The Auschwitz Garden

By D. A. Cunningham

This novel aims to capture the life story of a truly remarkable man who survived being a concentration camp prisoner in Auschwitz and Mauthausen and then immigrated to Australia where he continues to live a long, healthy, and happy life. It is based on the memories of a then 95-year-old man who had a lucid recollection of events and takes great pleasure relaying them to his family by word of mouth. These fascinating life experiences simply begged to be recorded and shared with others.
[2024 edit - Oppi passed away in Feb 2024 when he was 104 years old. He was potentially the oldest survivor of the holocaust—especially as someone who was a prisoner of both Auschwitz and Mauthausen]
In order to present a complete picture the harsh treatment as a concentration camp prisoner necessarily needs to be told but the novel exists to tell his life story with great significance leveled at his post WWII existence and new life in a foreign land. It stands as testament to a truly stoic man who is loved and respected by all those his life has touched.
Fate plays both cruel and kind hands to our protagonist, sometimes unraveling its far-reaching tentacles over decades to join seemingly disconnected events. Initial acts of kindness, providing safe-haven to Jews trying to evade the Nazis in occupied Poland, were the only ‘crime’ committed. Betrayal by a family member resulted in his incarceration as a political prisoner. His harsh life, during WWII and immediately there after, moulded the personality with its many intriguing quirks and nuances that everyone has grown to love in this man referred to by his family as oppi.
Oppi’s garden becomes his sanctuary where he whiles away his retirement years. Gardening is a long-term experiment of recycling and working out combinations of plants to keep away pests. Vegetables have that old world charm and taste real. Plants of medicinal value are also cultivated, with their properties determined not from books but rather through self-testing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. A. Cunningham
• Release date: Nov 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311979445

D. A. Cunningham

Hello! Let me introduce myself. I am the eleventh child (seventh son) of British immigrants to Australia. Proudly Australian, I live with my wife in a city called Wollongong on the East coast of Australia. My daughter and two sons are now adults, well on their way to establishing their own footprint in society.Growing up saw an existence that involved hand me downs and a mother who was proud that she could get one hot meal on the plate each day. I feel that these humble beginnings, and my struggle to get to where I am today, created a worldliness that helps me devise realistic characters.My primary goal is to write in a style that is easy to read. The occasional big word will slip in, but I intend to keep things as uncomplicated as possible.I hope to write in a manner that encourages people to want to re-read what I write. Little nuances and tidbits will be scattered throughout to evoke those “ah ha” moments that come about only by knowledge of what is to come.English was not my favorite subject at school, helped by teachers insisting that I could not write to save my life. I preferred the certainty of mathematics and science and hence pursued a career in electrical engineering.I only became interested in writing novels at the start of 2012 and now follow this passion full-time. Writing allows me to exercise a creativity that I never thought I had.Insomnia often fills my nighttime hours; this used to be fuelled mainly by work concerns, but now my insomnia is put to good purpose. The quiet of the late evening come early morning is once again a friend that I openly greet and actually look forward to.Since taking up writing full-time I have a renewed interest in life and happily while away both the daytime and nighttime hours feathering the keys on my keyboard. This is now my “happy place”. But I still find time for family and friends and thoroughly enjoy a few drinks over a social game of cards.If you want to really see me smile, let me pat your dog. Even more so now that I have lost my beautiful Pongo, my friend of seventeen wonderful years. Please read my free short story about this wonderful dog - https://dacunninghamauthor.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/dear-pongo.pdfI have been told that sometimes I seem to enjoy the company of dogs more than that of people. How can I not? Dogs just give, and give, and expect so little in return.Hopefully, all readers will learn something, and hence enhance their lives, from reading what I write.

Book preview

Europe WWII

I NOTICE A guard selecting only a scant number of prisoners from the human stream that flows despondently past him. Those answering in the affirmative are directed to follow a different path, away from the main stream. Counterintuitive to normal safety-in-numbers instincts, scarcity seems the more attractive alternative so no matter what questions are being asked, I am determined to answer ‘yes’.

