I was eight yeards old


I was eight yeards old when I was killed.

The man who killed me was very smart;

Everyone believed him when he told them we were bad.

Everyone except us. The Drek.


He called us Drek, which means "Garbage" in German.

He called us Drek, because we weren't perfect.



Perfect people.


My family owned a bakery.

Two weeks ago, the Nazis came in the night

and set it ablaze.

We lived not one hundred metres down the road.

And Mother and Father



Ran to the bakery,

and I watched as they shot my father,

and took my mother.


My Aunt came to get me from the house in the morning.

She was glad I was home.

She was glad I was alive.

I didn't leave because I was afraid.

And I cried,





We went to a hiding place, where I saw a lot of my friends from synagogue

I didn't talk to them.

They still had parents.


We listened to the Führer on the radio.

He talked about "the Final Solution to the Jewish question."


I didn't know we were a question.


The Final Soulution was to kill us all. They did it relentlessly,





They killed everyone who wore the Yellow Star.

I wore the Yellow Star.

We all wore the Yellow Star.

It was a target for the bullets, I presumed.


One month.

One month we lived in hiding.

One month we stayed alive.

One month for the Nazis to find us.

One month for me to reunite with Mother and Father.

One month for me to have my first and last lay in Dachau.


I don't blame the soldier who shot me,

I blame the man with the black hair and dark eyes.

The non-Aryan man who hated non-Aryan people.

I blame the Devil.

the Führer.

Adolf Hitler.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741