Hello, my name is Dylan T. Williamson, my story is titled: We Are Forgotten.

In my story characters struggle to deal with disagreements that do not involve them,
however stem from higher powers. My truth of war is: conflict overpowers morality.
The beginning of my story takes place in Amsterdam where my main character,
Franni, a ten year old girl who lives with her father in a bakery that supplies food for
the German army. Her mother had died a few years before and she has never fully
recovered. One day a Jewish refugee family comes to live with them, their names
are: Jasia, Falicia, Jona and Max. They are later taken hostage to a camp where they
are worked and tortured, then eventually taken to a gas chamber known as the
chimney. The section I will read talks about the end for these prisoners.
We Are Forgotten
I will not lie to you, I am afraid. Thats inevitable. People expect you to brave,
however in reality it isnt a trait of survival. We are meant to avoid what makes us cry,
what makes us hurt. The definition of bravery isnt that you dont feel fear, but to put it
aside so that you can break through it a pillar of salt cannot change our passion.
Mama always reminded me of that, whenever there was a storm, we would glare out
the desolate window, admiring the lightning, the aroma of speed lingering. We
admired the beauty in the fear, and saw only the most pained of reflections as a loss.
Mamas death was a loss, and it was my fault. If that wretched cold hadnt found its
way into my small lungs, I would still be skating along on ice to deliver bread. Mama
would not have been standing by the shadowed man and the angry gun. Mama
wouldnt be buried along side the tree in the park; I would be, I should be. Mama being
dead is my fault. Papas cries are my fault. Everything is my entire fault. I try no to
dwell on those demons, and Papa is comfort still, and delivering bread too. But nothing
leaves, not fully.
The year is 1939, A power rises in the East, a volcano gradually rising from
the scabbed earth. A small girl skids and screams down the street on a sad bike,
teetering and tottering as it grips to the frosted ground. Cold clouds float about
among tall oak limbs. Small leaves litter the ground as the trees shed their clothing
and cotton begins to fall from the sky. The girl slides around the corner in a hustling
motion and maroons her bike by a strangling fence. Taking the stone stairs two at a
time, she throws a hand at the small bell attached to the front of the door. As her
palm slams into it, the bell shimmers like a golden jewel, then falls back and slams
against the brick wall once again. After a few seconds, a squat woman emerges from
the house, her apron straps falling to the ground, trailing her as she stumbled.
Franzezka, you are early, and the store does not open for another 10
minutes!
The woman scolded with a smile on her face, the girl giggled and threw her
arms around the womens large waist.
Aunie, Franz!

The two then arrange themselves into a fit of giggling, and the woman finally
hands the girl a small coin.
Your papa doesnt pay you nearly enough, honey, go buy yourself a candy.
The girl tosses her one last lingering kiss on the cheek and vaulted down the
stairs, shoving the coin into her worn pockets along with an extra button, and the key to
her mothers china plated jewelry box. She tears down the streets, and faces tore through
the wind. Many hellos chased her, small arrows shifting past her hunched figure,
desperately trying to grasp her attention but there was none to be given. Breaking, she
leaned her bike against the wall and tossed a loaf of bread to a man standing by a set of
doors. The sign above him read small red letters: Voedsel. Food.
Frani, do not throw the bread, it will fall!
Hollered the baker, but Frani payed him no attention, she was to focused on her next stop.
She turned corners, making her way to the park where her mother had been buried four
years ago. Started up the tall winding hill to she stared at the small twisting oak tree, one
of the few that hadnt yet lost its golden clothes a last lingering light in the city,
surrounded by shades of grey. The girl halted at the top of the hill and sat her bike against
the tree, leaning her head against the warm gravestone, she watched the city once again
with her mother, and the little girl was happy. Or at least only for a few seconds until, it
was time to leave and go home to her Papa who always waited with a warm lunch to
shove into her mouth before she sauntered off to school, a tall brown building centered in
a park, but the cities main square. The girl was never pleased about this experience, you
could tell. She disregarded her teachers and constantly back talked. She never enjoyed
being told what to do, or who to be. However that was exactly the point of her school,
and in her mind, would forever be.
The final bell rang, a harmony for her excited legs and Frani dashed home, to
find her Papa, sitting at the counter of his busy bakery. Gathering shimmering treasures
that surrounded the counter. Coins he had received for his delicious pastries, and
steaming loaves of bread that day. She tossed her things behind the counter and began to
roll the dough for tomorrows delicacies. It was tender and warm, giving her hands
salvation from the frost bitten air lingering outside.
How were the deliveries? enquired papa, sitting down on a stool by the girl
Mrs. Folkward, owes us money for the past two days, but other then that
everything was pleasant.
Good. Stated Papa. Leaning over and rubbing her head, turning her already
distressed air into a growling monster. Frani, smiled and tossed her hair across her eyes, a
few strands sticking to the bridge of her nose. There was suddenly a loud knock on the
door, and a broad man crossed the threshold of the shop. He sauntered forward and spoke
silently to the girls Papa. Across the mans chest hung a small four-sided star, a swastika.

