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By James Fishelson
Mrs. Nicklas' Class
We are marched for one mile, two miles, a thousand miles. It does not matter anymore. I am already dead. I am just some walking bones, just a tortured soul who had been denied access to his grave.
The blows no longer hurt. I just keep walking, while others fall behind me. We are now running, but I can not feel my feet. I see a young boy, a pale-faced angel, fall to the ground. An SS man then steps on his perfect face, killing him. The SS man falls over the bloody face. He starts to beat me, screaming, "You filthy kike! All of you! This is your fault! The whole war is because of you! My people do not eat because of you! I hate you! I should kill you all!!" Little does he know; he already has. I fall to the ground and wait for my Maker to greet me. My eyes mist over with death; I still see the swastika, hovering over me.
[ AETI 1998 Table of Contents ]
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