by Annh Browder
My mama always said that flies were the first sign that something had died. When autumn came and our garden would die, flies would soon follow. They would lay their eggs in the dead plants’ husks, and, eventually, those eggs would hatch. I would often watch them eat away at the husks, intrigued by how quickly their food would disappear. I had what my mother called “a morbid curiosity” with the creatures. I just couldn’t understand how something so small could destroy so much. Mama told me that flies only ever took what wasn’t theirs—that they waited until the right moment to swarm and steal. I always thought she was being silly.
When the flies took my grandparents, we had to move to the countryside. I didn’t want to leave the city, but Papa insisted it was for the best.
“You’ll like the country,” he’d told me. “There’s fresh air and plenty of animals to care for.”
I could only hope that he was right. I liked animals, but I’d lived my entire life in the city. All my friends were there, and a farm in the country didn’t seem like a good place to make friends.
After we left the city, we walked for a long time—at least two days. Papa said we had to avoid any roads, so we hiked through the muddy woods. My little legs were practically useless against the deep, thick mud, so Mama had to carry me. I remember being nervous when we arrived on a small farm. When a strange man came out of a small house, I was terrified. Mama and Papa spoke to him in quiet voices. I remember the way Papa’s hands shook as he placed a wad of money into the strange man’s hand. Money was always hard to come by. Papa had wiped his brow nervously and Mama held me in her arms as the stranger looked at me funny. I didn’t like that look. I wanted to go home. I longed for our small apartment in the city and our tiny rooftop garden. I had always felt safe there, but this place didn’t seem safe at all.
We lived in the strange man’s barn for a long time—long enough for me to have two more birthdays. Papa had made the hayloft into a small living space for us. It wasn’t much, but it reminded me of our old home in the city. The entire hayloft was only about ten feet wide and eight feet long. All our belongings were stuffed into two suitcases, so they didn’t take up too much space. Since we didn’t have any drawers, we lived out of those suitcases.
Every night, Papa would pull up the long wooden ladder that we used to climb up there. “Don’t want any critters climbing up here to steal my snuggles,” he’d said before kissing me on the head. I had laughed at that. Papa always knew what to say to make me laugh. The three of us slept on an old straw-stuffed mattress that the strange man had given Papa. Mama would sleep on the left, Papa on the right, and I would be in the middle. I liked it that way. It was warm and, though it was small, I always looked forward to climbing into that bed after saying my prayers.
Hide-and-Seek was my papa’s favorite game. Sometimes, more strangers would come to the farm, and we would play it. Mama and Papa would grab me and run into the hayloft to hide. Papa would pull up the long ladder, and all of us would sit in the farthest corner and be as quiet as possible. They never told me why we played with strangers, but I enjoyed playing nonetheless. Mama and Papa never looked like they were having fun. The men wouldn’t find us, but they would come close on several occasions, checking the barn’s floor. If Papa hadn’t pulled up the ladder, they would have climbed it and found us in no time. I was happy that my papa was so good at Hide-and-Seek.
When winter came, things got much more difficult. Our hayloft home wasn’t very warm anymore, and Mama got sick. I tried helping Papa around the farm as much as I could. Even when we had so little, he’d still managed to make me presents every December. I wanted to help him—to make him as happy as he’d made me with those wooden animals he’d carved on that farm. Mama was always too tired to do her chores, and I was more than willing to pick up some of her slack. Most chores were too hard for me, but Papa was always happy to help when I needed it. He’d always said I was his favorite helper. I really loved my papa.
Mama started to feel a little bit better, and her belly started to get bigger. She said I was going to have a little brother or sister when the flowers started to bloom. I was excited to finally have someone to play with. Even though Mama felt better, she still couldn’t do all her chores, so I would keep myself busy by helping as much as possible.
The weather started to warm up, and Mama’s belly was as big as ever, but I noticed that the strange men hadn’t come to play Hide-and-Seek in a while. I wanted to ask Papa about it, but he never liked when I brought the strange men up. The flowers would start blooming soon, and I would have a sibling to play Hide-and-Seek with, so I wasn’t too sad about it. I’d much rather play with someone younger than me anyway. It would be much easier to win that way.
One night at supper, the familiar sound of an engine had interrupted our prayers. The strange men had come back. Papa and Mama gave each other a look that made my stomach feel weird. There were more trucks this time and, with them, more men. I was no longer interested in playing Hide-and-Seek with strangers. I didn’t want to play with anyone but Mama and Papa.
The strangers did not search for us in the usual spots this time. They all came straight into the barn and began yelling in a language I could not understand. I had thought that the strangers had found us, but Papa and Mama insisted that we stay hidden and keep ourselves quiet. Mama looked scared. Strange sounds came from the barn floor, and a ladder was placed against the edge of the hayloft we now called home.
Mama cried when the strangers climbed into the loft and started yelling. One man picked me up and slung me over his shoulder. I screamed for my parents as the man carried me back down the ladder. I watched as Papa climbed down the ladder behind Mama. Two men stood in front of them, yelling at them. Mama and Papa kneeled on the ground and placed their hands on their heads. The man holding me stopped to speak to another one of the strangers in their odd language. I could feel my body trembling in fear as the other man grabbed one of my pigtails, observing my blond hair with a smile that made my heart drop.
After the men finish speaking, Papa was jerked up by his arm and pulled out of the barn. I was carried behind him, my eyes frantically searching for Mama. I waited for her to follow us. I entertained the possibility that she was taking so long because of her big belly. Mama wasn’t very strong nowadays, and she wouldn’t be until the baby came. The strangers must have had to help her stand. I had helped her on multiple occasions.
