Today we left our home. Mama was sobbing almost as hard as when Grandma died. Pop kept his face straight and looked forward. I kept turning back to look at the pale yellow house, but Michael put his hand onto my shoulder and smiled. We stood in line for a train for nearly three hours. Flowers were just popping up and the trees were beginning to bloom. Spring was my favorite season and yet I somehow knew that I would never see it the same way again. When we finally approached the train, I stumbled on a track and fell forward. Michael picked me up quickly and lifted me onto the train. My knee was scraped and throbbing, but I knew there were worse things. That’s when I realized we were being shipped like cattle to Dachau. I buried my face into my brother’s shoulder and cried.

We arrived in Dachau within an hour. German officers yelled at us to get in lines. Michael and Pop were forced to go on the left side. Mama and I went to the right. They handed us two smocks and loaded us into the showers. The water was cold and I actually shook. I changed quickly into the smock and came out. A Nazi woman came over a put a Star of David onto my sleeve with a number. Then, they wrote it on my arm, handed me a bonnet, and pointed me to the housing quarters. It was a horse stall. Literally. Inside were three layers of wooden bunks covered in filthy straw. I climbed up to the very top of the bunks before anyone else came in. Several other ladies filed in looking the same. Most were middle aged, but a few my age and younger came in. The youngest was probably three. Everyone took their bunks when a group of Nazis came in explaining the rules. We were to line up for breakfast at the center at six. Go to work assigned to us by six thirty. Break for lunch at noon. And then work until the whistle blew for supper. If we were seen outside past eight, stealing food, or trying to leave we would be punished. Tonight, however, we were to rest up for tomorrow’s work.

The mother of the toddler put her up on the third tier with me. The little girl smiled and crawled over to the wall. She said that her name was Dinah and continued talking until she finally fell asleep. Her thick black hair covered her closed brown eyes and little smile.

Maybe things wouldn’t be that bad here after all.

I was wrong. The three meals were tiny and barely filling. I was put to work in the laundromat with other girls older than twelve. We worked for anywhere between eleven and thirteen hours a day. The piles of laundry never seemed to shrink, yet I could not figure where all these uniforms came from, for we only change them every six weeks. My knuckles are cut and constantly bleeding. Most of the time it is raining, so the dust is down, but we are covered up to our knees in mud. We work outside so the cold rain pelts us as we clean the clothes. At night, it leaks into the stalls and forms mold on the wood and smells worse than it did before.

When I wait in line I can’t help but feel tense. Soldiers line up everywhere and barbed wires are on top everything. Not to mention the smell of something horrible burning and the lingering odors from us due to the lack of extra water for cleaning, though the rain helps a bit.

On top of it all, Dinah never showed up tonight. Nor did the other girls, elderly, or mothers with toddlers. Mama mentioned something about them being able to shower today, but my gut told me otherwise. It is very lonely here now and silent.
 

I haven’t written in a while for I’ve been too busy. The past month or so has been very difficult. I grow weak all the time and the grumbling in my stomach is no longer present. My arms and legs are merely bone, like the rest of us. Others are so weak that they can no longer get off the bunks. Mama is one of them. I slipped her my piece of bread here and there. I no longer care whether I get caught or not. Death would be much better than this torture. With hatred and a little bit of hope, I still wash the uniforms. A piece of me still believes that work will set you free. Maybe it’s the naive, younger me. The me I was back home when Michael told his nonsense stories.

Michael. I saw him and Pop only once since we’ve been here. His number was 459203 and Pop’s was 376210. I made sure to remember those. Unfortunately, I washed a uniform today with the number 459203. It was bloodstained, sweaty, and had a hole in the torso. The smell rose up my nose and I couldn’t help but cry. How I missed him and Pop. Now, he was gone. But tucked inside the stitching overlap was a little slip of paper.

“Amalia, I’m sorry, but I need to leave. If I don’t make it, at least I tried. Do not cry, please. There is much better than here. Keep Mama safe and do not copy. Pop is ill, but I think he will be fine. Stay strong, Sis, you will eventually get out of here.      

-Michael

P.S. Pass on those stories of mine.”

Stupid Michael! He tried to escape! What will I tell Mama? But he was right, I couldn’t make a big deal of it. He was much happier now. I just needed to stay well enough to get these stores along and hopefully walk out of those gates. Michael’s number wasn’t the only one I recognized. Sweet, little Dinah’s was in the pile. So were Naomi’s, Leah’s, and Heidi’s- three girls that shared the bunk beneath me. When the dinner bell finally rang, I trudged to the center. But on the way there I tripped. As I got up, I saw a huge pile. My hands shook and I told myself to look away, but I just couldn’t. Michael and Dinah must be in there. Thankfully, I didn’t see either. However, I saw two familiar faces next to each other. Their hands were together and a weak smile on their lips. Mama and Pop were gone. I was the only one left from my family.

This was not a safe haven. This was a brutal camp that we could never leave.

This was the worst nightmare I had ever had. And, I’m just waiting to wake up.

Yesterday, I walked out of those gates leaving behind twelve years of horror. I had lost my brother, mother, and father, yet I knew they were with me as I walked out. I hope to forget these days, though I know I never will.

But the sign was correct. Work will set you free. Not necessarily right away, but if you keep your head up and mind positive- which is work in itself- you will find the means to an end.

This is the last page of this diary, but the story does not stop here.

AMALIA H. BERNTHAL