CHAPTER ONE

Poland 1942

IN THIS, MY twenty-third year, I still live at home with my father; my mother died in 1938; she died without prior warning, outwardly appearing to be of sound health. Sudden and unexpected death was not an extraordinary event of the time; numerous illnesses went undetected and medication was not readily available even for diagnosed illness. Home is also shared with my younger sister Cylka and younger brother Bogdan. Cylka has taken the loss of our mother very strongly; she was mother’s only daughter and only ten years old when mother passed away.

Mother’s passing left father forlorn and our family in disarray. I shared father’s morose existence whilst also attempting to achieve some mutual console. Mother’s sister, and hence father’s sister-in-law and my aunt, has openly avoided us since mother passed away. That is a great pity; Cylka needed a woman in her life and could have gained great life experience from her aunt.

The year 1942 was starting to look like a time when my family finally could pick up the pieces and begin to heal. Maybe the relationship Bogdan had developed with his girlfriend and his plans for a marriage next year were helping father look to life rather than regret over loss. Cylka blossoming into womanhood definitely had a pick-me-up associated with it. Life was starting to look wondrous and full of promise to Cylka; her attitude was infectious in its innocence.

German soldiers have occupied my hometown Kielce for a couple of years now, making life unbearable for the local Jewish people. My family is Catholic and, as long as we do not step out of line, we are allowed to continue an almost normal existence. The German soldiers openly suppress Jews with the full support of local authorities and many of the residents of Kielce.

About one-third of Kielce residents are Jews. Most of these have been rounded up and interned in a grotto that has been established exclusively to detain them. Frequently, poor souls find themselves scampering around the streets looking for refuge. Typically these are escapees from the grotto or Jewish residents who have not yet been rounded up. It is completely against the law to assist Jews in any way, shape, or form. Doing so can result in you being treated with a similar disdain. The authorities have eyes and ears everywhere, in the form of normal Polish citizens keen to make themselves look malleable and hence win favor and associated rewards.

CHAPTER TWO

That fateful day

TUESDAY THE 7TH of July 1942 is a date indelibly etched in my mind. It promised to be a special day for blissful relaxation and recuperation, but life had scripted a nightmare in its stead.

Having completed a building project just the previous day, my father and I look forward to a well-earned day off. Our plans focus on rest, relaxation, and spending quality time with each other. Father told me before retiring to bed on the Monday night that he planned to cook a nice breakfast to start the day in style. Following breakfast we would promenade into town and see what was on offer. Father has led a solitary life since mother died; his suggestion for a public outing is music to my ears. Hopefully he is ready to finally start living life again.

Seven thirty in the morning finds me resting peacefully in the room that I share with Bogdan. Bogdan, born in 1921, is two years younger than myself but already has a fiancé with plans to marry in the summer of 1943.

I slumber peacefully in bed, not in any hurry to present my feet to the floor. Smells of freshly brewed coffee and baking bread wafted up from downstairs. The smells alone induce hunger pains, but this warm and cosy bed shall remain my mistress for a little while to come. Father demanded dominion over the kitchen when he divulged his plans for breakfast; I knew I was not needed for assistance. Besides, most of the work of preparing the food had been completed the previous day. Pork mince, mixed with herbs, had been encased to form sausages and shpek was always to be found curing in the cool recesses of the cellar. Shpek is my favorite salami. Once cured, shpek can be stored for years. A high fat content makes it perfect as a pick-me-up when you are feeling hungry and can help the body make and store its own fat for the winter.

Sunlight streaming through the curtains warms my face in an extremely pleasant way. Although this is a summer’s day, the morning still has a brisk cool undertone—carrying a promise of a day that would be temperate and pleasant. With eyes closed, I could feel the warmth leaching through my eyelids and into my eyeballs. It was as if the sun were warming my very soul. What a beautiful and soothing moment, it begged to be reveled in. The day is presenting itself to be full of promise. A slow relaxing bath, a sumptuous meal, comforting conversations and father’s promised sojourn into town

Subliminally I slip into Sunday mode. After working through the weekend I had missed my Sunday this week and lying in bed, undeterred by the need to rush to work made me imagine it was Sunday. The German government discouraged Catholics from openly practicing their faith. We visit our priest at a local, nondescript building that serves as our church without creating too much attention. Performing an illegal act of gathering to worship God strengthens our faith and gives us a strong sense of community and belonging. Gathering my thoughts I realize it is Tuesday, a special Tuesday unbothered by toil or labor.

