The Irony of being Free

My mother always started her stories with, �Einmal auf Zeit� or �Once upon time.� Nowadays I�m the story teller and my sister listens to my stories, except I start them with �Vor den Nazis� or �Before the Nazis.�

"People are like coins."

When I was younger my mother would recite stories from her childhood, countless tales of princesses and princes. I could sit and listen to her all day. She always started them with, "Einmal auf Zeit" or "Once upon time." Nowadays I'm the story teller and my sister listens to my stories, except I start them with "Vor den Nazis" or "Before the Nazis."

I feel Sarah's hands pinch at my dress, her wide amber eyes staring at me with a pleading expression. We're huddled close, Mama bargaining with another lady for a part of her ration. Sarah's grumbling stomach disturbing all three of us. We were lucky the wardress was out.

"What is it Sarah?" My voice is hushed, even after a month at the camp I am still afraid, everyone is afraid. I rub at the yellow triangle sewn into the sleeve of my dress. My hair slightly covers the patch.

"'Siya, I want to hear a story," her ten-year old voice is almost frightening. I glance around me, the setting too depressing for someone her age. But who am I to speak? I'm only a few years older. "I want to hear the one about your best friend."

I sigh, Mama still hidden in the darkness. I start the story like any other story I've told her in the last month. "Before the Nazis, I had a best friend and her name was Adelyte. She had long blonde hair and pretty green eyes," I pause, shifting to get more comfortable, such an impossible task. "Do you remember when Mama told you that everyone's name has a meaning?"

She thinks for a bit, and I glance back at Mama. Her voice is as tired as mine. It feels like an eternity, infinite because we know it may never end. "Yes, she told me that my name means princess," there's pride in her voice, something only she can find. We've all lost that emotion, our feelings only revolving those of anguish, mourning of our past lives.

"Well Adelyte's name meant one who has good humor; she liked to make fun of it a lot. My best friend Adelyte always had something to say about everything. To her name, she said that her new name would be, Ulrike: Ruler of all. Adelyte always had humor, like her parents named her for, but she always had a dark sense of it. She always looked at the world in a different way than everyone else. There was one thing she said to me," I trail off, knowing that Sarah would finish the sentence. I had told this story many times, Sarah always listening attentively.

In a way I was jealous of Sarah, she was able to escape, imagine herself out of the camp. Mama was back, her face ashy with illness. Resting within her palms was a small piece of bread; it almost glowed as we stared at it in hunger. Sarah grabbed for it, not thinking of anyone but herself. She was ten, we forgave her. We forgave her because of everyone we had met, saw, spoke to, she was the only one that had not changed. She was constant in this new Earth, this Earth that was determined to rid of us Jews.

Jews. That was our new names, for all of us. Sometimes I was Chafsiya, but to everyone that saw me, I was a Jew. My dark hair, dark eyes, pale complexion, I was a Jew. I remembered the rest of the story, feeling the guilt pitting in my stomach. I always told Sarah this story, and she always made me go on, even if I wished not to. "People are like coins. We all have two faces. The ones that will give and the ones that will take," Sarah finished like a good student in school.

I could remember a time when I went to school, a time where the thirst of knowledge put me above so many other students. The memories stung, I remember as we were removed to another school, our religion not tolerated. Then gradually to some, but too speedy for me, school disappeared altogether, along with our lives. "What does it mean, 'Siya?" Sarah asked bread crumbs clung to the side of her lips. I sighed, a habit that developed at my time in the camp. So many habits had grown here.

"I don't know," I answer. Soothingly I stroke her hair, the brown streaks in her hair present as the moonlight bounced off her head. Mama is sleeping; her weary form visible under the thin blanket. Sarah yawned, a cute little kid yawn. In moments I can hear her light breathing, leaving me to ponder on Adelyte.

I'm lying on the hard ground, feeling suddenly alone and constantly cold. Maybe from Sarah's influence but I can hear Adelyte's voice, its blunt tone telling me the truths that she saw coming. She was a philosopher and a prophet, that Adelyte. In her clear calm voice, she told me that we never could be best friend, true best friends, and the ones that were together forever and ever. She was right, and that thought still haunts me, along with so many things. I feel so old, like I've aged from fourteen to one hundred.

It's like this every night, how the insomnia forces my eyes open. Like clockwork I start seeing my memories flash in front of my eyes:

I'm in my room, scribbling on some assignment that I can't remember entirely. My pencil lead is scratching against the smooth paper. There's a crash outside, I ignore it. There have been so many noises lately, everyone leaving and entering the ghetto. I hate where I live. We've moved so many times in the last couple months it was ridiculous.

