looking tools in front of him. I watch as he methodically fiddles with them, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. A woman now stands before him. Suddenly, she has fallen to her knees, her hands clasped together. She is pleading now. Pleading with a single word: “Please.” For a moment, just for a single moment, I see the man’s features soften. It’s gone as soon as it appeared and the woman is pulled to her feet. I see them stick something on to her arm and she is led away. I follow her steps as she begs for mercy. She is sent left. 

This is when the gravity of my predicament hits me. It is the end of the line, in reality and in my existence. My eyes burn with hot tears. I beckon them not to fall. I will not be sent left. I will survive. My name will live on. I will get to live a normal life one day. I will triumph. I will not give in. 

I brush a hand over my eyes, obliterating any trace of emotion. I straighten my back. Now, I stand tall, my chest puffed out. My mother always said the Germans appreciate appearance. I will give it to them.

A uniformed man approaches me. He smells of beer. My brother Yosef drank beer once. That's how I remember the distinct scent. He leads me to the desk where the other man is still playing with his tools. He looks up.

“Arm.” A single word. That’s all he can spare. Why would he waste his words on vermin like me, right? I obey. He grabs my arm and positions it flat, palm up, on the desk. He picks up his tool and jabs it into my left forearm. I try to stifle my scream. A pathetic whimper escapes my lips. I am ashamed but no one else seems to have noticed it. He wipes the puncture spot with an ink-stained cloth and continues. It gets less painful with each stab. He wipes it one last time. I hesitantly glance down. Surrounded by angry red patches, my permanent souvenir is printed into my skin in jet black ink. 91803. I will never be able to forget that number. 91803. It will sit upon my flesh until the end of time.

 I am now moved into another line. I look forward. All I see are souls. Souls that are forever impacted. Their glow slowly dissipates as they miserably study their own numbers. At least we are in it together. 

Once again, I make it to the front of the line. Another soldier stands before me. He is more decorated than the other one though, medals and pins cling to his uniform. He is clean shaven and his clothes are meticulously starched. He looks immaculate. He bends to meet my eyes.

“Hello. What is your name?” He says in a hauntingly pleasant tone. I answer. “Moshe. Moshe Klein”. Heat flashes across my face, temporarily blinding me. He’s hit me. He looks back at me. “Here, you do not have a name, stupid boy”, he studies my arm, “here you are 91803, that is all.” He stands back up. I watch as his eyes scan my body. He looks at the guards maintaining the line and says: “Looks strong enough,” He liftss his hand and waves it. “He can go right.” 

Right. I have been gifted another day. I have survived the ‘Angel of Death’. At least for now.  A guard escorts me. Then, he bends low, and whispers into my ear: “Welcome to Hell.”