My Name Is Naomi

Chapter Eight

Concentration Camp

Ayala felt herself being shaken awake. She rolled over, groaning. She didn't want to wake up. She barely got any sleep as it was. The older woman shaking her pulled Ayala roughly to her feet, "Get up! Unless you want us to all get in trouble!

Ayala stumbled to her feet, swaying slightly as the room spun. She was hungry and her stomach felt empty. Yet she still followed the other women and children as they lined up in front of their quarters. Ayala stood there in the cold chill of the morning, watching a German officer as he paced in front of them. Some of the women were pulled out of the line and lead away. Ayala wondered where they were taking all of them each day. They hadn't bothered to give Ayala a second glance. Maybe that was a good thing. Ayala had heard about the horrors happening in the big looming building that sat in the distance. It had tall smokestacks rising from its rooftops and the stone was black and charred. Ayala tugged her eyes away and tried to focus on what the German man was shouting at them. Being only nine years old, her German wasn't very good.

Their line finally dispersed as the women frantically started pulling on their extra clothing and dressing their children. Ayala went up to one of the older, cranky women and tugged on her sleeve. The woman snapped at her, "What?"

"What did the officer say? I can't understand German very well." Ayala explained.

The older woman scowled, "They're taking us to another camp today. He said to be ready in two minutes."

"Are we riding in the train?"

"You mean the cattle cars? No, they're making us walk."

"But how can we walk all the way there?" Ayala asked, confused.

"They aren't expecting you to make it there, child." The old woman's eyes softened slightly at Ayala's confusion. She rested her thin, wrinkled hand on Ayala's head of messy, tangled hair. "Just stay strong and make it as far as you can."

A whistle sounded and the old woman took Ayala's hand and pulled on her, "Its time to go."

Ayala filed into line with the older woman and smiled up at her, "My name is Ayala."

The older woman's mouth turned up slightly into what Ayala assumed was supposed to be a smile. She didn't speak anymore as they began to leave the gates of the camp. Ayala felt intimidated by the presence of the German soldiers. They were tall and had big guns pointed at the heads of the Jewish women and children.

Guns.

That was a new word Ayala had learned while living here. A gun was what had killed her mother a few days ago in the cold, chill of the winter while they were digging ditches. Ayala never would have guessed what those ditches would be used for until she saw the piles of bodies resting at the bottom. Lots of them had bullet holes in their heads and stomachs. The stench of blood and rot was overwhelming. Ayala tried to stay away from the ditches.

Ayala felt a tug on her arm, pulling her from her thoughts. The old woman was beckoning for her to move forward. Ayala tramped after her, following the crowd out into the open air of the forest.

Hours later, Ayala was feeling completely exhausted. She wasn't sure if she could take another step. She stumbled slightly, but the older woman kept a tight, iron grip on her arm, "Just a little further, child."

"I want to rest." Ayala complained.

"Hush, now. We will rest when we get there." The older woman explained, stepping carefully around the body of a child that now lay on the ground.

Ayala stared into the face of the young boy. He was barely breathing and looked nearly dead. Ayala opened her mouth to ask the older woman if they should help the boy. As if sensing her thoughts, the older woman shook her head, "Leave him be. You'll have enough trouble just carrying your own weight."

Ayala regretted leaving someone behind, but he older woman was right. She stepped around the boy and kept moving. A few steps later, she heard a gun shot ring through the night air. She knew that the German soldiers had killed the boy, and that if she didn't keep walking, she would join him

Copyright © 2016 by Rosanna Parker

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