Papa is shouting at someone, Mama slams my door open; it banged against the wall painfully. "Chafsiya! Hurry and grab your things!" I leap at the backpack Mama had already packed weeks ago. She had expected this day, like anyone else. My father was always telling us how we would never leave our beloved city. He always said that we were in no danger until the soldiers came to our door. Day by day I had watched my fellow classmates, for by then they were all Jewish, being escorted by the soldiers. The soldiers were at our doorstep now.

I never saw Papa after that day. I remember the soldier's grim faces. Some of the soldiers seemed to take pleasure in forcing everyone into the trucks. They seemed to relish in calling us foul names, enunciating Jews like it was trash for the tongue. Adelyte's saying echoed back to me. "People are like coins." I got that familiar feeling, the one where my heart seems to stop with comprehension like suddenly it all made sense, that one sentence explaining all the secrets of the universe. Maybe people were like coins, with one flip they could change. With a single euro they could be bought.

Painfully I was reminded of Adelyte's sudden change. Like a coin she had flipped to the other side. She was no longer my friend, she hated me, and simply because of the other girls, the girls who had more influence, more power in this new world, had told her to. It made me sad, but somehow I felt above her, like with this newly acquired knowledge I was superior to everything she had been.

Silently I feel asleep, my thoughts peacefully mingling with one another.


---


"We all have two faces."
��������
The morning bell rings, everyone's grunts forming a symphony of sound as we all wake. We line up, one behind the other. I clench the wooden bowl; its cold contents make my stomach lurch. I try not to look. The murky watered down pea soup forms a ripple inside the bowl and it's not from my still hands. Mama peers over, her face plain, devoid of the disgust that had spread across my own face. Without a word she exchanges our bowls, my worm infested soup in her hands now.

I look away, not able to watch as she consumes the soup. She looks up, her dark brown eyes silently telling me: 'Food is food.' Sarah and the other children are taken outside. They dig holes, a task to keep the children busy. The gray sky and barren ground are their despondent workstations. I follow Mama into the sewing room of the camp. My fingers are callused, accustomed to moving the quick threads of the looms in the room. There's a sole window that welcomes the dusty air that whispers across our thin shoulders.

We all silently work, the wardress watches us closely. Her cold judging eyes examining our every move. I glance outside, Sarah's familiar face among the group of twenty. She's wiping her hand over her forehead; I see dirt smudge against her skin. She's leaning against her shovel, an object that towers over her. I feel the slap of the whip against my back; I almost stumble to the ground. "YOU! Get back to work! Damn filthy," the wardress is scowling at me. I bite back my tears, grasping at the edge of the loom. I pull myself up.

I peer over to Mama, whose frightened face is an open book to anyone reading. The wardress yells again. "Everyone get back to work!" Her harsh bark creates another crease in her head, like her already red face has not aged her enough. I look around, we're all too thin. I can feel a pit in my stomach, a still reminder that I am still human, that hunger still affects me. It just doesn't call anymore. None of our stomachs grumble, we're all too tired to complain. I focus on my work, one of my blisters threatening to pop. I hold back a grunt of pain.

Several hours later, I glance outside. Sarah is gone. I panic. I have always seen Sarah when I look outside the window; she never strays. Mama doesn't say anything; has she seen? I stare harder at the threads that loop around the taut strings. I need to be calm, Sarah must've moved, but still it worries me. What if something had happened to her? There is the noon bell and we line up again.
I rush over to Sarah, she's sweating and her brown hair sticks to her face. I wait until we're seated, the plain cold soup in our hands. She looks up to me, giving me an excited grin. "You'll never guess 'Siya!" Mama turns; Sarah's excitement is dangerous here at the camp. "What is it?" I ask politely, holding back the true questions I want to ask. "I have a best friend now," Sarah smiles again, sipping at her soup. How can she have a best friend? "She has really pretty yellow hair and she gave me some chocolate, it's delicious 'Siya." Sarah continues like it's nothing. Now I panic, red lights flashing all around me. "Hush! Sarah!" Sarah gives me a hurt look but it's for her own safety. "Do you remember my story about secrets?"

