Ten Minutes in Berlin

About ninety souls sat in the boxcar, including my mother, sister and two brothers. Suddenly we heard a noise from outside and saw some rays of light filtering in. The transport came to a halt. The doors were unlatched and an armed Nazi guards informed us that we had ten minutes to take care of our natural needs at the beautiful park next to the Berlin railroad station. What an awful site - a multitude of males and females squatting side-by-side.

Deeply embarrassed, we received a meager amount of dark bread and stinky, moldy cheese as we returned to the boxcars. Then the doors were again locked as each of us took their place. My dear mother suggested that we save the meager food rations for better times, when we are working again. As we were just sitting now, there is no need to eat. We had already been traveling for three days by now, the hunger and thirst bringing us to a faint condition. Acting out of a combination of light-mindedness and respect, we accepted my mother's advice. She neatly packed all the rations into our backpacks - for better times - she mistakenly thought. Then we yearningly looked around and saw how everyone relished their food while we kept silent and heard our empty stomachs rumble dissatisfaction.

© David Muskal, 2001