The Heat

 The heat was oppressive — no surprise, it was July. No relief. There were showers, but it was not water that flowed from their pipes. Crammed together, whimpers climbing the wooden walls, no escape. Hope lost for some, ready to go, ready for the relief that only death could bring.

Thoughts went to the apartment in Warsaw — not a mansion, just a three-room third-floor walk-up. Cold water to cool oneself. How one missed those simple things, the things we all took for granted. The smells of cooking swirling up the stairs: onions, cabbage, meat. One could never tell from the aroma what kind of meat was cooking. Here, in the now, there is no doubt.

How this heat crushes the soul — stripped of humanity, stripped of a future. There were days I begged to be taken. I would catch my reflection in the window and not recognize myself: a poor waif, beads of sweat dripping down a shaved head, hollow eyes staring back.

I prayed for a breeze, only to recoil as the wind carried the smell from the furnaces — another soul lost. They were rushing now. They knew. The onslaught continued. Orders were orders.

The end came when the heat turned to frigid cold and snow. I awoke to silence. Through the ice-coated window, I saw no one. The chimneys stood empty, no smoke, no smell. Then the rumble — vehicles approaching, men in rows, haggard but proud. They entered and saw what was never supposed to be seen, what can never be forgotten. They wrapped blankets around me. The chill remained, and I begged for heat.