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Ellie Chapman

United Kingdom

Just Waiting

April 15, 2016

    They turned up last week. They burst into the house like a tank ploughing through enemy lines, nothing could stop them. They held their rifles like I held my children, close to them like they were the most precious thing they had. I would have thought that they were just part of a neighbourhood gang that roamed the streets since the start of the war had I not seen the Swastika that was wrapped like a newly born babe in swaddling around their arms. We all knew what that symbol meant. We knew it meant death. They then dragged, beat and tore at our bodies until we painfully were forced into a suicidal submission. Whether I realised it at the time or not, this was the beginning of the holocaust. Of our holocaust.
    They fiercely forced us down the alley next to what was our home. It was rapidly being burned to a empty husk of where all our memories had been created. But now as I look into the Satan's own minions' eyes I could see no hint of remorse, no hint of self-disgust at the atrocities that his supposed leader was ordering, only the reflection of our lives being burned to the ground all because of our faith. they had no regret for the heartless genocide that they were carrying through. The scene of horror that was unfurling around me started to blur. I quickly wiped away the streams of treacherous tears that let them know that they have won. I had to be brave. I had to be brave for my children who were looking at me with terror and heart-wrenching silent pleas in their fearful eyes. I told them without my voice that we couldn't show any weakness. I stood up straight and gave them a heartbroken smile that said: Do not show them your fear. It will get better. If we lived through this, hopefully they wouldn't realise my lie. They realised my meaning and they too wiped away the small rivulets of distress. I was so proud of them. They were my children and they were being strong in the face of peril. I hope they are still being strong because that was the last time I saw them before I was brought here. Before it started. Before the real nightmare started.
    They had dragged us apart, pulling me one way and my angelic innocent children another. They screamed and squirmed towards me but their callous captors held them in an iron grip that not even a full grown man could escape. I tried to reach them but immediately bands of an unbreakable force had me restrained. I screamed and howled and fought to reach them but the bands got tighter and tighter until I was thrown into a truck. As soon as I knew this I was back on my feet pounding on the doors which had slammed behind me, wilting my hope of survival like a flower which was deprived of water. I pounded until the vehicle of evil lurched to a start causing me to lose my balance and land on other bodies of other victims of this discrimination and was hit with a wave of despair when I realised I would never see my children again.
    About half a day later, we arrived at the nightmare of all nightmares. I had only heard rumours of the place. Of all the terrible things they did. Of all the lives that had perished under the same roofs that covered my head now. Auschwitz had been the ending place of countless lives, all because of their choices. I could still hear the cries of my children when they were shaving my head. When they took my shoes. When they marked us as there own cattle for slaughter with lines and numbers which reminded us that we were here for one reason and one reason only. To die.
    So here I am, sitting on the cold, concrete floor of what the wardens called our homes. They did that for a purpose. They did it to remind us that we have nothing and never will have anything. They did it to force upon us the fact that we arrived and were never leaving. All we will do is sit and wait for our number to be called on the next chosen list. We all know that they take us to the chambers. We all know that it is inevitable that we will end our lives here. Naked and ruined. So here we are. Just sitting. Just waiting.

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