Here it is,

Chatterbox: Inkwell

Here it is,

Here it is, my dear readers, the extremely sad story to commemorate and help people remember the terrible period in history called the holocaust- PART ONE Remembering The Sky     
Auschwitz II/Birkenau, 1943

“I am not a Aryan-I will never be.” Those were the words Father uttered when we first arrived at Auschwitz.  And they were quite true. The moment we climbed out of the disgusting, terribly hot  cattle cars, and had been enveloped by the stench of burning bodies, (I thought then it was burning rubber)  we were all glad that we were not the race that had committed this horrid thing. All around us, other Polish Jews scrambled out of the car,  confused voices calling out names.
“Daniel-Danny, where are you?... Peter!.... Josephine, I can't see you!” I clung on tight to  Father's hand as  we where marched through cruel iron gates, our luggage collected  by prisoners in striped shirts.
“Make two lines. Women over here! Men-there!” A tall, thin lipped Nazi  barked out the words. “I said, women over here, and men there!” I looked desperately up at Father, hoping we would not be separated. How wrong I was. This was not a cozy little place, where they would take pity on a  thirteen-year old Jewish girl with only a father. “Move it, idiots!” The Nazi was heading in our general direction. Father knelt down by me.
“Listen, Lisle. We have to part-for now-but we'll meet each other again. Tell  those men you are fifteen-here, I think, being older helps.”  I could feel tears welling up, but I resolved not to cry as I hurried into line. The two lines of women and men were marched into separate areas. As we parted, Father looked over at me. And he smiled. A sad, lingering smile, in which his eyes showed everything he wished to had to time to say with me. Then something peculiar happened. He started crying. I had never seen my father cry before...and here he shed his last tears...under the smoke-filled, silent sky. And that was the last time I ever saw him. For less than a week later, his body was consumed by the fires of Auschwitz, second only to those of hell.
Tears rolled down my face, running over my lips, a strange salty taste. But I did not have much time to mourn, for then even further sorting began. Our line continued onward towards a cruel-faced man and his comrades. In his white gloved hands he held a baton, pointing it to either of the sides were women and children huddled in frightened groups. I did not know it then, but this was Dr. Mengele, the notorious Angel of Death. As I reached him, he squinted at me, and asked my age, and I said  fifteen, obeying my father's last command. His eyes raked over my emaciated figure, starving and unhealthy from weeks in the cattle car, and I saw his baton waver slightly in the direction  of the more worse-off looking figures, but he paused, staring at me with cold cruelty, and finally gestured the other way. I hurried towards the group. The will of God had saved me. As I looked at the electrified barbed wire surrounding me, thrusting upward, like deadly sabers, I was reminded of the ghetto, where I had spent two long years. Trapped away in Lodz, Poland.

To be continued

submitted by Sophia P., age 12, Ireland
(November 4, 2008 - 3:29 pm)

OMJ that's so good! Keep writing, please, it's so touching.

P.S. I did not mean OMG. OMJ stands for Oh My Jellybeans, and I think it's a lot cooler than Oh My Gosh.

submitted by Allison P., age 12, Orlando, FL
(November 6, 2008 - 3:07 pm)

That is really good. You should think of publishing it when your done!

submitted by Bekah (Lee) P., age 11 (almost, North Dakota
(November 7, 2008 - 7:37 am)

That is good. Sounds like you really did your research.

submitted by Emily L., age 13, WA
(November 8, 2008 - 8:06 pm)

Lodz, Poland, 1941

“Oh, play it again, Marie.” My younger brother, Joseph, begged my younger sister. She  acknowledged his plead, and, without a smile, began to play the song again, though not with the  normal emotion, but flat, the notes from her flute not ringing. Ever since we had arrived in the ghetto,  Marie had become more and more withdrawn and silent, pale and wraithlike. Her flute, once shining, was covered with dust.
By comparison, my younger brother, Joseph, had become more lively and   impatient, and my parents understood how a boy of four could be, but stressed that he must remain not so outspoken to the Germans. When they first told him that, he had cocked his head, and asked, “But Mama, Papa, are we not German?” The look in Mama's eyes was so sad  no one answered for a long time.
Only eight months after arriving at Lodz, in late summer, my four year old brother was killed by his own impatience. Strangely, I did not mourn, I envied him. At least he was free. He was caught by the storm troopers, scaling the fence, so much like the one I would see two years later in Auschwitz. The Nazis cried out, and shot at him. Joseph was shot in the leg, jolted , and   accidentally thrust himself onto the points of the barbed wire. No one in my family knew where he was buried. Marie and Mama floated around sadly, staying within our apartment, until Mama slipped away one night from grief. Father was so sad, when he sat shivah for her, he did not move or eat the entire time, yet he ripped out his hair and dug his nails into his palm so hard he bled. I was terrified. My father was slipping on the edge of saneness.
Marie's death happened at the end of our second year in the ghetto. We had just received orders for transportation. The night before leaving, my sister refused to come in out of the freezing winter air. Father and I pleaded with her, but she sat down and refused to get up. By morning, she was dead. My sister, eight years old in 1943, would have been burned anyway, but somehow, I would rather be her; I would have been able to choose my own fate.

