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Amy Strous
King David Victory Park
Johannesburg, SA

ALONE

I am sitting alone. I can feel the coldness of the snow on my bare feet and I can’t stop shivering. All

around me I hear coughing and wheezing. The children are sick. Some are silent, some are whispering,

some are crying. I hear no laughter, no giggles and no make believe stories. Where are the barking

dogs and twittering birds? I smell dirty - so does the air around me. I taste nothing because I have eaten

nothing since yesterday. I see the wooden dormitory where I sleep, I see the wooden bathrooms. I see

soldiers with guns and I see the huge metal lights that shine so bright in the night. All around snakes the

barbed wired fence. Cold and heartless. Through this fence I see a world of which I was once a part.

The world is carrying on without me. Do they miss me? Do they wonder where I am? Have they noticed I

am gone? Do they even care?

I cannot help recalling being in the cattle truck with my mom and dad. It was squashy, scary and surreal.

I can still feel my dad’s strong, protective arm around me and my mother’s fingers caressing the long

blonde hair I used to have. Even then, I felt safe and protected by my parents. When we arrived here, I

did not know where we were. I never for a minute imagined that I would be separated from my parents. I

can still hear my mother crying and screaming as the brute soldiers in black outfits and gigantic boots

tore me from them. I constantly hear my dad calling my name, telling me to be strong. I am trying so hard

to be strong - but, I miss them so much! Every night I pray that one day we will be together again.

When we lived in Poland, being Jewish was respected. I was allowed to be proud of who I was and

what I believed in. We were a traditional family. We did all we could to be close to Hashem. I still picture

my dad reciting the Kiddush on a Friday night at Shabbat dinner. I can still see my mom in her elegant,

red dress sitting in the Sukkah during Sukkoth. I smell the wax of our Chanukah candles. I imagine the

yummy fish my mom made on Rosh Hashanah. Within three months, Pesach will be here. Last Pesach,

I thanked Hashem for blessing the Jews with freedom and delivery from slavery. This year, I do not think

I will be thanking Him for these things. I will pray earnestly that next year I will be free and with Mama and

Papa.

I know that I am here because they want to kill the “Jew” within me. They want to make me feel like

nothing. They want me to be a shattered window. They want me to feel hopeless, like people on a

sinking ship. They want me to believe that this is the end, but for me, this is the beginning of a “new” me.

I might be a prisoner physically, but my memories, thoughts and feelings are free. I have the power to

control them, and I will. My family, Hashem, and my Jewish traditions are my anchors in this wild, stormy

sea. My family gave me love, and this love gives me strength. My belief in Hashem guides me. It keeps

me determined and positive. My Jewish traditions and rituals will always be part of me, they give me

hope. These anchors ground me. They moor me as real, as somebody.

As I look back over the past fourteen years of my life, I am comforted by good memories.They inspire

me to live on. The German soldiers might be bigger than me, but that does not mean they are stronger

than me! In the meanwhile, I am sitting alone. I can feel the coldness of the snow on my bare feet and I

can’t stop shivering.