Presently I am walking with my parents to the train depot. There are a large number of us and were told we had to move from the ghetto to make room for others. We were going to a better place, so we were told.
The train station appeared awash in the humanity that defined who we were as a people. Yellow stars of David sewn on our jackets or dresses like badges of dishonor, placing us in this unique minority in 1944.
There were the rumors of course. We all heard all kinds of rumors. Are the SS soldiers truly as evil and cruel as others warned us about back in the 1930s as opposed to now? I can’t answer that question. I wasn’t born then. My parents knew but they appeared resigned to their fate.
I saw the train locomotive. It hissed steam and billowed black smoke from burning coal. I saw the cars behind this engine. They weren’t passenger cars as we were led to believe, but cattle cars.
“Mommy, why are we going in there?” I asked her in my innocent five year old voice. She looked down at me, at my eyes and I caught a glimpse of her fear for the first time. “Because God has ordained this for us,” she replied in a hoarse whisper. A lone tear rolled down her cheek.
It was at that moment I realized lies were all that existed here. “What is the name of this train?” I asked Mother.
“It’s Transport Number 24,” she told me and clutched my hand tightly within hers. “It will be okay, my son. All our sins will be forgiven.” She sang a psalm in Yiddish, in a quiet whisper to me.
“Where is this train going?” I asked Father.
“It’s in a place where railroad trains cross,” he choked as emotion came like a fever. “Auschwitz.”
Jerry Schellhammer 