Her papa stammered and muttered something to the man, who smiled and stalked out of
the store. Frani sat up and walked over to her Papa.
Who was that? Why did he come- Started Frani.
He was a member of the German army, now recently under the command of
Adolf Hitler.
Why was he here? asked Frani.
He wants me to supply bread and pastries to the army. A request I am not able
to refuse. Papa responded, his eyebrows gradually moving into one another until his face
was a worried mess. .
Whos Adolf Hitler? Frani stammered it was obvious that her father was
upset, but she couldnt possibly understand why.
He is a man with inhumane priorities.
That was the end of that conversation, and as days turned to weeks, Frani began
to spend her days fearing signs and swastikas put into windows and nailed to doors. Papa
had told her that she had no need to worry, but she had watched families torn apart and
thrown into trucks with curtains so they were hidden even from the sunlight. Frani didnt
want to loose her Papa; she couldnt loose him.
One night while the two sat eating a small dinner, a sudden knock came from
the door and echoed of the walls. Papa stood slowly and went to unlock the wooden
frame. A figure entered the bakery, lifting Frani from her worried trance. The figure
turned out to be a family, of four people. A tall man sauntered in and just two his left
stumbled an older boy. Behind the two swept a lean and beautiful women, and a tiny shy
girl, who at first sight looked to be a doll, attached to her thigh.
The man stepped forward and introduced himself to Frani and Papa, who sttod slightly in
front of her.
Hello, my name is Jona, and this is my wife and my children, we have been
informed that you are open to housing us as refugees in your home.
Papa sat looking into the strange mans eyes for a minute then showed him
upstairs, where Frani and Papa lived above the bakery. Papa beckoned them to sit at the
small dining table, and offered them food and drink. When they had finished, Papa
ushered the man and the women into another room to talk, and left the children alone in
the kitchen.
Hello, my name is Franzeska, but you can call me Frani if you would like,
Frani stammered, Oh, and I am ten years old. The boy gave her a smile and offered a
reply,

Hello, my name is Max, and this is my sister Jasia. I am thirteen and she is
nine.
Jasia lifted her head and gave Frani a little wave then immediately went back to
hiding in the confounds of her curly raven hair. Frani giggled and they sat in silence,
eyeing one another. Frani noticed that they both had curled brown hair, ashes that sat
perched on top of there heads, as well as dark shimmering eyes. There hands were white
and scared, as if Jack Frost had been biting at the fingers for far to long. Frani noticed her
own hands and thought of her sky-grey eyes and golden waterfall of hair.
Suddenly Papa and the mother and father emerged from the room and grasped
at their childrens hands.
Papa gave Frani a smile and gestured to the family,
Will you show them how to prepare the pastries in the morning, oh and I think
is best that you dont go to school for the time being, alright Franzeska? Frani let out a
squeal and ran to grasp her Papa in a warm hug. He let out a deep laugh and showed the
family to the basement, where they would be staying in the night. Frani offered Jasia to
sleep in her room but Papa said it was necessary that they stay in the basement.
Frani it is very important that no one knows they are here, is that understood?
Stated Papa, staring into Franis eyes.
I understand Papa. Said Frani, her eyes showing her abrupt fear, small rabbit
eyes with an approaching predator. But papa, Im scared, why cant I tell people.
Papa leaned down and grasped her arms,
Frani, you must keep quiet.
The next morning Frani woke and showed the silent family how to make
pastries like; Packzi, a fried doughnut, and specialty food Papa crafted around the
holidays. As well as Sernik, a Polish delicacy that somehow found it s cheesecake recipe
into Papas Bakery. The mother introduce herself as Falicia, and that she used to be a
school teacher here in the city until her Jewish school was shut down by the Nazi Army.
This was the first that Frani had ever heard of anything like Hitler shutting down schools
or stores, and she began to worry about the bakery. What would they do if the bakery
were shut down? Where would they go? Frani couldnt leave here, the city was her
home, and everywhere she looked her mothers memories slid and flowed about walls
and she could not loose those.
When the pastries were finally pulled from the oven, Frani grabbed her coat and
dashed to her mothers tree overlooking the city. She tore up the hill her petals going into
hyper speed and she dismounted her metal steed, sliding to the ground by the grey
rectangle of stone.
Mama, there is a family living with us now. They are nice, but Papa is worried.
What if Hitler comes to take the bakery? Mama, I cant loose you again!

