Imagining the Holocaust

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The Department of English Jacksonville State University We are pleased to provide you with the writings of the winners of the JSU English Department’s fourteenth annual Imagining the Holocaust statewide writing competition. As in the past, students in grades 7 and 8 and 9-12 were invited to submit work in various genres based on their responses to the Holocaust. If you would like more information on the 2017 Imagining the Holocaust writing competition or if we can provide a speaker for your classroom, contact: April Mattox (256.782.8525/ [email protected]), Susan Ashley Dean (256.782.8483/ [email protected]), or Steven Whitton (256.782.5414/ [email protected]). Our website is www.jsu.edu/english/holocaust.html. Sincerely,

April Mattox

Susan Ashley Dean

Steven Whitton

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Imagining the Holocaust a creative writing contest sponsored by the Department of English Jacksonville State University open to students in grades 7 and 8 Prizes awarded in the following categories: Short Story Poetry GUIDELINES General:

1. Each entry must be typed. 2. Each entry must include a competition cover sheet. 3. One entry per student per category. Student may enter in more than one category. 4. Mail entries to: April Mattox Department of English Jacksonville State University 700 Pelham Rd. North Jacksonville, AL 36265-9982 Deadline for entries: March 1, 2017

Short Story:

1. Must deal with the Holocaust of World War II 2. Minimum: 500-750 words, double-spaced

Poetry:

1. Must deal with the Holocaust of World War II 2. 1-3 poems are considered one entry, one poem per page 3. No restrictions with respect to form

AWARDS:

1. First prize in each category: $50.00 2. Second prize in each category: $37.50 3. Third prize in each category: $25.00

Contact April Mattox (256.782.8525/ [email protected]) or Steven Whitton (256.782.5414/ [email protected])

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Imagining the Holocaust a creative writing contest sponsored by the Department of English Jacksonville State University open to students in grades 9-12 Prizes awarded in the following categories: Short Story Poetry GUIDELINES General: 1. Each entry must be typed. 2. Each entry must include a competition cover sheet. 3. One entry per student per category. Students may enter in more than one category. 4. Mail entries to: Susan Ashley Dean Department of English Jacksonville State University 700 Pelham Rd. North Jacksonville, AL 36265-9982 Deadline for entries: March 1, 2017 Short Story:

1. Must deal with the Holocaust of World War II 2. Minimum: 1000 words, double-spaced

Poetry:

1. Must deal with the Holocaust of World War II 2. 1-3 poems are considered one entry, one poem per page 3. No restrictions with respect to form

AWARDS:

1. First prize in each category: $50.00 2. Second prize in each category: $37.50 3. Third prize in each category: $25.00

Contact Susan Ashley Dean (256.782.8483/ [email protected]) or Steven Whitton (256.782.5414/ swhitton @jsu.edu)

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Imagining the Holocaust Contents Middle School Short Stories Firewood by Alayna Ivy Megan Bolton, teacher

page 8 1st prize Lupton Junior High School Nauvoo, AL

Survivor by Austin Gilliland Megan Bolton, teacher

page 10 2nd prize Lupton Junior High School Nauvoo, AL

After Kristallnacht by Mary Margaret Spethman Lauren Carter, teacher

page 12 3rd prize Arab Junior High School Arab, AL

Poems Earth by Joshua Gardner Megan Bolton, teacher

page 15 1st prize Lupton Junior High School Nauvoo, AL

My Star by Madie Garrett Lauren Carter, teacher

page 17 2nd prize Arab Junior High School Arab, AL

A Gun’s Sorrow by Cody Smith Lauren Carter, teacher

page 18 3rd prize Arab Junior High School Arab, AL

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High School Short Stories A Moment Short Lived by Bryce Heise Mary E Hudson, teacher

page 21 1st prize Grissom High School Huntsville, AL

When Love is Hard by Taylor Byrd Mary E Hudson, teacher

page 25 2nd prize Grissom High School Huntsville, AL

Poems Murdered for Life by Alyssa Skinner Carole Borowski, teacher

page 28 1st prize Edgewood Academy Elmore, AL

One of My Own by Nathan Rourke Carole Borowski, teacher

page 31 2nd prize Edgewood Academy Elmore, AL

Alone by Blake Walters Carole Borowski, teacher

page 33 3rd prize Edgewood Academy Elmore, AL

[Editor’s note: Some changes were made for clarity. Otherwise, each selection has been reproduced as submitted.] 7

