Lucia Procaccio
Saint Joseph School
1909 Third Street
Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio 44221

Word Count: 1500

"NO!" I wake up every morning like that, screaming, seeing pictures of my past that have haunted me for many years. But I also wake up every morning knowing that with my experiences come knowledge, and it is something that I can spread to all those who will listen. My name is Rose Kimel; I was born on November 3, 1932. I had a mother, father, and brother then, but in the years to come that changed greatly. We lived a happy life in Poland. I loved to ride my bike and be with my friends, but slowly that all changed. The older I became the more I realized what was happening to us. The treatment we were given just because of what we are. We lived in fear for we were Jews. We treated each hour as if it were our last. That hour did come when we were taken; I was ten and would never forget.

There was a hard knocking on our door; my father opened it without hesitation. There were six German Gestapos on our doorstep. Everyone stopped what we were doing, frozen as if we were mice being cornered by a cat. My father was trying to bargain with the Gestapo, he asked how much they wanted, so they would not take my brother and I. But that was pointless, the Gestapo did not give an answer they just pushed us out of our house. And I knew that I was not going to be coming back.

We were loaded onto a large truck and taken away. Fear was on everyone’s faces, but it was not the kind of everyday fear that you have from seeing a spider, or being in the dark, no, this fear was deeper. It was as if they had met their death already and their souls had been taken away. For we Jews knew that whatever our fate was it was no longer in our hands.

The ride on the truck lasted for a few hours then we were let off at a train. Many, many people were forced into one car, and we were next. Elderly, middle aged, youth, infants; everyone, packed in as if they were not people at all. My family had found a corner of the train that was dry and we sat down and huddled closely together. But we did not huddle for warmth as many did, we huddled because we knew this would be our only good-bye. Finally, what I had learned to call the death wagon, stopped. The doors of the train car flew open and the brisk breeze hit our faces. This fresh air was a blessing; it was a minute of hope that everything would be all right.

I remember it well, the day we walked into the Dachau Concentration Camp. We were separated right away. It was the last time that I ever saw my father and brother. My mother and I were sent to the work camp.

My possessions were taken and then my hair was taken. My hair, which was so beautiful, was cut off like it was nothing. But I came to realize that it was nothing, nothing to anyone but hair. Then came time for our identification; our numbers. Mine was 01548763, and to this day I can still see it. It was my first bit of pain; with each number being etched into my skin. I continued on, and I was given a sack to wear. My mother stayed close to me though and kept me warm when I needed it most. We were alone, trapped to make or break our future; to make an appearance was to live.

Every day we walked many miles; the cold air hit us like knives. Our job was to dig holes, deep holes. But they were not holes, they were graves. We would dig them then throw the thousands of dead in. I saw them, bodies- no, they were not bodies, more like bones. People starved to death, until their final hours of life. No one had their identities anymore; they were no one at all. It was as if they were snowflakes lost inside a pile of snow never to be found, never to be distinguished as a person.

I lived like that for three years. I only survived because of my mother. She would give me anything she had, and leave herself just enough to survive. We watched women die of illness, of starvation, from working; but we carried on. Until the end. Something made the soldiers uneasy, and they took it out on everyone. They acted harsher, they were not hesitant to kill, and they did not care if work was done anymore, because it was too late for them. Word had gotten out and talk of salvation was coming. But I knew that a final stand would come before the Germans gave in; they would make sure that as many of us were killed before anyone even had a chance to rescue us.

We woke up that morning to an early roll call. A German solider came in our barracks screaming, to get up and come outside. There were many who could barely stand; my mother was one of them. It scared me; I saw the many around me, the walking dead. Four German soldiers walked back and forth, guns in hand, and speaking softly to one another. Then they stopped. My mother was in the front of the line, and I was in the very back; I could not see her very clearly, but just enough to know what was going on. The soldiers yelled to us, " Goodbye Jews, you die today." And they started to shoot us one by one. I saw my mother fall, like a leaf that falls from a tree, with a light touch, to the ground. I had time to think of what to do though; I was at the end of the line. My mind raced frantically. My mother had given me so much, her food, warmth, company, shelter; her life. And in return I had done nothing. It was my turn to do something. I looked around for an escape path, and that is when I saw it. I ran.

I buried my self in the dead bodies, and waited. I could not see anything but the dead, and the smell made me ill. I do not know how long I waited, but I know it was a very long time. I remember hearing strange voices though and people screaming, cheering, and laughing. So I moved. I saw many survivors and an army, but it was not the Germans. I was saved, I had lived. But nothing else was alive with me. An American solider carried me out of the camp and I was taken to a hospital where I was fed, clothed, and cared for. A wonderful American nurse adopted me; she became my new mother, but I felt that nothing that she could do would ever take the place of my real mother who I would never forget.

After my experience with the Holocaust, I felt a calling to become a writer and let my feelings out about my experiences. For ten years now I have been traveling with a group of holocaust survivors. We travel around the United States and speak out about our experiences and the prejudices and injustices in our world today. We also did a four-week tour of the world, where we went to different countries and spoke to their people.

On one of our stops, in Africa, I met a child. His name was Navbia. He grabbed onto my hand, tears in his eyes and he asked, "Can I come with you?" I told the group to wait and I bent over to talk to the boy. I asked him why. He said," We are the same." So I asked him how. He replied, " That story you told, when you were ten and taken away, I was ten when it happened to me." His parents, five brothers and sisters, and relatives were killed in the Rwandan Genocide. I understood now that we were the same, both nearly slipping away with our lives. Both fixed to be the only remaining; trapped between prejudices that we were too young to understand.

That is when I realized, that the holocaust was no different then any other killings. It may have been different in numbers, but not in reason. It starts with a person who hates and turns into many who destroy, destroy people just because they are different from themselves. But killing because of differences is not the answer. It will never solve anything. You can never change how strongly someone feels about something but you can make an impact strong enough on them to make them wonder if they are doing the right thing. So ask yourself, can you make a difference by seeing everyone the same?