To be continued

submitted by Sophia P.
(November 7, 2008 - 6:25 pm)


WOW!  That is amazing!  I could cry!  BOO-HOO!  I really, really, really, like that!  I, like you, I am guessing, like to write about a period of history.  But, I have never written about the Holocaust.  You have given me some ideas!  KEEP WRITING!


submitted by Olivia T., age 12, Zionsville, IN
(November 11, 2008 - 5:29 pm)

Cry Wow! That is really really good! So sad!Cry

submitted by Emily L., age 13, WA
(November 13, 2008 - 8:12 pm)

Oh, wow!  I love it. And I am not just saying that.  I love how you really made it real. Since I love anything that has to do with the Holocaust ( not that I like the Holocaust, just accounts on it) this really made me smile. I am gald that someone else likes to write about it.

submitted by Mai K. , age 12, Milwaukee
(November 13, 2008 - 7:49 pm)

AuschwitzII/Birkenau, 1943


The barking voice of the Kapos, many of them criminals, rangout, bringing me back to the present. What happened next was a blurof running, shouting, undressing, dressing, showering, andselections. The next thing I knew, I was in a barrack. Rough, ugly,and dark was how it struck me. I looked around at all the womenaround me. Those few that where my age mostly had mothers , or aunts, or cousins, or sisters with them. That's when I got thenagging suspicion that being alone would be hard. The first night, Igot a real taste of that. We all squished together in a bunk, but anice-looking lady next to me politely asked, “Young lady, I'm old,and my joints must stretch out for a moment. Would you mind gettingup?” I answered, No, not at all, and watched as she stretched out.But she never made more room for me. I learned it was everyone forthemselves.

Working mainly included me plodding around, and working in the paintfactory. The fumes were horrid, and I grew sick once. What was evenworse was the roll call. Standing silently. I often coughed. Everyday, I thought, would be my last. They would hear my coughs. I wouldbe turned to a column of smoke. I had learned by then that rubber wasnot what the “factory” made. It was an effective killing machine;it manufactured death.

What was worse though, was the hangings. During air raids, desperateinmates attempted to steal things to buy freedom. They got freedom;freedom from their mortal bodies. We would march past them later. Inever was able to eat after I saw them. I did not know what colorsAuschwitz really was; all I could see was red, gray, and lots ofblack. The colors of death.

Then came December, 1944. By then, lead paint fumes had built upinside me from working, and I was desperately sick. I hid it for a long time, until late January of 1945, when I desperately hid. I didnot want to burn or suffocate. I hid because of a miracle.

The wall of one of the blocks had been softened, and I was able tocreate a small den for me in there to hide...although I figured itwould be a grave. On the 25th of January, noises ofcommotion penetrated my sick state, but I paid them no mind. The nextday, the camp was deserted. I was deadly sick, but curious. I crawledout of my hole, but as far as I got was to the door of the block. Ilay there, for a day. I was woken by voices.

“They're gone...”

“A curse on Hitler! Look at this place...”

“The gas chambers are also horrid...I must say that I am glad I'mnot Aryan...” Strange...that's what Father said. My partlyconscious mind hoped against hope he was there.

“If there was a graveyard for this, the earth would be covered...”I dragged my feeble body towards them. Their voices broke of, andheavy footsteps ran towards me. The hands that cradled me weregentle.

“Oh, Lord.” The men sounded horrified. I realized fatherwas not here. I gave out a faint cry. The soldier holding me spokegently. “Don't worry, Miss...” I gasped out my name. “MissLisle,” he continued. “We are not German. We are Russians andAmericans. We will not hurt you.”

I trembled at the gentleness. I had forgotten what the word gentlemeant, and the word love. I opened my eyes long enough to see skyblue eyes looking down at me. It was strange, but I had forgottenwhat the sky looked like. All I saw was smoke... and dirt. My lastwords were ,

“You are God, are you not...?”  

submitted by Sophia P.
(November 11, 2008 - 8:05 pm)

Copyrighted by Sophia P., September 29, 2008

submitted by Kit Kat/ Sophia P.
(November 17, 2008 - 7:42 pm)

Cry That is very good! I really like it. What is it called? It's sad that all of her family died,but her dad. Or did he die too?

submitted by Bekah P., age almost 12, North Dakota
(November 18, 2008 - 9:38 am)

What was she saying?

submitted by Chloe E., age 10, California
(November 26, 2008 - 6:30 pm)

That's really good!!  Sad, but good!!!!  You should try to publish this when you're done. (If nobuggy steals it!!)

submitted by Paige P., age 12, Gorham, Maine
(November 12, 2008 - 4:39 pm)

People better not steal it! *picks up phone and calls the national guard*

submitted by Kit Kat
(November 13, 2008 - 4:54 pm)

:)D)D)D)D) Sadly, they have a right to, unless it's copyrighted....  I don't want to tell you the whole story again, so go into the Inkwell and find the thread that starts with "I'm writing a..." by Copeland.  We had a discussion on copyrights.

submitted by Paige P., age 12, Gorham, Maine
(November 16, 2008 - 2:54 pm)

They do NOT have a right to do any such thing. Anyway, I would never steal it. If you see a short story contest somewhere (besides Cricket, it's too long for that), enter it!!

submitted by Emily L., age 13, WA
(November 16, 2008 - 7:39 pm)