Gifted in the Ghetto (Completed)

Chapter One

Day 1

My name is Ela. I am thirteen years old. I am alive.

Day 2

My name is Ela Hellerova. I am from Kielce. I live in Terezin. I am alive.

Day 10

Irena has been teaching us how to write again. She told me to put my journal in the drawer. For many days we have been practicing on scraps of paper. It was hard because my hand has been shaking so.

Day 11

Today we are to write what we know. Irena says that it will help if we try to remember everything. But the thing is, I am too scared to remember.

Day 12

Irena said she will not read our journals without our permission, so we may write whatever we wish. I have been thinking about our assignment. Sometimes, at night, I let my mind creep away. But it’s hard, because it seems that I can not think of moments farther back than the day that Gabriella was shot. I cannot write anymore. I am crying too hard.

Day 35

It has been ever so long since I last wrote!

Things have been changing for me in Terezin since I first arrived here 35 days ago. I read over my last journal entries, and am surprised how strangely they are written. I used to write all the time in Kielce, but now it seems that my skills are turning rusty.

Irena talked to me after class today and asked me if I would revisit the assignment. She told me it would be difficult, but I have to try and remember as much as I can.

I have these wonderful dreams of a woman with long brown hair and a little girl who strummed a harp. Sometimes, when an officer holds up his gun to shoot, or when I feel like I am going to fall over from standing in line for so long, I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine my dreams. They keep me from screaming, falling.

Day 36

Irena asked to read my last journal entry, and she instructed me to write more about my dreams.

Last night, I dreamed of a grassy courtyard. I remember there was a little pond in the back, and for some reason I knew all of the places where the frogs liked to hide in the tangled grass. The sky was a pale yellow like the sun had just risen, and the smell of warm baked bread came in from the window of a nearby house. I could even feel the grass beneath my bare toes, cool from the morning dew.

I must go now. I hear the guards coming.

　

Day 37

When Irena read my last journal entry, she asked me if I could connect my dreams to something real. I asked her what she meant, and she said she thought that maybe my dreams were actually memories of my life.

But I do not understand this, because last night I dreamed of a great castle made of grey stones and a dragon-creature with brilliant red scales. I knew none of this could be real, just like my other dreams.

Oh, how I wish these dreams were real. Especially my dreams about Gabriella.

Day 38

Irena wants me to write of Gabriella. This is all I can remember.

The people used to say Terezin was a special camp. When the train came to Kielce last spring, the guards told us to do such strange things.

“If you can play an instrument, raise your hand,” they said. “If you can sing, raise your hand. If you can dance, raise your hand.” I raised my hand about instruments, because I could play the harp. They mentioned writing and I rose my hand again. I remember thinking something like this is true, I won a ribbon for a poem. I could not recall which poem or what ribbon, and that bothered me, but I could not think long on it, as I had to lower my hands for Gabriella. I signed to her what the guards were saying behind my back so they would not see me, and instructed her to raise her hand about something, even if it wasn’t true. When they asked about painting, I tapped her arm so she would raise her hand.

The guards corralled everyone who had raised their hand and led us to the back where they made us line up for food. It was a very hot day, I think late May, and the sun was glaring off the white pavement. I worried about getting a sunburn. It was a foolish thing to worry about.

We stood there for a long time and sweat began to trickle down my back between my shoulder blades. I was used to the heat from a long time ago, before the ghetto that is, because as a child I liked to play outside. But Gabriella is was not used to the heat, and I had to grab her shoulder to keep her from squirming.

Finally, one of the guards came down the row, a clipboard in hand. He asked each person individually what they could do and they had to answer.

My stomach clenched up immediately. I began to sweat profusely, but it wasn’t from the heat. Thinking of the moment now, I can’t help but feel as if I am falling. I wanted to scream, or cry.

Because Gabriella could not read lips.

The guard began to yell when Gabriella shook her head, unsure of what to do. She twisted around, big brown eyes filled to the brim with panic, and I tried to sign, I really did. But the guard grabbed her by the chin and made her face foreword. He pushed her to the ground, clicked his gun, and shot her in a second flat. It happened so fast that spots of my little sister’s blood were on my cheeks before tears came to my eyes. I could not scream, because I knew I would be shot as well. All I said was “Play harp,” and “Write poems.”

I do not remember what the guard said back, or even what he looked like. After a while, they all begin to blend, because each and everyone one of them have these vacant eyes. Its like looking at a glass marble. There’s nothing.