Sarah nods, her eyes looking at the floor like she knew I was scowling her. I wasn't but she had to listen, she had to understand. "Your best friend, she's a secret 'kay?" Sarah nods, her cheery nature returning. "Oh! Like a secret between you, me and Emily?" Mama doesn't say anything but she knows it too. Emily's father is most likely a Nazi, probably a solider stationed near the camp. This Emily must have snuck near the fence. "Yes, a secret. Promise you won't tell anyone but me? And no till everyone's sleeping, so it'll be a true secret." Sarah's always wanted this, to be closer to me. Somehow though, we've always been distant, but after we were sent to the camp, in a way we were all connected. Everyone in the camp, every Jew in hiding, we were all the connected, we all felt the same bonds of sympathy, hunger and lost.

Another bell sounds and we all rise on cue. We're all performers, hidden behind the masks handed to us by the Nazis and their followers, our audience. Given our lines, our script entailing us to work until our deaths, or wait for them to kill us already. Such morbid thoughts blanket me, have I lost my childhood? Sarah is leaving with the other children. Where is this pang of jealousy coming from? Do I feel envy because she has found a friend?

Suddenly I'm brought back to reality, understanding that there is nothing to envy. That Sarah will have to learn, for I nor anyone else can teach her the brutality of this tragedy. Because in this circumstance, in this situation where we are all subject to the cruelty of people who judge us for what we are and not who we are, all children are no longer children. She will learn, and I can feel the rivers of guilt flowing through my veins, laced in resentment. What had we done?

I feel a familiar touch on my arm, a motherly caress. I stare into my mother's dark sepia irises for a moment, and I'm filled with knowledge that soothes me. I remember something that Adelyte had said, quoting from one of her books. 'A picture is worth a thousand words.' My mother's eyes are like that. With one glance she could tell you an entire story. I can almost hear her soft voice now, telling me not to worry. I can almost imagine her arms around me, comforting me, whispering that everything would be okay.

Adelyte had left me with so many things. I felt like I was back at the train station, the time when I was seven. I was lost, wandering until I found myself at the luggage depot. I sat there among all the suitcases, noting all the small details. Papa found me later while I was contemplating on the color of a particular case. I can remember thinking of how each little suitcase held its own secrets, that everyone was different. In a way Adelyte had done this, leaving each little quote, memory, story to me.

I felt myself becoming calmer and I recalled another quote. "We all have two faces." I catch a quick glimpse of my appearance in a puddle near the entrance of the sewing room. I look so different. I'm thinner, my skin a deathly white and my hair is oily. I used to be so much more�.human looking, full of life. But I guess that is something else that the Nazis have stolen from us. How is it that I can clearly remember what I used to look like? Why is it that now after all this time that I can feel so nostalgic? But then in the end I guess we're all that way, memories always running back when we least expect them.

I'm back in front of the loom, my fingers don't tremble anymore. I peek at the other women; they're all so much older than I am. I feel so young next to their wrinkled and wiry bodies but then who am I to judge? I must look beyond my years, though I am only fourteen. I'm reminded that though we live our lives, we never choose them. We all have two faces, the ones that we wear because it is given to us, the ones that we wear to endure it all.


---


"The ones that will give and ones that will take."

It's been a week since Sarah first met Emily. I notice that she's gone more often; Mama and I are both fretting about the wardresses. They may not be overly concerned with the children, but if they ever discovered that Sarah was gone she would be severely punished. The noon bell rings, and I'm marching without conscious thought to the dining area, it's all routine now. I watch the line of children, Sarah there but she has someone else at her side. The other child is a girl, her hair tucked underneath a cotton hat that is given to the children.

What catches me off guard is her eyes, a bright emerald. Terror grips me, this is Emily. I want to rush over to Sarah, pulling Emily and her apart. What is that child doing here? Before I can do anything there is another ringing of the bell and it is not for the noon meal. The wardresses are standing outside in a straight row, they are shouting to one another. I'm too preoccupied to listen, but when I hear a shout. "Not the children! Please! They can do no harm!" I recognize that voice. It is my mother.
��������
I pull my eyes away from Sarah and Emily. There are whispers of selection around me. Selection, a shiver shakes every bone in my body. The sick and the ones that have given up are taken by the selection, gassed and shot to death. They couldn't possibly be subjecting the children to selection could they? I scream, charging at them but it's useless. I watch as my sister, my little sister stands in a vertical line with the others. Emily pulls on Sarah's dress, and they both look up. In a second, just a blink of an eye they are both dead. It is that easy. A single shot, point-blank.
��������
I collapse, everyone has. We are all in disbelief. What had they done? Sarah, what had she done? She was ten years old; she had done nothing. A pond of blood is beneath the children; their frozen expressions of peace are almost too much for some women. The dirt crunches beneath me, my dress is muddied but how can I care? I look around, no one can speak. We have no voice. The wardresses continue like nothing has happened, armed with their weapons they force us to work. Some of us cannot continue. It's like they take pleasure in killing us, in torturing us, in pushing past limits reached so long ago.
��������
The last portion of Adelyte's favorite saying echoes in my emptied mind and I find myself even more lost. "The ones that will give and the ones that will take." She had always believed that if you could truly understand that one saying, each part filled with comprehension, that everything would be okay. Like with that one shred of wisdom you would be wise enough for the rest of your life. Now more than ever I could not grasp what that last phrase meant. How could I believe in a giving world? How could I believe in this kind of world that has taken almost everything, only showing hidden mercy?