Alayna Ivie Lupton Junior High School

Firewood

Looking upon my life, I think of how lucky I am. I have a wonderful home, a family dog, a religion I believe in, and a healthy, loving family. I thank God for all this again, as I watch my father chop firewood for the winter. He has the radio playing, and the broadcaster is speaking of Adolf Hitler. My father is a very nice man with big, brown, sparkling eyes and the work ethic of an ox. He does not like the idea of somebody like Adolf Hitler taking his home, his family, his friends, his pet, his money, and everything that he has ever earned and deserved. As I start to walk away, I hear a bang. Swirling around, I realize my father smashed the radio on the ground and is beginning to cry. A chill moves down my spine. My father never cries, and as his weeping turns into screeching, I am filled with terror, fear for the future. The message streaming through the radio before my father’s tantrum is clear: Jews are to check their mail, so they will know when to report to the court house for the census and a gold Star of David. We have not checked our mail in three days. My father refuses. A new morning, a new day, I walk into the kitchen to see my parents at the dining room table. I overhear them quietly discussing a plan of action. Mother is encouraging him to go for the mail. Slowly, my father stands up and walks to the door, unlatching it, pulling it open. There, on the other side, standing face-to-face with my father, is a German soldier. In his hands is a warning for my father and summons notices for my mother, my little brother, for my precious little sister Avory, and for me. The soldier speaks rapidly, warning my father of the consequences of refusing the census. He makes it clear that my father will be arrested if he is absent again. Truthfully, I cannot see the harm in obeying the Germans’ orders or in being arrested; we will simply be going to a liberation camp for a short while anyway. Morning again, I wake up to loud sirens wailing and German soldiers shouting. They are ordering everyone out of their houses and into the streets. The streets are flooded with people and with confusion; Jews are being loaded into train cars and truck beds. We watch as soldiers strip our house 8

and yard of our belongings: clothes, chairs, food, even the firewood my father has chopped for winter. As the oldest sibling, I feel that it is my duty to keep my little brother and sister close. Because of all of the commotion, my Avory is crying, but this only makes it easier to hear and keep up with her. My family is managing to stay together, and I feel some relief despite the pain of leaving my home and the stress of the situation that is overtaking me. We are directed into a train car, and our journey to the liberation camp begins. Minutes, hours, days, I am unsure. The train is slowing. We have arrived. The relief I felt earlier of still being with my family is quickly stripped away. We step out of the car and are immediately separated: men to the left, women to the right. My family is being separated right before my eyes. My heart is sinking to my stomach. Hours later, tired, hungry, we watch as others remove our belongings from the train cars, as they unload the items the soldiers have ransacked our house for. My father and I see a man stacking logs; there, lodged in the heart of a piece of wood, is my father’s ax. The soldiers tell us we will be showering for health precautions. We are ordered to remove all personal belongings and line up in front of a towering building. A glimmer catches my eye: the ax on the ground beside a piece of wood. I see a man stoking a fire, shoving the wood into the side of the building, the same building we will be walking into in just a moment. A horrible, overwhelming feeling fills my body. I can’t breathe. I know I will suffocate. I will suffocate on my fear. I will suffocate on the smoke, the smoke from the wood. We are not walking to a shower. We are walking to our deaths. We will be burned, turned into ashes by the fire stoked with the wood my father chopped to keep us alive.

