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A Survivor’s Story 
--By Audrey Chiang (江婉柔)        
This short historical fiction is written by teenage author Audrey Chiang (江婉柔).  Born in 2003, Audrey is an 8th grader at Castillero Middle School.  She loves writing, reading, drawing, and playing violin.
> The Holocaust Years of Lisl Winternitz’s Life
>
> I had always been proud of my culture.  Being Jewish was an honor to me.  I had never thought that the thing that I loved most would be stripped from me, leaving me feeling like an inferior, regretting every trip to the synagogue and every prayer I had whispered to God.
>
> Normal.  It was everything that I wasn’t in the long, harsh, years of war.  I had only felt this way for the first 12 years of my life, before the peaceful monotony was interrupted by the German occupation forces.  I was born on May 7,1926, in Prague, Czechoslovakia.  I lived a happy, normal, life.  Normal - I cannot write this without flinching.  This awful word is foul upon the page, and I resist the urge to snatch my pen from the paper.
>
> Back to my life. . .our family was delightful, more or less. There was me, Lisl Winternitz, and I had an older brother named Peter, who was the adventurer of the family.  He was an avid Zionist and wasn’t afraid to speak up in dark times.  He had always loved animals, making Mum frazzled every time he brought a stray street rodent home.  Mum.  My heart shivers as I write this tender word.  She was gentle, and kind, and disciplined us at just the right times. Papa was her faithful and loving partner.  He owned a wholesale business that sold floor coverings, and managed his store with a firm hand.  Papa had always done himself well.  Enough.  I cannot speak of this any longer.  My fingers shake and my heart seems to choke.  This family I once had. . .it is a long story, a story I must tell.
>
> It all started on a fateful day at school.  Mrs. Kiefer had always been a formidable woman.  She had broad shoulders, pale skin, and coarse, dark hair slicked into a flawless bun.  Her eyes were sharp and calculating, and she reserved her smile for her favorite students.  I never had the honor of sitting in the esteemed seats by her desk.  It was in the middle of mathematics, and she had called on me to answer a question.  I had been caught in the middle of a daydream, my head floating in thoughts I cannot remember now.  All I can recall are those sharp, assertive steps that tapped up the row of desks, as I failed to answer.  I raised my head, bracing myself for the usual, senseless, admonishment.  Instead, harsh words were hurled at me, painful and unforgiving, “You dirty, filthy, Jew!”  The hail of words were followed by a wet ball of spit that landed on my cheek.
>
> I was in a state of complete shock.  The spit slid down my cheek and plopped lazily onto my desk.  Her words reverberated in my foggy mind, not quite making sense. I remember leaving school that day, my crumpled pride clutched to my chest, and my mind in a state of bewilderment.
>
> The biggest shock came in December, 1941.  On the fateful day, my brother Peter was deported off to a ghetto.  Before he left, he managed to send us a note.  I remember my father seizing the crumpled piece of paper, his fingers shaking.  There was a faded word scrawled on the paper, “Terezin.”  My brother’s location.  My father closed his fist around the paper, his eyes squeezed shut, “All we can do now, is pray.”
>
> Less than a year later, my parents and I were deported to the same ghetto.  I remember the shock, and then the despair that slowly filled my veins like lead.  My parents and I numbly packed our few possessions, and were carted off to Terezin.  Once we arrived, we learned that Peter had been caring for the horses because of his way with animals.  Poor Mum fell ill after we reached the ghetto.  I remember my futile attempts of taming her fever with a dirty, damp, cloth I had somehow managed to procure.  Peter tried to smuggle away sugar that was meant for the horses and inevitably, was caught.  He was sent away to a place where most did not return from.  Mum’s illness worsened with her constant fear and worry.  Papa prayed every night, speaking in low tones at the end of the bunk.  Miraculously, Peter returned, but his face and back were scarred and bloodied with whipping, and the brother I once knew was unrecognizable.
>
> I endured the next few months sadly and silently.  I allowed myself to slide into the routine of life in the ghetto, no longer trying to find hope or happiness.  One especially cold day, my family and the rest of the Jews were forced into two lines in front of our bunks.  A uniformed woman with an uncanny resemblance to Mrs. Kiefer stood in the doorway, barking out names.  I trembled uncontrollably by my mother’s side.  Sensing her fatigue, I reached out and held her pale hand in mine.
>
> “Winternitz, Greta!”
> My mother stumbled forward.
> “Winternitz, Lennard!
> My father stepped stiffly away from the line.
> “Winternitz, Lisl!”
> I took a shaky step forward, and my hand rejoined my mother’s.
>
> The names quickly trickled to an end, and I glanced at Peter, whose face was drawn.
> “No!” His cry pierced through the sighs of relief from the people who weren’t called, “I volunteer!”
> Papa whirled around, his eyes panicked, “No,” he rasped.
>
> Several other shouts joined Peter’s outburst, and the crowd quickly converged around me, leaving me disoriented.
> Originally, 5,000 people were being sent to Auschwitz. My parents and I were part of that list. But because of Peter, and three others who volunteered, the number was knocked up to 5,004.  Later four people were sent back to stay in their stead, and one of them was me.
>
> A piece of my soul was ripped away that night.  I never got the chance to say goodbye, and as I crawled into my lonely bunk that night, all I had left was a broken conscience, and a shattered heart.
>
> The war years that followed were long and tedious.  I was assigned to designing gas masks, a gruesome and painstaking task, until the war finally ended.
>
> I knew my parents and brother were gone before the news reached me.  Nobody needed to tell me of their deaths, for I had already felt a chunk of my heart melt away as I stepped out of the train that had transported me out of Terezin.
>
> The war does many things to people, none of them good.  Sometimes, as I lie in bed and sob through the flashbacks, I wish I hadn’t survived.  But God put me here for a reason.  My life is a tribute to my family, and I must live it for them and all of the Holocaust victims.  I am alive and well because I must tell my story, the story of the Holocaust.
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【法奶日報www.lulijen.com2017.3.27.出刊，第9-1845號】