Slowly dragging myself to a sitting position, I sling my feet slowly over the side of the bed where they find my slippers. Slippers that had invitingly been placed precisely in the right location when I retired some eight hours earlier. My feet welcome the familiar feel without the need for me to exert any effort. With slippered feet, I need not be bothered by any thoughts of hard floorboards or dust sticking to the soles of my feet. Blissfully insulated against the slightest annoyance I stroll over to the window to see the day presented in all its glory.

A light splattering of rain had fallen during the night. Only small puddles remain in low-lying areas that have not yet been licked by the sun. The South and western facing walls of buildings present soaked footings where water had accumulated to make a microcosm sufficiently large enough to sustain it beyond the hours of darkness. All will be evaporated away soon and the air will present a fresh crispness that only filtering through rain can produce. A tantalizing and beautifully unique petrichor smell. I long to fill my lungs with this rain-washed, fresh air that will accompany father and me on our stroll into town later this morning. Basking in the sunlight and filling my lungs to capacity with this fresh fragrance is my only goal at this present moment.

Bogdan had to go to work today; he had slipped out early without waking me. His days revolve around spending time with his fiancé; he has most likely taken an opportunity to meet with her on his way to work—they are an inseparable couple. Bogdan is keen to settle down and start a family; although he is only twenty, he has plans to live in his own house as soon as he is married. Father tries to encourage Bogdan to take on an apprenticeship and learn a trade. Schooling was not a luxury offered to mother and father who remained illiterate as a result. Father knew too well the struggles that resulted from raising a family on a laborers’ salary. Carpentry skills, learnt only on the job, placed father in a foreman’s position in our building gang. Even self-learnt skills are recognized by employers and perpetuated worthy employment and a sound future.

Discussions of Bogdan’s plans inevitably stimulate discussions about my own plans for the future. I do not have a steady girlfriend, but I am interested in a couple of local girls. A group of us share an active nightlife frequenting dances and local cafes on a weekly basis—usually on a Saturday night so as not to disturb work. Last night was particularly entertaining, even though it was a Monday night, music blared late at the local tavern. I danced so much that I perspired profusely and was thankful for the copious amounts of aftershave I had bathed my face in before journeying out for the evening.

My job at the lumberyard is permanent and has a defined career path. Monday to Friday involves eight hours each day spent at work whilst Saturday is a shorter six-hour day. My work involves filling customer orders, turning lumber into timber by cutting and trimming it to the desired specifications and then conveying the orders to delivery trucks. My boss is friends with my father and allows me to assist on large building projects. This is mutually beneficial as it satisfies the construction needs of our larger clients and helps me learn the finer points of the industry. I hope that this will help me eventually progress to a management position where I will be in charge of my own lumberyard. That position will be worthy of a wife and family, my true life’s ambition. I desire a family; a wife and children of my own, but I am concerned about being able to provide a comfortable life for them. Besides, war is still raging in Europe; uncertainty does not make a good bedfellow for a successful marriage. It is best to wait until this all blows over.

Exiting my bedroom I spot my baby sister Cylka admiring her youthfulness in the hallway mirror. Cylka is only fourteen years old but has already started the swan-like transformation from adolescent to adult. Her face is starting to take on the beauty of a woman and is perfectly framed by her full-flowing head of brown wavy hair; her beauty is something she knows well. Cylka, in my father’s eyes, is still too young to be interested in boys; little does he know. Bogdan and I know very well that a couple of local boys have shown a keen, but still respectful, interest in her and she openly bathes in the attention. We keep her secret whilst also watching over her and making sure those boys toe the line. That is what big brothers are supposed to do! Father needs to remember that mother was only fifteen when he met her.

