they come round with their guns,
they separate us,
the women to one side,
children and elderly people,
My seven-year-old brother is moved to a different group,
they are going to give him a shower,
We weren’t born yesterday.
My brother doesn’t know what is going to happen,
he’s excited because he hasn’t had a wash for a while,
It’s best this way.
He can go not afraid, happy and innocent.
And he walks away to his group.
My mother and seventeen-year-old sister are encouraged to move along,
they are going to be put in those deportation trains.
They wear a brave face,
As we cry,
scream our goodbyes,
As they are forced to walk away.
A soldier asks how old I am.
My father answers that I am sixteen.
All a lie.
I will turn fifteen next month,
but it seems like I am already forty.
I don’t care if he believes the lie,
but it seems that the lie saved my life.
We are walking into the camp.
As I walk through the gates I look up to see the last words in my life.
‘Arbeit macht frei’