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Austin Gilliland Lupton Junior High School

Survivor

It was a warm, sunny day, but our hearts were cold. The date was January 30, 1933; my mom, dad, and I were the only ones in the house. My name is Adir; my mom said my name meant “strong and mighty,” which was weird because I was never athletic. My dad always told us that the war would end soon and not to worry about it. We believed him, because it gave us this sense of hope that we so desperately longed for. The Germans came to our house about a month later. I heard some screams throughout the neighborhood as people were dragged out of their homes into the streets. The soldiers yelled at us, but a lot of us didn’t understand what it meant, because we didn’t know German. When they grabbed my mom, my dad tried to beat the soldier off of her. In return, all he got was a blow from the stock of the soldier’s gun. That was the most terrifying day of my life. We were on the train for about a week before we came to our first camp. When they unloaded us from the trains, they talked without yelling and without guns in our faces. When my mom got separated from Dad and me, I was heartbroken. It was weird but reassuring at the same time, because Dad was calm and silent. I listened to him, because I knew Mom was a strong woman and could take care of herself. I didn’t know at the time, but that was the last time I would ever see her. Dad and I stayed together for another week before he was killed over a piece of bread. That was the worst day of my life. I just couldn’t believe I would never see him again or have someone to look up to. I was terrified of being by myself; my dad could no longer watch over me. One day after my dad died, his tailor came up to me and starting beating me. When he finally stopped, a rabbi found me and gave me half of his ration. The rabbi and I stayed together for a while after that. He would never tell me his name; he would just say, “All in good time, my son.” He died a month later from a common cold. He told me to remember what my name 10

meant. At the time, I didn’t feel strong and mighty; I just felt like a rabbit surrounded by hungry wolves. I would only get to keep a few of my rations, because the tailor continued to beat me and take my food. One day, the tailor tried to escape, but instead got shot down. Everyone felt sad except for me; I couldn’t help but be happy. My body would finally get some rest and some rations. I stayed in the camp alone, no family and no friends, for about a year before the Americans came. There were a lot of explosions and gunfire all around us. They came into every barracks looking for survivors. I was thankful this living hell was ending. Others weren’t as lucky as I was. Their stories ended with starvation, bullets, blood, fire, sickness, or bombing. Our rescuers told us we were going back with them to America. It was different when we arrived: new languages, new food, new climates, new faces. It took a while, but I became more comfortable, gained some weight back, and started life again. Eventually, I married and had children. I don’t like to talk about what happened to me, but I do dream about it a lot. I still wonder if my mother survived. I never found her, never heard from her again.

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Mary Margaret Spethman Arab Junior High School

After Kristallnacht

Time: Sometime between 1200 hrs and 0100 hrs Date: 10 November 1938 Location: Somewhere outside of Berlin

I swayed and shook with the shackles clanking against each other and the worn, wooden planks of the truck. The sonorous rumbling of the engine over the rough road continued under me as I squinted to make out others in the moonlight. The one to my left, closest to where we entered the truck, was a middle-aged man with injuries similar to mine. He had a glass shard protruding from his forearm, an injury that I assumed had been forgotten. The man to my right might have been a little younger than I, and he seemed to have been caught off guard due to his lack of cuts and scratches. Not only did I swing at the men with guns after they murdered my mother and my little brother, but I remember that I thrashed. I erupted in a sound I never knew I was capable of, but the soldiers seemed accustomed to that kind of response. They just jerked me into shackles and shoved me onto the truck. The others on the truck sat parallel to me on a bench that seemed to be loose at the screws. The benches might have fallen over if we moved too much. Two of them were younger than I, with several minor bruises and cuts. One was older, and the other’s face was so mangled, his age I could only estimate to be around forty years old due to the gray threads spilling from his cap. The last man, I guessed to be about twenty years of age, swore and cursed with his jagged mumbling. His hands were blanketed with gashes and cuts from where he might have punched through glass. I felt grief and terror and isolation and loneliness, but my emotions were the least of my problems. I looked at the tangled mess of chains weaving around my ankles and my wrists. The men in uniform didn’t put them on 12

