I crouch down beside a barrel, squeezing my eyes shut. I hear a Nazi above me, barking orders to the men in the trucks. I hold my breath. Any noise could mean my discovery. Any sound could mean my death.
I hear a muffled cough from across the dark basement.
“Mama?” I whisper tentatively.
No response.
“Mama?” I ask louder, my heartbeat increasing speed.
“Leah, hush.”
Her voice finds its way to me, and my pulse returns to normal. She is alive. I am alive. But Papa is dead. I bite my lip to keep from crying as I recall his death. He died to save us, of course. That was who he was. But he did not save me. He hurt me more.
