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70 8 Life in Sobibór We have heard from people who had fled the areas near Sobibór and Be¬¶ec that the camps in these places are killing centers. Nevertheless , part of me has not wanted to believe their stories. Now I am here at Sobibór. A tall barbed-wire fence stands before us. We are surrounded by black-uniformed Ukrainians, and beyond them stands the deep forest. Flowers, trees, grass, and a nicely paved road appear to mark the camp’s entrance gate. I certainly haven’t expected a death camp to be decorated so attentively, but this does nothing to assuage my fear. Surely this is the place where our father and so many others from Izbica have been taken and never heard from again. Everything begins to make sense: if the Germans want to murder us quietly, this is the perfect place to commit the crime, in the middle of nowhere. Part of me thinks that, after all the experiences I’ve suffered through, at least this will be my end. No more hunger. No more fear. No more watching the deaths of my friends and family. Finally, I will have some peace. But at the same time, I tell myself, I am only a teenager. I want to live. I want with all my heart to live. We are standing on the sandy ground of a receiving area alongside the railroad tracks. Escape is an impossibility, for we are watched not only by the armed Ukrainians but also by several SS officers and a huge guard dog. Once everyone has exited the trucks, an SS officer calls out, “Are there any professionals or tradespeople? Doctors, dentists, pharmacists, plumbers, mechanics, electricians, shoemakers, tailors, step forward!” One of the main lessons we have learned since the beginning of the war is that it is always good to be useful. My brother, clever and quick as always, senses our chance. He immediately grabs my hand and drags me out from the crowd. The officer asks Symcha to state his profession. Symcha replies that he is a pharmacist and that I am his assistant. The officer nods in approval and tells us to stand to the side. In this manner a few dozen other people are also selected. I know that my older brother has just saved my life. We are almost certain that those not selected, including Brancha, Toba, and Sara, are marked for death. With tears in our eyes, we say good-bye for the last time. Even my seven-year-old niece cries when she hugs me, knowing that she will be killed. Along with the other selectees, Symcha and I are led into the camp. Each of us is aware that the other might be his only relative left alive. My and Symcha’s survival are what matters most to me right now. Though he does not express it in words, I know that Symcha must feel the same way. To survive this ordeal, we must continue doing all that we can to protect each other. The camp appears at first glance to have a perimeter of about one to two miles. There are about fifty small- to medium-sized single-story buildings , all within a triple-rowed, barbed-wire fence surrounding the camp. Watchtowers manned by armed Ukrainian guards are located at intervals along the fence. Interior barbed-wire fences divide the camp into several subareas. We are given clothing, a blanket, a bowl, and a spoon by a Jewish foreman called a kapo. This kapo is apparently one of several prisoners selected by the Germans to oversee other prisoners. He wears a special armband and cap. Although he is friendly to us, we assume he is a traitor, given that he also carries a whip. The kapo then escorts us to our wooden bunk beds in the prisoners’ barracks. There we wait, uncertain of what comes next, until dozens and then several hundred prisoners begin arriving in the square outside the barracks. Though they appear to be tired, they also seem to be relatively healthy and well fed. A tiny glimmer of hope appears. Can this be a work camp after all? We venture outside, where we notice a dense, foul-smelling fog that has enveloped the camp. We approach the nearest prisoner and eagerly ask what is going on here. He answers our question with a question. “Did you arrive with anyone else?” 71 Life in...

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