To whoever finds this

TW: Death, grief, torture, anti-semitism, thoughts of self-harm and the Holocaust

Auschwitz, Germany

1942

In my dreams, my parents are alive. They are healthy and happy. They run to me and embrace me. They feel real. They are not emaciated, not piled on top of skinny dead bodies. They are living, breathing people. They see me and smile, wide and happy.

That’s usually when I realize that I'm dreaming. My parents hadn’t smiled often, even when they were alive.

I startle, panting, only to find tears dripping down my chin. But today, I’m still in my dream. Their smiles change. Their bright teeth transform before my eyes, becoming long fangs oozing blood. The blood of our people. The blood of innocents. Right before my mother grabs my arm, she disappears. Hands turn into dust and dreams turn into reality.

I jolt awake and find Hilda looming over me, her dark brown eyes alight with concern. I lift my hand and wipe the sweat off my brow, feeling every bone in my hand grate against my head. My throat feels as dry as sandpaper. Most of the other girls are still asleep. Hilda raises a finger to her lips and I nod. She climbs back into the shoddy cot of a bed and turns to face me.

“Are you all right, Inge?” Just like every other person in this place, Hilda’s voice is raspy from dehydration, so soft that I can barely hear her.

“Yes.”

 She looks unconvinced but doesn’t press the subject. There are more important things to worry about than if I am okay. Another day has started, and so has the fight for survival. In Auschwitz, if your entire attention is not constantly focused on staying alive, you will die. Even when your entire attention is focused on survival, you will still likely die. How I have survived two years, I do not know. I am one of the few who has. Over these two years, I have seen my parents, cousins, friends – and even people I hated – come and go. I am no stranger to death, and yet it still terrifies me.

It’s protective not to build relationships in this place. Love makes survival harder. Caring for someone is risky and feeling grief is dangerous.

When my parents died, I stopped eating. The watery gruel and mush went uneaten. I became a Muselmann, someone who stops caring if they die. The only reason I didn’t starve myself to death was because I wouldn’t let the Nazis take that from me, too. They have taken everything I care about, but they will not take the honor of death after a long and happy life from me. They took that from my parents, but never me. I won’t let it happen to me. I will fight tooth and nail to survive this place. I will die at home, after a long life, surrounded by loved ones. I will not die here, only to be crossed off a list. I am not just a number in their books. I am a human, and I will die like one.

The door opens, and our Kapo walks in. Hilda and I sit up straighter and direct our eyes to the floor. She walks around the room, a predator stalking her prey. She stops at Susan and Ruth’s bed and I subconsciously suck in a breath. They are both asleep, sharing a single thin blanket. Kapo studies them for a few seconds before ripping the blanket off their bed. They startle awake and both stare up at Kapo with fear in their eyes. She stares them down as she rips the blanket to pieces.

    Pity goes through my body. There are no extra blankets, no warmth to spare.. Unless they can miraculously find a new blanket, Ruth and Susan will be dead by winter. The cold is severe, unbearable without protection. And if the cold doesn’t kill them, disease will. Kapo turns around, and the second her eyes are off them, Susan finds Ruth’s hand and grips it hard.

“Get up! Roll call is in ten minutes, then work. Go, go, go, go!” Kapo snarls the words and we all jump up. She's known to beat girls she thinks move too slowly. I leap out of bed and shove my boots on as quickly as possible. Hilda moves slower than usual, and I’m tempted to help her. I almost reach down to tie her left shoe, but Kapo hates acts of kindness. Before the war, she was a prisoner. There are whispers that she killed her parents. Most of the Kapos are former prisoners, but some are Jews. Hilda hates the Jewish Kapos with a passion, but I don’t judge them. How could I? You do whatever you need to do to survive. I understand that. Also, most of them are nicer than the regular Kapos.

My feet rammed into my boots, I ran out of the room. Hilda is still putting on her shoes. Her blisters are awful, and I just know that putting the rough leather of our boots over them must hurt like a motherfucker. I look back and stop short. Kapo is walking towards Hilda with her whip raised. I gasp and try to force words out of my mouth, but I can’t.

I should call out to Hilda, and warn her, but I don’t.

I should run and tackle Kapo to the ground, but I won’t.

I must survive.

I like Hilda, truly. I want to help her, but doing something stupid like warning her or trying to stop Kapo will just hurt both of us more. I am a sixteen-year-old, starving girl. How could I help her?