correctly. I could easily slip out of them after a bit of wiggling. However, there was bound to be a stir of one of the others in the chains with me, and the shackles were almost half a pound each ring. And it wouldn’t matter anyway. Suddenly, we came to a screeching halt. We all careened to obey the intense oscillation of the vehicle. I heard two doors open and one slam. The driver’s door was open. I could slip out of the manacles and throw myself out of the bus after they opened the folding door, make a dash for the wheel, and drive to safety. But where would safety be? Where could I find it? I no longer had a home, a family to go home to, or a reliable plan to get wherever it was. A dash for the driver’s seat would be a leap of faith on its own–getting out of the shackles, running past the men in uniforms with guns in my weakened condition—and driving was also something I found foreign. Too many eyes were on me, and too many gun barrels were also. And it wouldn’t matter anyway. The tailgate dropped open. The men unlocked the end of all of the chains and tugged them. Pain surged through ankles, back, and hands as the bindings were all pulled to yank my hands to my feet, leaving me in a hunched position. I winced, noticing a painful twinge in my lower back. Several of the others grunted, and a couple cried out begging for mercy, but they don’t understand. There is no mercy in hell. One of the soldiers jumped into the back of the truck to unlock our restraints from the floor, and he stuck the keys back in his coat. His partner jolted the chain and motioned for us to move. As I stood up, the twinge returned in my back and slowly disappeared until I was taken off guard by a uniformed man, when he swiped my foot out from under me and I stumbled out of the vehicle onto my shoulder. That hurt. I thrust myself up and turned, ready for another strike, and locked eyes with my assailant. I glared at him for his inhuman treatment. “Move!” he grumbled, “or your next little fall out of the truck won’t be a bruised shoulder.” He shoved me forward, and I stumbled into a staggered line with the others. Once I regained my balance, I looked up to a chain-link cage topped with concertina wire. Behind the gates stood gigantic buildings that looked 13

like stables and were worn and old. The other buildings were newer, cleaner, and well taken care of. The buildings were sitting on compact dirt that had been stomped and kicked over a long period of time. I wasn’t the first person in this prison, and wouldn’t be the last. It was a prison, it was also my torture chamber where they would starve and beat me until my body gave out. Something my mother told me flickered in the back of my mind. “If I am ever taken by the German soldiers, and we get separated, take your brother to the safest place you can find, and never try to find me.” My mother warned me of this place and knew that no one could have given her any hope of freedom or mercy. Now she never has to endure that suffering, but I do. I kept my place in the line and walked into the metal cage that would be the beginning of my end. Then I realized that I did not have to die a slow death on the soldiers’ terms. I decided I’d never allow such a thing to happen to me. My family was killed, because they were seen as too weak to work, and I was finished with the soldiers deciding my fate. I pulled my arms apart, straining the iron that bound my wrists, screaming and thrashing as if my mind had not made if off of the truck. The guards grabbed me, but it only made me increasingly more uncontrollable. They finally pushed me to my knees as I continued to work my way from their grasp, but not for the reason they thought. Three men were holding me down, gripping me as well as pushing me into the dirt. They yelled and ordered and shouted. Once the barrel touched my temple I stopped my frantic movements for him to get a decent shot. The trigger clicked and everything drained from my vision and faded into a gray and white scene with my family and friends and neighbors. I stepped forward and welcomed death as my one, true, merciful friend.

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Joshua Gardner Lupton Junior High School

Earth

Sometimes I think the grass is stronger than my fingers. It can withstand the wind. I envy its connection to the earth, Roots attached in unseen places, The ability to bend, move, and drink. These little verdant strands of freedom have no enemies.

Sometimes I turn to answer the wind. It is warm and kind. Even in its moments of cruel frigidity, It is gentle against my thin flesh. It has answers that I cannot hear. Maybe I’m not ready to know The secret that it keeps.

Sometimes I think the earth is waiting for me. I am so tired. My toes sink into its comfort, And I want to be a part of it. I want to feel warm, protected, loved, Anything but hungry, anything but lost. I want to be warm. 15

Sometimes I think I will be free again. I will wrap myself in the wind; I will put grass between my teeth; I will roll in the dirt. I will live like a sunbeam—bright and wild. Sometimes I think this will happen. Then I open my eyes.

