The Holocaust: A Survivor Of The Holocaust

1 . 1 3 . 1 9 4 1; Too old. Too young. Too short. Too tall. I could not understand how the Nazis could just kill. They killed mercilessly and without thought. They murdered simply because someone was too different. They took people away for being too Jewish. My family was too Jewish. My parents were too old.
My brothers and I were holding each other tight, trying our best not to think of the events of just hours before. We focused on everything around us—the little warmth in our bodies, the sound of the train running over the hard tracks of the railroad, the rough floor of the train. We were quiet, making no noise. By some kind of miracle, my youngest brother, Adam, was sound asleep in my arms. The brother closest to my age, Levi, was just sitting there, staring straight ahead. We stayed like this, inaudible, until the train screeched to a halt.
One-by-one, the Nazis picked people off and took them away. Some to be burned, some to be given a job, some to be brought to a different camp. I could hear what they were saying as they neared my family: they were asking questions. They were asking how old we were and what we could do. I will admit now that my brothers were not the brightest, nor were my parents. Levi was always the oversharer, believing that everyone should be truthful no matter what the situation, and Adam could do nothing but follow in Levi’s footsteps. They were in front of me in line. They did not