Good morning Jacenty, Cylka happily proclaims and greets me with a loving embrace, full of exuberance, making this moment in time my whole universe, filling my very soul with warm love. She slips her arms around my waist and sinks her head deep into my chest. I wrap my arms around her shoulders and give a gentle squeeze returning, Good morning little sis. I love my little sister with all my heart and always eagerly await her cuddles. She lets go of my waist and giggles as I continue my journey down the hallway. This day just keeps getting better, happy moment after happy moment; I eagerly look forward to what else it has on offer.

The bathroom, my intended destination, is the next room down the hallway but I must bid good morning to father in the kitchen before drawing a bath. My parents brought us up to be kind and considerate; I would not entertain the thought of taking my bath without greeting my father. In any event, I need to get the hot water from the kitchen. Entering the kitchen I see father slaving over our breakfast—he notices me enter the room and greets me with Good morning son. Sleep well?

Yes, I did, I had a wonderfully peaceful and relaxing sleep, I cheerfully replied. I always do after a hard day’s work followed by an evening of dancing. My bed swallows my body and just feels so right! Everything was exactly as it should be—perfect!

Sausage sizzling in a pan, filled the kitchen with a beautifully flavorsome aroma sending my olfactory receptors into overload. My nostrils drew in a huge lungful of that sumptuous smelling air adding substance to the hunger that was already gnawing at my insides. Another splendid, separately distinguishable smell danced around the room in a warm embrace with the frying sausage aroma. They partnered up exquisitely but were still easily discernible as separate smells to be marveled—frying sausage and freshly brewed coffee. It is truly marvelous how the nose can perceive what is hidden from the sight. Smells stir up such vivid memories—I could already picture the eggs that would soon be fried in the tasty fat that was currently accumulating in the pan. The end result, a plate ordained with these wondrous tastes, a few slices of shpek and some freshly baked bread. Following that generous meal father and I will need to sit and rest for a while, providing an opportunity to have a pleasant chat on this special day.

Any hot water for a bath? I asked. Tempted to grab a cup of coffee to take with me into the bath. I remain content with the vivid picture still lingering in my mind and know that the coffee must wait for its dance partner.

Two steps ahead of me—as is his usual demeanor—my father smiles and gesticulates with a nod of his head toward the oven upon which two copper boilers are feverishly bubbling away.

We have a cast iron, wood fired, combustion oven that serves a multitude of purposes and has a hearth that is always kept warm. This morning it has a raging inferno in its belly, cooking has been continuous for about an hour. A heat exchanger adorns the back of the stove. Water runs through the heat exchanger and then throughout the house, transported by copper pipes, to form the main heater for the house. Where the pipes are exposed they are encrusted in asbestos and wool to prevent accidental burns. With winter teasing to be extreme, our internal heating will come in very handy! The house is maintained at a cosy temperature, conquering weather most foul and abating sickness. In the absence of running hot water, the stove on top of the oven is used to heat water for baths or general cleaning. Taking a bath is my main objective at the moment. Two twenty-liter, water filled, copper boilers live on top of the stove this morning.

Grabbing a towel, to avoid a nasty burn, I easily lift one of the full copper boilers off the stove and gingerly transport it into the adjacent bathroom, careful not to spill a drop of its precious cargo. Running cold water first into the wrought iron bath, so as to reduce the shock of the introduced boiling water, the bath still creaks and groans as the contents of the copper boiler are emptied into it.

The bath accepts the boiling water with happiness, the creaks and groans are not complaints, warmth is the state the old bath relishes and the creaking and groaning endears me with a promise of the same resolve when my body is itself immersed in that warmth. Quickly filling the copper boiler with fresh cold water, I leave the cold tap on to reduce the scolding temperature of the bath water and return the copper boiler to the stovetop. Father meets me with agreeing eyes; he likes it when we do selfless acts. Returning the copper boiler to its rightful place, filled with fresh cold water so others may also have hot water is something I do not think twice about—it is the natural thing to do. Signs of a good upbringing I suppose. I repeat the act with the second copper boiler; I want a deep, hot bath this morning.