Frani slid to the ground and felt wet streams glide from the eyes to her cheeks,
and finally resting at the foot of the grave. She lay on the ground until the sun began to
switch places with night, and frost began to infiltrate her clothes. Standing slowly, she
grabbed her bike and walked it home to the bakery.
When she arrived home Jasia sat by the door eyed Franni as she entered through
the doors.
Where were you? Jasia asked silently
What? stuttered Frani, hanging her coat on the hat rack of to the corner.
Where were you? said Jasia, much louder this time.
Visiting my Mama. Responded Frani, her tone hinting that the conversation
was over.
Oh.. said Jasia, quietly understanding that it was time for her to leave, small
tears began to form in the coroner of her eyes and Jasia stood, her small frame made its
way towards the basement.
Wait. Franni responded with hesitation, she stared into the eyes of the small
sad girl and recognized herself, and with a weak voice asked, Do want to play a game?
The two girls went and sat by the counter in the bakery, where they spent the
night telling and acting out stories of dragons and damsels, of knights and kings, and of
soldiers and prisoners.
Weeks went by and the two girls grew closer and closer together, running down
the desolate streets of Amsterdam during the cold winter months. It was the turn of the
year and 1940 lay just a few paces away. On December thirty first the two girls were
dancing across the bakery floor as Max chased them. Jona, Falicia and Papa sat at the
counter drinking and cheering, while the clock struck midnight. At 12:23 AM a knock
arrived at the door. At 12:23:30 AM the refugee family was hidden in the basement with
Frani. At 12:24 AM there were soldiers searching the house. At 12:26 AM soldiers
walked inches above their heads, boots clonking along the ceiling. At 12:29 AM a solider
lingered above their heads and let out a hollow knock on the floor. At 12:30 AM the
basement hatch was opened and Jasia let out a scream. At 12:35 the ruthless Nazi soldiers
were loading the family including Frani into a military truck. At 12:36 Papa began to
scream at the men to let his daughter go. At 12:36:15 AM the soldier put a gun to Papas
head. At 12:36:20 AM a gunshot rang down the street corner. At 12:36:21 AM Frani saw
the last glance of her Papas face, before he collapsed to the ground. In 15 minutes,
Franis whole world had folded in on itself, and again it was her fault.
The truck drove well into the morning, and even longer after still, there were
five or six families packed into the truck, cramped and clenched each other all the way to
the camp. The fragrance of terror showered their sense in an undesirable lingers of pain