The scene before me slows down, becoming almost comical. I see every possible outcome, I see Kapo’s maniacal smile, I hear Hilda telling me she has someone back home who loves her, and I see her hugging me when my parents died. I see myself moving into Auschwitz, believing we will only be here for a month at the most. I see my parents' bravery slowly melt away as the weeks go on. I see the SS dragging my parents to the gas chambers, kicking and screaming because they dared to try and steal a potato for me—a birthday present. I see myself trying to save them. I see myself being kicked in the face and slammed into the dusty dirt of blood, sweat, and tears outside the barracks.

My belief in God was extinguished that day. My soul has been crumbling ever since. But today, I finally feel it break forever. I slowly turn away, my heart cracking open with the movement. One foot in front of the other. Just one foot at a time. Block out the screams and let yourself feel your heart ripping in half. I will survive. I must.

Numb, I walk into roll call. With the other prisoners, we line up. We line up, and we wait. Hours go by, and the Nazis entertain themselves. They entertain themselves using us. We dance and we sing. We fight each other for a piece of raw, bloody meat. Guards come over and make the selection. I watch as siblings are ripped apart from each other and sent to different groups. Some decide to go with each other, even though they might die.

When they get to me, I stand as tall as I can and try to look healthy. I’m studied for a few terrifying moments, but then they nodded once and sent me to a group. Everyone there looks relatively healthy, and I breathe a sigh of relief. The other group all realizes at the same time they did not pass selection. I turn around. I can’t bear it today. I know how they react, I’ve seen it far too many times.

The Nazis keep us there after selection. When it starts to rain, the SS grumble. They fight over who has to stay outside to watch over us. The rain soaks my clothes until I'm chilled to the bone. I stand there though, frozen.

I reassure myself with the fact that I will get to see Hilda when I get back. I’ll explain why I didn’t, I couldn’t help. She’ll understand. I’m sure she will. Eventually, when the guards can’t decide who should stay outside, they yell at us to go to our workstations. We all obey, rushing out of the courtyard as fast as we can. Some higher-up members of the SS find it funny to shoot us as we leave roll call. I begin the walk to my job.

I’m lucky. My job isn’t as unthinkable as some. I have to sort the suitcases new prisoners bring with them to the camp. Still, opening suitcases and seeing small outfits or happy family photos squeezes the air from my lungs.

Some people try to steal some of the things in the suitcases, but I don’t dare. I want to– a hat or a pair of mittens can be the difference between life and death. But one day I almost stole something, a thick pair of wool socks, and my friend Cecil got caught. Her sister Cici was sick, and Cecil was trying to smuggle out a blanket to keep her warm. She got caught and was flogged in front of all of us.

I will never forget the look of terror on her face when a Commandant picked her up by her shirt collar and threw her into the wall. He told her she had to count each strike, in German. Cecil wasn’t from Germany and spoke no German. She only counted to three. They forced us to watch her being hit over and over again until she couldn't even talk. I remember thinking that her blood was so red, like fire. She died with fireblood, her spirit as fiery and powerful on the inside as on the outside.

As I walk to my job, I pass by people being sent to the gas chambers. I try not to look, but my gaze drifts there. I look over each person, committing their face to memory. If I can remember their faces, I can remember their ordeals. By forgetting, we are helping the Nazis. Watching humans live their last moments is a terrifying, heartbreaking experience.

It is horrible. I feel an urge to stab every Nazi with a dagger through their stone-cold hearts. No, they don’t have hearts. Through their stone-cold blood-pumping organs. I am watching two friends embrace one last time when my name is screamed. My heart rate jumps, having attention called to yourself here is never a good thing.

“INGE!” My name is wailed again, a shrill, horror-filled sound. I am turning in circles, trying to find whoever is shrieking my name. When I look over to the east side, my heart plummets out of my body, landing with a wet plop on the grimy ground. Blood leeches out of my face at the sight of Hilda standing there.

I almost don’t recognize her; she is so bloody. Her nose is broken and clumps of her hair have been ripped out. She is limping, and I watch with horror as a thin trail of red liquid drips off her scalp onto the ground. Her arms are covered in angry, red scratches.

I run to her, forgetting to be afraid of Nazis, Kapos, or Commanders yelling or shooting me for my insolence. For some reason I don’t understand, no one sees me. I reach Hilda and gulp in the stinking, burning air smelling of flesh and nightmares.

It’s hard to sprint with malnourished muscles. When I reach Hilda, she is sobbing loudly and I am panting. I grab her and hug her as hard as I can, before pulling back and scanning her injuries.