Before I took my bath, I had set out my carefully pressed Sunday-best clothes in the bathroom ready to enshrine my body directly after cleansing it of the residue left from the previous evening. My clothes wear not even the slightest wrinkle. The shirt collar is meticulously starched and cardboard-stiff. Mother had taught all her children how to care for themselves—even with her being snatched away from us all too early.

Leather shoes, fully spit polished, my favorite necktie and a brand spanking new tailor-made jacket. I was going all-out this year to impress my father with how self-sufficient I was becoming. The jacket had cost more than a full week’s wage but was well worth it as I had plans to use it on dates and for formal occasions.

A local tailor crafted the jacket for me and let me watch him from start to finish. Goosebumps raised themselves at the nape of my neck as I watched in anticipation. The task took more than an hour. I sat motionless, all the while perplexedly admiring the different skills he needed to employ. He followed a rather crude template to draw chalk lines onto the cloth then deftly cut obscure shapes of material. Only a small number of the pieces appeared jacket-shaped. Each cut executed without hesitation and with skillful sweeps of his scissors leaving crisp edges and no dangling threads. Occasionally he would gather a few pieces of cut material, form them into a more recognizable shape and place them up against my body—never needing to make any adjustments to the cuts he had just made. There was a multitude of different stitches he needed to apply to the different seams on the jacket. Some looped around themselves and some were just plain straight stitches. All seams securely held together in a friendship that will never part ways.

Numerous future plans of mine would involve this jacket, accompanying me with such favor, much like a best friend. This jacket would not spend its life hanging in a wardrobe. I have plans to hang it on my shoulders at every opportunity.

Oh the feeling of sinking into slightly overheated bath water is adorable. Pain is accompanied by immediate pleasure as my skin reddens and acquaints itself with the heat then my muscles and joints give way to blissful relaxation. Callused hands know a much slower reprieve; the pain lingers longer in each callus but is replaced by ecstasy as the calluses soften and relinquish their steadfast protection against the outside world. The calluses have performed exceptionally well throughout the week, protecting flesh against the timber and lumber manipulated in daily labor, but now they finally realize they can relax and soften; they will not be called upon again this day. Serenity overwhelms me and I wallow here in the bath for as long as the water holds its warmth. Life is good, without a worry in the world.

Extracting myself from the bath presents itself as an unwanted struggle, an inevitable task that is slowly performed in a vain attempt to prolong the pleasant feelings of immersion in warm water. Complaints are first felt from my upper torso and hands simultaneously; the softened calluses appear most reluctant to revert to their former hardened state and remain soft, white, and wrinkled. Luckily the air temperature of the room is quite warm; my body had become accustomed to the heat of the water and felt necessary to complain at this slight discomfort. With my feet remaining immersed in warm water, I grab a towel and dry myself before stepping out of the bath onto the mat that resides permanently beside the bath. Quickly drying myself I throw on a new set of underclothes and present myself at the mirror for inspection and to preen my hair.

A quick application of hair gel, followed by a deft run of the comb, licks my fringe back into a photo-worthy pose. Around the ears and tidy up the back—there, all done. It looks like I have put on a pound or two; I will need to do something about that in the near future, but I will not let such trifling concerns upset the degustation that I know awaits in the dining room.