and rational fear. Frani could still see her papas face staggering toward the cobbled street.
She could still in vision his strong body collapsing in a weak trance toward the floor.
Up ahead Frani could see the outlines of what looked like a shallow city full of
two story buildings. Standing alone was a tall tower with smoke bellowing from the top,
a fat chimney puffing clouds. As the vehicle entered under an archway that read Arbeit
Machtirei Frani found herself staring into the faces of sunken ghosts, slowly dragging
there weak bodies across a dead courtyard. The truck halted and Jona and Max were the
first to tumble to the ground. Then followed Jasia, Falicia and finally Frani. Jasia stood
and grasped her elbow, blood staining her fingertips.
Mama, it-it hurts. Stammered Jasia as she tried to grasp at Falicias hand.
SHHHH. Jasia its okay, ill fix it later. Whispered Falicia, her face pale with
fear.
A man approached and herded the group toward a tall building. Men, women
and children, there heads shaved and hands cut and bruised watched as the misshapen
families were pushed inside. Waiting for them were black and white jump suites, almost
like a zebra costume. Except they were no longer free like animals; but imprisoned, like
beasts.
Where are we? Where are we? When we entered the prison, people that
appeared to be skeletons in black and white pajamas stared at us, as if we were the
appalling group of people. As if we were wearing pajamas. Felicia is crying and
grasping Jasias hand. Jona holds mine as he grabs maxes hand with his other. I can tell
that we are not safe here, that they are afraid. Then it hits me. PAPA! I begin to cry and
Jona squeezes my hand tight, to tight. I understand the message, I cant cry here, or at
least not now. We walk into a building and tall men guide us to a room full of pajamas.
They are black and white, like the ones outside. Jona begins to undress me and place
large pajamas around my torso and on my hips. As I adjust myself he does the same to
Max and Jasia, then begins on himself. When everyone is dressed the guards push us
outside where we are pushed into a tight uniformed line and they begin to shave the hair
off our heads. I begin to cry as long locks tumble of my scalp and tumble to the ground.
The guard shaving my head kicks me in the gut and tells me to be quiet. I hate him. Mama
told me never to use that word, that not even the worst of creatures deserved to hear it,
but this man did. He deserved to be hated. We were then pushed into cabins, and I sent
one last glare at the guard. We were assigned rotten beds that still had dirt lingering on
the blankets. The beds were assigned two to a bed. Falicia took one with Jasia, Max and I
took one and Jona took another with an unfamiliar man. The tall men leave the cabin and
we are left alone, eighty-two people left to forty beds. Max bends and begins to cry, and
that was my cue. I burry my head into my sleeve and scream. Papa, why did you have to
leave me? Why cant you be here? I dont know what to do. Im scared. I cry and cry
until there is no longer enough water in my body to cry anymore. So I slide of the bed and
walk over to Jona, who is sitting with Falicia and cradling Jasia in his arms.
Jona, will someone come to save us. I ask timidly, afraid of the answer. Jona
looks deep into my eyes and clearly said,

I wish I could say yes, but the reality of it that half the world has forgotten
about us, and the other half doesnt care.
They worked on the camp for days, sometimes missing two or three meals at a
time, struggling with every pitiful step. They plowed fields, and built cabins. Even the
small children were worked until their hands were blistered and swollen. Frani and Jasia
spent hours on end scrubbing at the filthy scum that covered floors of cabins. They would
work like this for three or four hours each morning. Then when the little hand matched
the big hand on the brown clock, all who wore the black and white jumpsuits would come
together into the main circle of cabins and twenty or so people would be chosen to be
taken to the giant chimney. They would never return. There were various rumors about
the chimney, some say said that it was were they burned the prisoners tattered garbs, to
be replaced with prison uniforms so that they could be recruited for the German army.
Others said it was a gate for there freedom.
These were drastic hopes, however many knew that they were not the truth. The
truth was that in those towers prisoners were burnt alive, to make room for new ones. It
was a tragic reality that no one wanted to come to terms with. Therefore people spent
there days imagining being let loose from the walls of pain and terror that held the
hundreds of prisoners. In the long hours of night, Frani would awake to see the tall man
she hated escort Falecia outside of the cabin. She would come back fifteen or so minutes
latter with tears of pain sliding down her cheeks. Frani never asked why she cried, but
Jona sure knew, and every time she left the cabin in the dark hours of night you could
hear his angry breathing from across the room. Frani never understood why he didnt get
up and hit the hated man straight across the face, walloping him until he begged for
mercy. Of course eventually that became the reality and Jona stood and punched the man
in the gut and the next day Jona was in the line to be taken up the hill to the chimney of
freedom. Falicia screamed for her husband but in despair eventually collapsed to the
ground, grasping at Jasia, Max and Frani. Crying they all lay against each other until a
guard came and kicked hem viciously to stand. Frani couldnt help but want for that
chimney to be a doorway to the outside world. However everyone knew the truth, and
even if that was the end of the road, it was better then where they all were now.
For the next week the routine was never altered, and like clockwork we survived
until we could no longer. It went like this: 5:00 Wake up 5:15 -11:00 Work 11:15 a
possible meal, 12:00 those who are chosen walk to the chimney. 12:15 -4:00 Work. From
then on it was struggling to rest and eating a passable meal for dinner. Then we would
sleep, or at least we would try. However with all the illness that wafted through the room
it was almost impossible to shut out your senses to the outside world. The loud penetrates
my health and I began to feel nauseous. Sickness overwhelms my senses and the whole
camp becomes black and white. Casual vomiting and feverish like trances that alter my
senses completely until I can no longer breath. It is 12:00 pm and the chosen are about to
be taken to the hill. They call of twenty names.
Hannah Brady, 174920
Rene Blum, 793028
Ernst Arndt, 673957

