SlashShipper

I saw you in the ghetto - with your yellow star, pulling teeth and collecting shoes. And then on the last train to Birkenau (or maybe it was Belsen), hunched in a boxcar like cows to market, our shadows old and unspeakable as the wheels broke us down to the floor. We drank our urine and told the children the train was an adventure that did not need their tears. Survival is a funny thing- not always for the fittest, and conscience can be a silent sniper.