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Madie Garrett Arab Junior High School

My Star

Stars create shapes in the heavens To guide us on our path. Stars create light A light that shines down from above. Stars are an astounding sight Creating an amazing glimmer from afar. So why is my star such a bad thing? Why is it sewn into my shirt with disgrace? Why do people stare in amazement at the stars above But look at my star with hatred? Is it because my star doesn’t shine? I can shine for my star if that will make a difference. I don’t understand my star. I’m embarrassed by my star. I fear my star. I hate my star.

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Cody Smith Arab Junior High School

A Gun’s Sorrow

I used to lay in a room of darkness, alone, quiet. I lay in solitude, amidst old photographs and scrap paper, locked inside. Some days the prison opened and my master summoned me and cleansed my soul, preparing six new songs. Occasionally, he forced me to sing my deadly song, a song even sirens fear, a song to move crowds and damage souls. Then the day came, the day of death. My master removed me from my prison and kept me with him. I was frightened. My master hadn’t cleansed me or made me sing; instead he kept me with him. He brought me to a place full of other masters, and other slaves. I did not understand what they spoke of, but I could tell that it wasn’t good, I was trying to decipher their chatter when another voice rang over them. The voice gave me chills just by hearing it. I could tell nothing pleasant was behind it. My master and the others turned to face the direction that the voice came from. I saw a man, simple black hair and a short black mustache, talking to the vast group of men. I was too distracted by the energy of the man to listen to what he had to say. Just from seeing him, my body grew cold, I could feel the evil radiate off this man; it was horrifying. After he stopped, my master and the previous group of others left out into the city. 18

Minutes later we arrived at a shambles of a house, almost not fit for living. Then, in a blazing fury, my master smashed the door open and began to yell at a family having dinner in their kitchen. It was an average family, a mother and father, both worn by time and stress, and three children, a boy and two girls. They got to the ground and began to question my master and cry tears of utter terror. My master and the father began to argue. Then my master faced me in front of a wall and commanded my voice. After I had finished my song, the man tried to stand. My master commanded me to bludgeon the man across his forehead, and unwillingly I obeyed. I was returned to his side while they began to tear the house apart, piece by broken piece. Suddenly the other men began to call my master. When he walked over, I managed to peek out and see what they were looking at. Small living quarters, shouldn’t have held more than three people at a time. It looked as though it was abandoned in a hurry. Clothes were left behind and food, cold, left on the foldable table. My master scoffed, rage painted all over his face, and set out to leave, abandoning the mother and children crying above their father, who still hadn’t moved. Several more encounters exactly like the first had gone on throughout the entire day. Occasionally, I heard the songs of other slaves. Thankfully, they were not frequently heard. When we reached another house, nicer than the first but still read as lower class, My master again busted the door down, just as he’d done many times before, but this time found two families. 19

Again they were brought to the floor, tears streaming and voices shouting, with stars sewn into their clothing, worn like open wounds. I felt the air fill with enough fear to cut through. My master jerked me in front of a young girl, barely old enough to work, and forced my song. The tone rang through the air, through the house and through the neighborhood, as the girl fell to the ground. I was mortified at what I had done, and as I felt my master prepare another song, I tried to resist. I tried to take my voice and bury it deep within me, keeping it inside, All in vain, as my master forced my voice another five times, each person in the house falling, never to move again. I was shaking, What had happened? What had I done? After that, my master took me back to my prison and locked me away, I sat hyperventilating at the atrocities I had committed and hated myself. After lying in my cell, among old photographs and scrap paper, I wept. I wept tears of sorrow that could never be seen and accepted that tomorrow, and days after, my voice would harm and kill again, and there is nothing I can do.

