The Secret Diary

By Tim Law

February 1941 – Day 14

I know it is the New Year, 1941, I recall the men from our town singing songs in the ghetto. Their deep voices the only form of celebration the soldiers allowed us. My name is Wolf, my father was a journalist. That was until the soldiers took offence to what was published under his name. The office where he worked was marked with a blue star and five weeks later it was shut down. I have been here two weeks now, a farm away from the city where all the children from my neighborhood are locked away like chickens in a pen. We sing each night since our arrival in hope that our mothers and fathers can hear us. We pray to God that they can find some kind of strength in our voices. We sing until the soldiers tell us to be quiet. Then the night is still. Silence reigns while snow falls upon the hard packed dirt.

February 1941 – Day 25

Today I saw a peacock butterfly land between the bars of the dorm where I sleep. Eleven I am so the soldiers told me I had to sleep on the top bunk. The younger kids were ordered to sleep below. In two years’ time it will be my Bar Mitzvah but I don’t want to be a man. The men are taken away each day to work. There is talk amongst the other children that sometimes some of the men don’t come back. The butterfly I saw this morning was beautiful, little blotches of color amongst the oranges, browns and blacks. It seemed lost, like someone had forgotten to tell it winter time is too cold for it to be out. On the top bunk I am close to the window and cold. I am also able to look out across the open and empty farm. Far away I can see a tree, one lonely tree. I feel like I could climb to the topmost branches if given the chance.

March 1941 – Day 37

I write for my father, I write that our story may be remembered. Once a journalist always a journalist I suppose. There is a girl from the farm who visits each day. She comes just before dawn when the soldiers begin to wake up and demand their black coffee. I saw the girl the first day we arrived. From the kitchen she gave me paper and a stick of charcoal. I gave it back to her the next morning before my writing could be discovered. She has promised to keep my diary safe. The girl’s name is Julia but I will call her Engel for she is the closest thing to an angel that I have discovered in this forsaken place.

March 1941 – Day 42

Engel has brought me a pear this morning, the last of the fruit from the lonely tree on the hill. I never loved pears, strawberries from our patch in Berlin or wild blackberries from the nearby woods. They were the fruits I enjoyed the most. There is a rumble from my stomach as I think about the sweetness, gorging myself on so much juicy fruit. My mother hated when I returned from the forest with my clothing stained purple from the juice. Today I ate that pear and did not share a bite. I ate it core, stem and all so that the soldiers could find no evidence, nothing to betray my Engel and the goodness she risks all to do. The pear was tart, a horror to eat but such a difference to the gruel they feed us. That is when they remember to feed us. If it is not gruel it is stale bread. If it is not bread it is nothing at all.

April 1941 – Day Unknown

I have lost count how many nights and days I and the other children have remained cooped up, cold and separated from the adults. We once played games and sang what songs we could remember. Now the energy we have remaining goes towards keeping warm. We remain in our dorms when we can, huddled together, enjoying the touch of another. Each day passes slowly until the soldiers drive us out. There is exercise though I wonder if it is for our own good or merely a form of entertainment for those men and their guns. Engel continues to bring me paper and charcoal though we never speak. Dutifully she takes my words and hides them away. There is no more food, the pear her final gift I suppose. But as I consider it her secrecy and sanctity is a gift of sorts. I know she is doing all she can and for such an engel as she I give prayers of thanks.

April 1941 – Day Unknown

Engel whispers that it is still April. The cold makes me think February has gone on forever. I wonder why we have been forced from our home, our city, our life and brought to this place. Engel says that Germans are cruel but I think we are Germans too. Can we not be German and Jew both? As one of the oldest in the camp I feel frustrated I have no one to ask. I dare not ask the soldiers. One boy, Hans asked if his sister could remain in bed. He explained to the soldier that his sister was sick. The soldier laughed and made poor Liesel run along the fence while we did our exercise. I fear her cold will worsen.

April or May 1941 – Day Unknown

Liesel coughed all night and my sleep was restless. I gave her my blanket for what little help it was. Hans tried singing songs to the little girl, too quiet for me to understand the words. In a way it worked, Liesel stopped her crying. The wheezing of her shallow breath continued all night long. I am surprised the soldiers did not come to tell us to be quiet. By morning others have begun to cough as well. If we had been home the mother could have asked our friend Doctor Weber to make a house call. I do not think the doctor will find us here.

May 1941

More children have succumbed to the sickness. One or two of the younger have already passed on. Perhaps I envy them. Their suffering is over. It is not nice to die though. In a way to combat the sickness in children the soldiers have begun to shower us. As groups of ten or so, boys and girls apart, we are escorted away from the chicken pen and given a burst of chilled water. It is refreshing but I think it will do little to stop the spread of the illness. One or two of the soldiers I have seen cough. I wonder if it is the illness catching or the cigarettes they smoke. My father smoked once. A vice he can afford no longer.