“You filthy Jew!”
These were the types of remarks I had to endure everyday of my teenage years.
“Don’t pay attention to them, they’re just ignorant. You are the most beautiful girl I have ever met and don’t you forget that.”
These were the types of things Aldo would say to comfort me. Every time he would say things like that, I knew everything would be fine as long as I stayed with him. I held this belief despite the anti-Semitism that Hitler spawned. Little did Aldo and I know that this was the beginning of a journey of hatred and distress.
I have known Aldo ever since we were young children running around playing and simply growing up together. He always protected me in any way that he could; he never wanted to see me hurt or in pain, no matter how small or large the wound was. He was and still is very dear to my heart, for we were more than friends: we were in love. This love was something that both of us could not explain; both of our parents never approved, but it did not matter to us. It was our life and we had the right to love whoever we wanted.
My love for Aldo grew everyday as I saw his strength and courage develop. As more and more people began hating Jews, I felt torn in our relationship because he was a German. Yet he was different. He was caring and compassionate. My parents constantly told me to stop seeing him because one day he would turn against me and turn out like every other German they had encountered. They justified this with the fact that Aldo’s uncle was a Nazi commander, stating that he had hatred towards Jews in his blood. I never could believe this of my beloved Aldo he was not like that at all he would always defend me from everyone, even his own family.
Once hardships intensified, my family was forced to move into a ghetto. It literally happened in one day: our nice home was stormed by the Nazis without warning. Everything we couldn’t pack into suitcases was left behind. In face of the terrible soldiers and their rifles and dogs, we were relieved to keep our lives. Clothes, some important documents, four or five pictures, and bits of jewelry were all we packed. I was thankful to keep a small picture of Aldo and me.
Sadly, the apartment we had to move into was small, dirty, and in partial disrepair. Even worse, we had to share with three other Jewish families. I felt miserable inside knowing that I was leaving Aldo, for now we were miles and miles apart from each other. Fortunately, Aldo would still come and visit me, risking his well-being. Once, at the beginning when Aldo attempted to see me, other Germans around saw him coming out of my apartment and viciously beat him until he was senseless, calling him a traitor to the master race. After seeing him all bruised up, barely being able to speak, I begged him not visit me for it would be best. He refused, saying, “Nothing and no one will ever come between us.”
As much as my heart leapt to hear those words, I was extremely doubtful of this because of the growing rumors about horrible things called concentration camps. My heart sank once Aldo told me that the rumors were true. Aldo would be the one providing me with all the information as to what were Hitler’s plans for the Jews. They were even going to send Aldo to a Nazi training camp. Aldo was unwilling to go for he believed that what was occurring was unjust. I would advise him to go for I did not want him to be imprisoned or even worse, killed for being considered a traitor.
I didn’t see Aldo for a month and sharing the cramped apartment with the other three families did nothing to make me feel better. All the while, I worried about what the Nazi training camp might do to him. Would he remain my beloved Aldo? Or would he turn into another Nazi, a murderous, cold, monster of a human being? He was still the same when he came back, but he was fretful for my life. He told me that my family and I were going to be sent off to concentration camps. He promised that he was going to find a way to be there in the same camp. He promised me that he was going to do everything in his power to protect me.
It was the week of August 19 when my parents and I were sent off to the concentration camp named Auschwitz. This time, our eviction was worse than the last. All that we managed to put into the suitcases was taken away: the Nazis seized all the bags that we tried to bring with us and hurled their contents down to the street. There was already a large pile of things when we were shoved out of the door.
When we arrived at the camp, I was speechless after just one glance. All of the Jews already there were like walking skeletons, their malnourishment unconcealed by the ragged uniform gowns they wore. Guards stood guard as the adult prisoners worked on digging graves for their fellow sufferers. Some of the graves were actually outdoor crematoriums. The smoke from their fires turned the sky gray, and kept it sunless for days on end.
I was treated like an animal. I was beaten, ill fed, sick, and barred from washing myself. Everyday I hoped for something better but found nothing to meet those hopes. I saw death after death. At first, I couldn’t stop shuddering; gradually, though, I grew numb to it. This frightened me more than the killings, but the fear soon faded too.
Aldo promised that he would be here to protect me, yet there was no sight of him. After days and days of agony, I was starting to lose hope and believe my parents, thinking that Aldo was just like all the other Germans. Until one day while I was doing my daily task, from the corner of my eye I saw my beloved Aldo, but something had changed about him. He didn’t look at me the way he used to, the way he did when we had said our last goodbye. His sincere gaze of love, the one he only used for me, was gone.