I’m almost afraid to ask, but I do it anyway. “Hilda, what-what happened to you?” She wails at the question and buries her head into my skinny shoulder. I try not to wince at the blood that imprints itself on my skin.

    She sniffs and pulls back but reaches for my hand. I take hers and that is when she responds.

“Kapo. She, she, whipped me. For going too slow, I was trying to tell her that my blisters were awful, but she didn’t respond. She just kept whipping me and I kept trying to tell her why I was slow but she just got madder and then eventually she just stopped and so I stopped and then she smiled, oh Inge, her smile is awful it’s so evil, and she told me to come here and I started crying, I don’t want to die. She kept kicking me. It hurts; things are broken inside. Inge, I don’t want to die, I don’t, oh Inge, I was trying to go fast enough but my feet hurt so badly. Please don't leave me; I don’t want to die.”

Waves of nausea rip through me as each word spills out of her mouth. My face drains of its blood and I grip her as hard as possible. She grimaces but I don’t care. This can’t be real. If I hold her, it won’t be real. If I never let go, she will still be alive. This is all my fault. This is all my goddamned fault. My selfish, evil, rotten soul caused this. If I had run back for her, she wouldn’t be dying.

If only I had helped her put on her shoes. I knew she needed help but I ran away like the coward I am. This is all my fault. She’s dying and this is my fault. If I had tackled Kapo, or screamed or done anything she would be walking with me to work. She would be laughing and smiling, not bloody and bruised and broken.

Not dying, falling out of my arms.

Not dead.

Oh god, I killed her.

I killed her.

I killed my friend to save myself.

************************************************************

Five days later

The coarse fabric on my chapped hands makes me wince. Instead of shying away from the pain like I would have done in the Before, I embrace the pain. Since the Before, I have been fighting the urge to bash my head into the wall until my brain matter spills out and I fall to the ground just like she did– no. Stop. I can't think about that. If I do, my last shred of resistance will shrivel and die. I want Hilda back, but I know that won’t happen.

    But there's one other thing that I want, for her sake. Revenge. Justice. I lose myself in my fantasies and accidentally clip my finger against something sharp. I bite back a curse and see what nicked me. When I peer into the tangled heap of hastily packed clothes, I gasp. Then I clap a hand against my mouth and wait for the telltale sign of the Commandant’s coming towards me. When I don’t hear it, I discreetly look at it again.

    A camera. A real-life camera.

My hands wander around its circumference in wonder. I’d heard of cameras but had never seen one. My friend Lydia always begged her parents for one so that she could take photographs of pretty trees and birds.

    My brain short circuits.

    If I could take photographs here…

    If I could expose them…

    If I could show the world the horrible truth…

    If I could stop things like what happened to Hilda from happening to other people…

    If I could avenge her death…

    Could I do this? Horror stories surround the camp like fog made of ghosts. Am I brave enough for this? I don’t think so. I am a coward. I have been my whole life. I ran from Kapo and Hilda, and Hilda ended up dead. I ran from my friends, from boys, from meaning and love.

    I am terrified. I don’t want to die, at least not how I would if they caught me.

    But.

    If someone had been brave enough to do what I might, maybe Hilda would still be alive. Maybe if I had been brave enough then, she would still be alive.

    I was a coward then, and she died. But I don’t have to be a coward now. Hilda is dead, but I can honor her memory. I can stop this from happening to anyone else. I can be brave. I can change my fate.

************************************************************

Auschwitz, Germany

1963

    Hannah Schmitt was scared to visit Auschwitz. Most days, she likes to pretend the Holocaust never happened. As a Jew, it was easier for her that way. But she figured that she had to visit at least once in her lifetime.

    She chose a self-tour, unembarrassed by her tears. She saw a lot of other people cry, too, confronted with the worst of humanity.

    Walking through the courtyard, Hannah tripped over a bump in the dirt. Confused, she knelt and pushed dirt off the ground. A sharp edge snagged her thumb. Trembling, Hannah uncovered a black object, goosebumps rising along her arms. A camera. The camera was very old, dusty, and broken but…

    Some part of her knew.

    With shaking hands, she turned the camera all around. When she got to the bottom, she almost dropped it. There, in small, feminine cursive.

    Hannah read it.

    And she just knew what she had to do.

    How did this survive? Sure, she could barely read the writing, but still. A piece of history, in her hands. And not just any piece of history. Life shattering, world changing history from a real prisoner who lived here. Her story, in Hannah’s own hands.

    “I hear your cry, Inge,” Hannah whispered.