Dressing is more of a ritual this morning; I know I need to look my best. Shoes are carefully laced in neat, equal sized bows and my shirt is carefully buttoned all the way to the top. My trousers effortlessly conceal the bottom of the shirt with a neat and tidy tuck that goes all the way around my waist. I ensure my leather belt travels through every eye of my trousers and is only pulled taught when I am certain the trousers fall perfectly straight down each leg and my flies have been securely fastened. I slip my thumbs around the starched collar of my shirt to ensure it is at attention all the way around my neck and gracefully slip my necktie around, careful to follow the line where the collar is stitched to the shirt, a knot is deftly tied and slipped neatly up to hide the top button. Not quite perfect, the tie is hovering slightly about my belt line. Slipping the knot back down, it is hastily untied and then readjusted so the tie crosses itself at an old familiar stitch line and the process of re-tying it commences. This time it is perfect! Grabbing the back of the now upright collar, thumbs underneath and forefingers above, a well-practiced flip down of the collar neatly encases the tie like a baby wrapped in its favorite sheets. A quick inspection ensures no bits of the necktie are exposed from under the embrace of the collar. Now it is time for the jacket.

Breakfast is ready, heralds from the dining room.

The jacket fits perfectly, as a tailor made jacket should I suppose. A glance in the mirror to make sure I am picture perfect and then off to the dining room, buttoning the jacket as I stride, peacock-like, out of the bathroom.

A splendid arrangement awaits me on the dining table; father has gone to great trouble to present an impressive breakfast. Each plate is laid out exactly as I had imagined earlier, with additional morsels of food presented upon serving plates in the middle of the table. Father is already seated at the head of the table farthest from the kitchen; I am ecstatic to see that he has also found it befitting to dress rather formally for this meal. My seat is at the opposite head of the table affording me an opportunity to retrieve anything forgotten from the kitchen. Bogdan’s empty seat is immediately to father’s right and Cylka sits on the other side of the table casually admiring both men who accompany her at the table. Cylka is dressed casually, the summer school holidays have just commenced and she is going on an outing with some friends, escorted by one of the parents.

What a splendid meal you have prepared father, I say. This day has started perfectly and seems to be getting better every minute. Cylka chides in with an innocent taunt, Wow, you two have gone to a lot of trouble. You got a double date or something? Father laughs loudly before explaining how we are planning on having a fine morning in town and since a midweek trip into town was out of the ordinary we thought we would dress up for the occasion.

Conversation reverts to a pleasant hum of not particularly directed voices that fill the air. In his typically formal approach to life father changes the direction of banter and says, Shall we pray and give thanks for this splendid meal the lord has provided. We bow our heads and pray.

My plans for the day are evolving nicely into reality, promising to be a day of rest, relaxation, and spending quality time with father. Dressed to the nines as I am, I should make a fine impression on any ladies that we meet. Hopefully some friends will also be out and about—I do want to show off my new tailor-made jacket. Breakfast will precede an hour or so of sitting around allowing the meal to digest.

The coffee mug is almost unbearably hot to the touch, and the aroma of its contents is intoxicating. Raising it to my lips I want to take a huge gulp but better judgement allows just a small sip, followed quickly by another without an intervening breath. The hot liquid warms every part of my oesophagus on its journey to my stomach and, greeted by that empty pouch, engulfs it in satisfying warmth. My stomach is having its own bath and has responded just like my skin—pain at first followed by blissful serenity. With my eyes gently closed I tilt my head slightly back and bask in the moment. Opening my eyes I target the plate in front of me. My next course of action is to dunk a huge slice of shpek into one of those serenely runny egg yolks. Sumptuous, fatty salami and molten egg yolk fill my mouth with a taste that is heavenly and soon to be accompanied by a large bite from still-warm bread.

CHAPTER THREE

A rude shock

BREAKFAST HAD JUST begun when there was a polite knock on the front door. Cylka immediately knew this meant the parent of her friend had come past to pick her up for their outing. She raised herself to a standing position whilst simultaneously placing a pork sausage on a piece of bread, she asked to be excused and profusely apologized for needing to leave us so abruptly. Father smiled and said, Of course dear. You run along and have a great day.

Cylka quickly made her way across the room, but before she could leave, and with an effortless flick of her head to throw her hair back from her face, she chided in with You two have a good time on your date. Laughter filled the room for a few seconds after she left, then father and I continued with our fine breakfast.

I regret not taking the time to give her a hug; my attention was fully directed toward enjoying my breakfast and contemplating the day that lay ahead. Little did I realize that I would never see her again!