Maria Bard, 729472

Lea Deustch, 913853
Franzzeska Gerson, 715928
My heart stops beating, I must have heard It wrong, it cant be me. I recite the
number in my head, and look cautiously at the six digit code stamped across my pajamas.
They are identical. I sink to the ground and stop breathing. I here other names being
called.
Falicia Vig, 738503
Jasia Vig, 768305
Max Vig, 782058
Egon Frank, 856930
NO! Not them too, not Jasia, not Max. I look over and see Falcias eyes being
drained as Max tries desperately to hold his head tall, and Jasia sinks into her mothers
lap. I stand and catch Maxes gaze. I mouth a single sentence to him. A sentence that I
never mouthed to mama before she left, or to papa before he collapsed but I would not
miss this opportunity, not now. I lift my lips up and down and he understands and mouths
back, I love you too.
The group of twenty is marched up the hill, like a trail of ants they do not gain, or
loose speed, but gradually struggle up the shoe-ridden path. As they begin to reach the
chimney tension grows and you can see people shaking and struggling to gain air into
their lungs. A man falls to the earth and Frani watches as a soldier pulls out his gun and
pulls the trigger. From then on there is no breaking the silence. It consumes them,
dragging their souls closer and closer to the tall cylinder. As the door is opened Frani
peak into a long room filled with benches and shelves. As they are herded inside they are
instructed to remove all clothing. Frani struggles to tear off her Pajamas and places them
next to her worn down shoes on a shelve. Jasia and Max also begin to remove their
clothes. They linger on each button on each sleeve, so not to speed up what is inevitable.
When everyones bodies sit exposed, their clothing marooned inside of rows of shelves.
They are pushed into a cold dark room, and the door is closed.
I stand with my body surrounded by others, I can here quiet whimpering and I lean and
grasp at Jasias hand, and Max grabs mine. Jasia whispers, her voice cracking
.
Frani Im scared.
Me too, Jasia. Said Frani. She breathes looking at the sad bodies lingering
around her. Then a last idea, a last act of freedom appears in her mind, A poem, a song
called. There is a Mission Today She sucked in air and began to sing,
It's a hell of a life and you feel the strain
but you'd do the whole thing over again.

Still you pray for the day when there'll be no war

So you can see what in h*ll you've been fighting for.
Suddenly many others began to join in and soon all twenty prisoners were
singing the song of freedom and peace, showing the truth of war,
You're doing your job. You're winning the fight
Doing your best to make things right.
Just hope you'll live thru it and someday see
That "lasting peace in a world that's free!
And as the last verse was sung, a poison fog began to fill the desperately small
chamber, and their lingered a small light in every single heart, all beating in unison. A
light that yelled, although we are small, we are strong, although we are hungry and sick
and tired, we have never been more alive. We will never give up we will never surrender.
Because we are alive and will fight until our dying breathe. That is the truth of war,
fighting so strongly for what you believe in that it becomes a part of you. The simple fact
of war is that we are not violent, but a burning conflict deep in our hearts that says. This
is who I am, and no one will take that way, but they sure as hell can try. We are freedom
squared, and not even something as desolating as dawn could penetrate such a strong
resistance.