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Bryce Heise Grissom High School

A Moment Lived Short

“Don’t worry about the men in black,” my mother always told me. I would still cower when I saw them. They looked like the black knights you see in story books; but instead of swords and shields, they had guns and whips. Not too long ago, I was living in Poland. I loved it. I had many friends, and the town’s folks were quite friendly. When I would arrive in town, I remembered smelling the fresh apple pies that the bakery would put out to attract customers. I also remembered my friends Artorias and Mina. You could tell that Artorias wasn’t a Polish name. He moved there with his parents from London. “It was too crowded, and the locals were rude as anything,” his mother once told me. I always thought of London as a very royal and formal place where the only things people would eat and drink were crumpets and tea. Mina, on the other hand, was from Berlin. She moved here with her Uncle to get away from the whole radical Nazi propaganda. Mina had posters and told me what they said, since I didn’t speak German. It sounded so serious, and it gave me the idea that Germany was a serious place filled with serious people. Willst du eine bessere Deutschland? Abstimmen Adolf Hitler! was written on one of the posters Mina showed me. It had a picture of a man I presume was Adolf Hitler, who seemed like he was staring into my soul. “That man will haunt my dreams if I keep seeing his face and his weird mustache,” I said. Mina would try to make a straight face and imitate Hitler by sucking in all the air she could, to make her look bigger, while she screamed in German and performed the Hitler salute. Artorias and I would always be on the floor laughing so hard that we would cry.

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Once, on a Friday, we stood by the school for an hour before Mr. Pavlov, our history teacher, arrived to open the doors and take part in our conversation. He laughed at Hitler and said that he sounded like a revolutionized Napoleon Bonaparte. It was warm in Mr. Pavlov’s classroom that day. “Today is the first day of September!” I said, excited. My birthday would be in two days. We were having a history test on the French Revolution. Once the bell rang for class to start, Mr. Pavlov stood at the front of the room holding a stack of papers. He spoke with a cheerful tone and passed out the tests. “Good luck. I wish the best for every one of you.” Feeling confident, I finished my test and turned it in. As I sat back down, Mr. Pavlov looked through it and smiled. Suddenly, I heard weird sounds outside. I looked through the window and saw people running through the streets with scared expressions on their faces. The sound of explosions roared in the background. Mr. Pavlov abruptly stood up and ordered us to go to the school basement. We ran to the back of the school and rushed into the basement. Behind us were the roars of planes and loud booms. Mr. Pavlov closed the basement doors behind us. Mina and Artorias stood close to me and Mr. Pavlov. “What’s going on out there?” someone asked. Mr. Pavlov told us to sit down and remain calm. I tried to heed his words, but the thought of my family being out there scared me. Mina and Artorias were making jokes to keep me calm. The jokes did not really help. “Lord, help us all” I whispered. Over the next two hours, the booms slowly quieted. Mr. Pavlov peeked out of the basement; the school was still intact. He motioned us to follow him into the remains of a once bright, bustling town. Only Artorias, Mina, and I left to go with him. We slowly and cautiously moved through the ruins. We heard the squeaky sound of metal and treads. Mr. Pavlov quickly motioned us to get

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down. As we lay there, we could clearly hear the stomping of boots all in synch. Artorias peeked out to see the huge parade of rifle bayonets and grey uniforms. He crawled back towards us with a stunned look on his face. “There are so many of them. Who could they be?” Mr. Pavlov stroked his beard, but then lay back as the marching soldiers and a tank went through the streets. On the tank, we could clearly see a black cross on the side. Mr. Pavlov’s face went sour; the German army had invaded Poland. As the marching soldiers passed, we moved out of hiding and down the street. A dark grey BMW passed and quickly stopped next to us. Men dressed in black walked out and surrounded us. “Polnisch Oder Jude?” I had no idea what he just said. Mina quickly answered his question. The soldier said, “Komm mit uns!” I still had no idea what he said. Mina started to scream at the soldier in German as well. The man quickly pointed the gun at Mina and fired. “Mina!” I screamed as my best friend fell to the ground. I went into shock. Mr. Pavlov and Artorias backed up and held their hands up. The soldier motioned us to follow him. As we walked, we saw a huge line of people. My mother and father were there! My mother reached out for me. The soldier shoved us in line and shouted at everyone. “Alle von euch sind nicht willkommen hier, fϋr lhren Schutz warden wir Sie zu einem sicheren Bereich, in dem Schutz und Nahrung wird gegeben, zu fϋhren.” People turned to walk down the sidewalk, and we followed. I was in between my parents when I began to suddenly weep for Mina. I couldn’t believe someone would do that to her. My mother held onto my shoulders hoping that I would stop. We had been walking for hours. It was getting dark outside. As we entered a wooded area, I saw lights: guard lights, it seemed.