I can still hear the gunshots from that night. They were so loud that my body jumped in surprise. I was old enough to know what they meant. I was old enough to know that Mama was gone. The flies would come for her soon. I didn’t know much about Heaven, but I had hoped that whoever was watching the gates would let the baby in too. Mama would be lonely if they didn’t.
Papa and I were placed in the back of a truck with the strange men. I was crying so loudly that one of the men hit me. Papa was quiet. Even as he held my hand, I felt scared. The strangers were not friendly like I thought they’d be. I could not understand what they were saying, but it did not matter. They did not speak to me anyway. They only looked at me and snickered. The men spoke to Papa a few times, but he did not understand them and did not speak back. Papa never cried, but I knew he was sad. His blue eyes didn’t shine the way they normally would, and that scared me more than anything. If my papa—the man who had kept his cheerful demeanor through every circumstance—was not smiling, then something must be terribly wrong.
I don’t remember how long we were in the truck, but I do remember falling asleep for most of it. The strange men shook me awake when we arrived at our destination. They pulled us out of the truck and ushered us toward the train station. There were so many people there, waiting for a train. Papa held my hand the entire time. I could not stop shaking. I didn’t have time to grab a coat before leaving the farm, and snow had begun to fall all around us. Even amongst the countless warm bodies, I could see my every exhale come out in a puff of steam. I tried focusing on that instead of the blistering pain of the cold.
A train finally showed up—massive and daunting. I didn’t want to get on it, but the mean men wouldn’t stop screaming at us. I even saw one of the men kick another man in the stomach. There were a lot of children on the train, but none of them looked happy to be there. We were all scared. Someone in the train car began singing a hymn, and almost everyone joined in—my papa included. The singing made me sad. I had liked that hymn before the train, but, now, I don’t think I could stand to hear it ever again.
We were on the train for nearly eight days. Papa and I huddled together with strangers for warmth. Sometimes people would sing. Sometimes people would die. The flies came for all the dead—even the children. One mother was so distraught at the loss of her daughter that she sobbed the entire night through, wailing so loudly that no one could sleep. No one dared ask her to quiet down. I think everyone understood her pain. I felt terrible for her loss.
“Don’t worry,” I had told her. “My Mama is in heaven. She’ll take care of her until you can get there.”
The woman hugged me tightly—so tight that I could barely breathe. I didn’t complain, though. I was happy to help her. I never learned her name, but I suppose I didn’t have to. I never saw her after that night.
When the train finally stopped, we were ushered out of the train car one at a time, a strange man in a long coat inspecting everyone. He looked at me for a singular moment before nodding his head toward another man. I was snatched away from my papa and thrown into a long line. My papa didn’t come with me. The man in the long coat eyed him for a few moments before sending him in the opposite direction.
“Papa!” I had screamed at him. “Papa!”
I wanted him to look at me—to fight for me! I was only a child. I knew the strange men wouldn’t listen to me, but Papa was a grownup and grownups listened to other grownups, right? Papa only waved at me over his shoulder. That was the first time I’d seen my papa cry.
I’ve been here for almost two years now. I haven’t seen my papa since that day at the train station. They shaved my head and wrote numbers on all of us. I had to learn the strange language that those men spoke. I hate it here. Every day I work until my fingers bleed, and there is never enough food. I don’t have a bed of my own—there aren’t enough of those either. I sleep with a woman named Helga . . . though I don’t think I’ll be sharing a bed with her much longer. She’s ill—too ill to work. The flies will find her soon. They’re everywhere nowadays.
I keep praying. I don’t know if I believe in God anymore, but praying is a way to get my mind off the constant pain in my stomach. I’m always hungry. Everyone is always hungry. I can still recall the words on the large black gate that greeted us when we came to this place: “Arbeit Macht Frei”—words I have come to learn mean “work makes one free.” I suppose those words are to make us feel better, but they frighten me. I don’t feel free. I have not felt free since my mama died. I still work—not to be free, but to earn my food. I have given up on freedom. I will never be free. I will only be alone. I am alone.
I have tried making friends, but they end up leaving. I don’t know where they go—I don’t think anyone really knows. The strange men in long coats take them someplace, and they never come back. So many people leave, but there is still never enough room or food for the rest of us.
The strange men have come to take me to that place now. Everyone that lives in our little hut now marches in an unknown direction. The men told us that we were going to take a shower. I hope they’re telling the truth. I haven’t felt clean in so long. Mama always scolded me when I didn’t have my bath. I can hear music as we approach a large building. I don’t like the music . . . it reminds me of the songs we sang on the train. I want to turn back, but I know I can’t. The strange men won’t let me.
We are being ushered inside of the building now. The men are screaming at us in that strange language I have learned to recognize: “Move! Move!” One man does not yell. This man stays silent as he holds the heavy metal door open for us. The man wears the same long coat that the others wear, but this man has a mask that covers his face. Large, bulbous round eyes peer straight at me, a long tube hanging where his mouth should be. I have seen this face before. I have watched it eat away at rotting vegetables. I study the red band around his arm and the familiar symbol that represents so much suffering. The man’s mask is the last thing I see as I am shoved into a dark room, a hissing sound filling the air. I smell the stench of the building, and it is enough to make someone behind me gag. Some people are crying; others are praying. I know that neither will help them—they have never helped me. The smell is worse now, and I feel dizzy and nauseous. I know I’m dying, but I’m not scared. My mama always told me that flies were a sign that something had died. As I inhale the smelly gas and recall the masked man at the door, I know that the flies will be here soon enough, and I am ready to greet them.