1944, Somewhere in Poland

The train car’s methodical swaying has become a second heart beat to me. The air is thick with panic and the stench of our pail for a bathroom. My hair and clothing are writhing with lice, but I don’t bother to try and pick at them any more. You could hear the muffled sound of war outside of our car, like a TV turned on in another room. Every child in this room has heard the stories about the horrid concentration camps. That was our final destination. This is the train ride to hell.

Suddenly, the girl next to me lets out a scream and jolts out of her restless sleep. I can see her eyes glisten through the dim light, her cheeks damp with tears. I haven’t met her in my life, but that doesn’t make me any less sincere when I grab her hand and give a reassuring squeeze. She whimpers but graciously accepts my gesture.

“My name is Lidiya. What is yours?” I croak in Ukrainian, my voice hoarse from disuse.

“Nina.”

“Where are you from?”

“Kyiv,” she answers before starting to sob. Her shoulders shake uncontrollably against my body.

“I miss home.”

A girl across our boxcar starts to cry, creating a chain of moans and wails. I hear the girl next to me start to weep. I turn to her.

“What’s your name?”

She sniffles before replying, “Vira. From Lviv. I miss my Mama.”

A boy sitting against the other wall pipes up. “I’m Andriy. I miss my friends and my home.”

And soon, the crying stopped. We each took turns saying our names and what we miss most, some making us ache in remembrance. But this gave us children hope, a spark in our despairing bodies. Whether it was a person, a place, or a toy, it gave us something to fight for. And that was all we needed to survive the long war ahead of us.