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Soldiers lined us up one more time, but this time they weren’t yelling at us. They had a doctor examine us by telling us to open our mouths and lift our arms and legs. Quite a few elderly people, middle-aged men and women, and, finally, young children were taken out of line. I prayed that Artorias wasn’t taken, because he had a bad leg. The doctor looked at me and then at my father. They pulled my father out. I was too terrified to scream. My father never returned. My mother went from being positive to being very depressed. The soldiers assigned Artorias to build barracks, while my mother had to clean the black uniforms that the men wore. I could lift heavy objects and hammer nails; that’s what my job was. I didn’t take breaks, because people who took breaks when they weren’t supposed to were shot just as Mina had been. “Another weekly checkup, I’m guessing,” Artorias said softly one day. We stood as the doctor came in to examine us. He checked my mother and me, then motioned his assistants to take us away. We were ordered out of the camp. The guard told us to walk into the woods. We did as he said. We were told to stop near a pit filled with bodies. The smell was unbearable, and the guard screamed for us to turn towards him. He pulled out his pistol and pointed it at us. My mother, crying, hugged me and spoke softly to me. “Don’t worry about the men in black.” I cried as well. Our sobbing was short-lived and covered by a loud bang.

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Taylor Byrd Grissom High School

When Love is Hard

It was the first day of school. The bell rang, and kids stormed the hallways, walking from one class to the next trying to figure out where they went to next. I arrived at my Holocaust class. As my teacher, Mr. Garrison, walked in and introduced himself, he asked each student what they thought the Holocaust was. When I was asked, I said, “Hitler hated Jews.” (In my defense, most of my history teachers in the past just glanced over the subject.) Our first assignment was to write an essay on what we thought the Holocaust was. I began to brainstorm ideas and then decided I would have my boyfriend write it. I texted my boyfriend Chris, while Mr. Garrison flipped through a PowerPoint presentation. He agreed to help me. That night, Chris, after eating dinner with my family and me, followed me into the den to work on my paper. I started to hand him paper from the desk, when he pulled out a sky blue, narrow notebook from his back pocket. “Huh?” I said, but he said nothing. “Open the notebook, while I think of ideas.” He handed me the notebook and put his head down on the desk. I thought he was sleeping, so I closed my eyes too.

It sounded like thunder, or a dog screaming. I was jolted awake to a woman yelling, “Akiva!” And, she was in my den! “It’s my great grandma!” Chris seemed to panic, as the room tilted and the lights dimmed. I screamed as the walls crashed outward and women, men, and children came streaming in. After them, in ran the soldiers. 25

The soldiers were grabbing people and throwing them into tiny cattle cars. Some people were running; some were just standing still. The soldiers were separating men and women onto different trains. They were loading men first. Chris turned to me and assured me that everything was going to be fine, but one of the Germans grabbed Chris, who was grabbing me. His hands slipped from my arms, and the soldier raised a gun to Chris’ head and pulled the trigger. It seemed as though it all happened in slow motion. He dropped to the ground slowly and motionless. As my ears rang and my head filled with pressure, I could feel his blood on me. I was in shock, my clothes and body, a wet, slimy red. I was paralyzed. The next train came, and I was thrown into it along with women and children. These trains were cattle cars, dirty and small. We were shoulder to shoulder and had to stand. Two crusty pieces of bread were thrown into the train. One woman said, “One piece needs to be divided among the children, then we can all share the other.” After about three more hours, the train stopped. I looked out a crack to see where we were. Everyone was asking me what I saw. “There is a sign that says Auschwitz,” I said. I knew that name from somewhere. This was one of the camps my teacher went over in his PowerPoint presentation. Auschwitz was a death camp. The doors opened, and everyone poured out. The women were directed one way, and the children were directed the other. Some women ran after their children and were shot immediately. We were taken into a building and had our heads shaved. Then they took me and about seventy others to a building. We were told to get naked and to put our clothes in a pile. The people who refused were shot. They told us we were going to get showers. I was relieved to be able to get the blood off of my body. We walked in; everyone was happy, but then it happened. Two small doors on the ceiling opened. Two cans were dropped in. The cans started to release a smoke. One by one, people dropped. I started feeling light-headed, and everything started to spin. 26