Moments later we are rudely interrupted as the timbers of the door burst into life caused by a very loud and abrupt bashing. The door visibly bulged with each thump, making me expect to see splinters falling to the floor. What could be so urgent? Dark thoughts of Cylka being injured overcome me. Both father and I rush to the door, eager to find out what the commotion is.

A canvas-backed army truck is parked in the street directly outside our house and neighbors have started mulling about it, craning their necks to look into the threshold of our home. Standing before us is a local police officer accompanied by a bevy of stern looking German soldiers, each carrying a machine gun across his chest. The soldiers appeared keen to unleash their guns from their formal resting position and bring them to action without hesitation. Too keen it seemed!

The police officer impudently barked my father’s name in our direction.

Yes, that is me, my father politely replied.

You are accused of being a Jew sympathizer, come with us immediately, is the only explanation offered as both my father and I are manhandled out the front door. A dichotomy of thoughts run through my mind; gratitude that this interruption was not concerning bad news about Cylka and simultaneously dread for what might happen to us.

Some of the German soldiers forced their way past us into our home; we could hear loud noises of crashing furniture as our neat and tidy house is converted into a state of dishevelment. Luckily Bogdan and Cylka are not home; the soldiers are obviously looking for other residents or more likely, they are looking for Jews.

Exiting our home a few moments later, one soldier, to my extreme annoyance and without any attempt of concealment, is holding one of our breakfast sausages in his hand. He began to munch down on it, gesticulating to his compatriots with a nod of his head indicating that it was tasty. On that advice two other soldiers hastily make their way into our home.

Father and I are told to go into the back of the canvas-backed army truck. Several other local residents were already occupying the wooden benches; we needed to squeeze in as best we could. Sullenness and despair fill the air. People either opaquely stare back at us with vacant looks or sit with their hands clasped over their head which in turn is sunk toward knees on which their elbows rest.

As the truck pulls away from the curb I look forlornly back at the open door to my home, wishing to be happily seated at the dining table enjoying that marvelous meal father had painstakingly prepared. Neighbors spewed into our front door disgusting me to the soul—we were mere paces away, and already they had classified us as non-entities with no rights. I had already conceded the same fate for father and myself, and I knew I would never step inside that house again. It was a fact, well established by repeated occurrence, that families taken away by German soldiers were never heard from again.

We sat obediently motionless and quiet in the back of the canvas-backed army truck, which at every stop sees more people, join the ranks. The benches soon become overfilled necessitating that some people sit on the floor or stand between the wooden benches. Nobody really stands out in the back of the truck; we are just ordinary citizens of a range of ages and generally in a respectably well-fed and healthy condition. No guards sit with us, we could escape at any time, but still we obediently sit and sway in unison as the truck rolls down the road. We have all succumbed to the dire situation we find ourselves now in.

Fellow occupants are generally dressed casually; father and I stand out in our formal clothing, which has now become slightly soiled from the filthy conditions of the back of the truck. The floor and benches of the truck are encrusted in semi-dried mud left behind by previous occupants. Obviously, cleanliness is not of prime importance. I persist in trying to keep my clothes as clean as possible in a vain attempt to maintain some semblance of normality.

Our journey ends at the police station, which had been taken over as a local head quarter for the occupying German soldiers. Before the truck comes to a complete stop, a German soldier motions to us to disembark which we reluctantly begin to do. People stay in their family units and move into the police station.

Father and I are ushered into a small room where we are told that my mother’s sister had informed authorities that father had harbored Jews in his house and provided them with food and clothing. This was all very true. My father’s Christian side could not bare the mistreatment handed out to Jews and he had often opened the doors of our home to them. We accepted that these actions were illegal but could not comprehend the reasoning behind my aunty informing the authorities.

Was this the result of some long kept grudge held against father for her sister dying? Was she doing this for personal gain to win favors from the occupying Germans? I would never find out, and we were never offered an opportunity to defend ourselves. Our actions had already been proven purely by the accusations leveled at us without the necessity of any proof.

After recording our personal details, an