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.

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

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 Ever since we had arrived in the ghetto,  Marie had become more and more withdrawn and silent, pale and wraithlike.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

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...?”  

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