When I woke up, I thought it was a nightmare. Chris, beside me with his head cradled in his arms on the desk, still seemed to be sleeping. I shook him to wake him, but he wouldn’t wake up. I yelled for my mother. She came in and called 9-1-1. They pronounced him dead at the scene.

My paper was never turned in, but when I opened the sky-blue notebook, it said, “Shalom.”

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Alyssa Skinner Edgewood Academy

Murdered for Life

Click clack crunch Click clack crunch The frigid train carries us away young and old The home we loved is just out of reach The floor and the walls and the air is cold Incomprehensible shouting is barely heard over the brake’s screech

Click clack crunch Click clack crunch Sweat beads on my cold forehead Clusters of Nazis march by our cabin Sometimes I wish I were dead Anywhere else is a better place to be in

Click clack crunch Click clack crunch I know that I can’t die I know that I have to fight Even as the days go by Even as the cold air bites

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Click clack crunch Click clack crunch They must not know They must not learn of my baby Surely without food I may not show Surely if they know they will kill me

Click clack crunch Click clack crunch They think I cannot hear them when in my bed I lay “How can she still appear so round and healthy, When everyone else is wasting away? She must be expecting a baby.”

Click clack crunch Click clack crunch The Germans are running, yelling A woman on the floor glares at me “Twas not I who did the telling, But, child, they’re going to kill that baby.”

Click clack crunch Click clack crunch Gravel turns to grass as they lead me away Never in a hundred lives did I think I would wish to stay My last wish would be to know: blue or pink

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Click clack crunch Click clack crunch God, tell my mother I’m sorry Tell my father to be strong Tell my husband I love him Tell my baby she did nothing wrong

Click The chamber is loaded Clack The hammer is cocked Boom.

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Nathan Rourke Edgewood Academy

One of My Own

I joined from fear The badge I took To protect my family Not fully knowing What I had done Blind entirely I had to leave My darling wife And my little girl In order to keep Them safe from Reds And from the bloody world So many years I turned my head And looked the other way My heart was cold My actions swift It was never supposed to change As flames burned Children cried Stars surrounded the grave People in stripes 31

Became a flock No more a man than slave I saw a girl Pale with fright More weak and fragile than most She stood out In the crowd to me A teddy bear she held so close She had tried to run She had tried to hide She had lost those she loved Why her gaze Took my breath I knew not what I was thinking of But then I saw Why I cried She reminded me of home For all this time I had not seen people But now I saw one of my own

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Blake Walters Edgewood Academy

Alone

Quiet but not peaceful. The aroma of sweat and iron. Fixated on the countless rows of metal beds with no mattresses or comforters.

Dirt on my clothes and in the facility A bitter flavor of the beads of sweat I have shed inside this hot place. This is no place I would ever want to stay.

I was standing in crowd of uncertainty People standing to my right were being taken one by one No one standing to my left

There was an eerie feeling in the crowd There were so many faces leaving one by one Worst feeling, Being in a crowd, But feeling so alone. Without family, friends, just me At this time, I knew I was alone.

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Walking down the road What other people believe is fresh air I consider it not to be They are taking us away while others laugh and play, Others have only their views ruined by them. As others play in the fresh air I consider it not to be I see it polluted By gas

As I sit on this hard train flooring, I am in fear, I feel as if I am being sent off to death,

But in all honesty, I don’t know where I am going as of yet As of right now the only think I can think of is the uncertainty The uncertainty of where I am headed.

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