My mother is defeated, and I think I am too. I glare at the walls that cage us, we're gathered outside. The barbwire fence us in, the dreary gray sky showing us a hopeless Earth, I almost have to bite back a laugh. I'm going insane, I must be. How is it that I can laugh at a time like this? What is there to laugh at? I am caught between two realms, the realm of reality and of fiction. What is fiction? Fiction would be before the Nazis. Fiction is before this life, when we lived normal lives in normal houses with normal up comings.

There is another selection this time and Mama is pulled from the line. I panic, breaking away from my crazed trance. "Please let me go with my mother," I plead and they don't argue, what difference does it make? I'm just another face. My mother is not physically ill; she's simply emotionally crippled. She is now in that group that has given up, that is caught in the selection. But what am I? Have I given up? I don't believe I've given up; I just can't give her up. She is my mother, my only living kin left.
��������
We're not shot, just shoved into another truck. Surrounded by the fumes of the engine, I can almost picture what had happened the day the soldiers came. I can a muffled version of the sharp gunshot piercing through Papa. I can feel a dull version of my chest tightening as I watch him gasp, trying to grasp the last remnants of life still inside him. I can feel real tears slide down my cheek as I remember Sarah waking up in my lap, looking up with her wide amber eyes wanting to know what happened to Papa. I never told her, and she never asked again. I'll never see her again.
��������
I fall asleep, and we're in the truck for days, the foul air hanging around us. Finally we approach an entrance, the thin lettering Auschwitz shone in the pale morning light. Now I do laugh, no longer able to fend off my grief. There is a sign below it. "Work will set you free." I keep laughing, it is hard. How can work set me free? Ironically I am already free. Because�
��������
Before the Nazis, my name was Chafsiya. My name meant free.

Author's Note

I know that euros did not exist yet, I was informed this already. But being fourteen I wasn't as thorough with my facts as I should've been. I did this for my English class with the prompt of: Write a short story with you as a concentration camp detainee. I haven't recieved my grade yet for this story, so please tell me what you think.

NOTE: All the names in this story are actual names, as been confirmed by A-Z-baby-names.com. So yes Chafsiya's name really does mean free in Hebrew. It took me forever to find a perfect name for this story.

Reviews

[Halo is Slipping]

It has enormous power and feeling, the end is kind of humorous in it's own way, but almost confusing. I loveddd it though! xDD

[Joel Alvarado]

Well, this was quite the read my friend. I enjoyed it, very impressive work. Your knack for detail is keen, keep it up. The only thing is the piece is very 'selfish' lol, what I mean by that is there is alot of I. As a matter of fact most of your story starts off with I. While that is not necessarily a bad thing, it destracts from other character development, like the mother who seems like the typical caring mom and the sister sarah, the typical clueless little girl. All together it is a well thought out and organized piece worthy of recognition. You account of this seemed accurate enough, and I like how you helped the reader along in your story through setting description and things the character had to deal with (ie. the wormy soup, lol that was great). Keep it up!

[London Calling]

Oh my god! I am obsessed with ww2 and reading this is probably the best account I've read ever! Its beautiful, thought provoking, emotional, I'm sort of hard to impress, but consider me totally impressed! I just cant believe that you wrote this at 14! Sensational!

[LipglossKiller]

This was beautiful. It flows perfectly. Enough detail is given to paint a vivid picture, but enough detail is left out to leave to the imagination. The balance is wonderful and it enables the reader to visualize the story very well. I absolutely love the opening paragraph; it sets the tone very nicely. Seeing "before the Nazis" is a little surprising and is a great attention grabber.
I can't say enough good things about this. I loved it.
...wait...did you say you wrote this at fourteen..?