I wept because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.
The Wilhelm Gustloff was pregnant with lost souls conceived of war. They would crowd into her belly and she would give birth to their freedom.
Death, it seems, has a mind of its own.
What did I want? I wanted the war to be over so I could ask her out.
There’s a saying, ‘Death hath a thousand doors to let out life; I shall find one.’ But the children. That’s what I struggle with.′ He shook his head. ‘Why the children?
My war had been so long, my winter so cold. But i had made it home. And for the first time in a long time, i was not afraid.
Shelves without books were lonely and just plain wrong.
We cannot be too cautious, Hannelore. Just because someone knocks on the door doesn’t mean you have to open it. Sometimes, sweet girl, there are wolves at the door. If we are not careful, they might eat us.
The books, raped and rummaged of their dignity, lay in heaps on the floor.
Every nation has hidden history, countless stories preserved only by those who experienced them. Stories of war are often read and discussed worldwide by readers whose nations stood on opposite sides during battle. History divided us, but through reading we can be united in story, study, and remembrance. Books join us together as a global reading community, but more important, a global human community striving to learn from the past.
A tiny sliver of gold appeared between shades of gray on the horizon.
Abandoned or separated from their families, they were forced to battle the beast of war on their own, left with an inheritance of heartache and resposibility for events they had no rile in causing.
She held her breath in one hand and her suitcase in the other.
Books join us together as a global reading community, but more important, a global human community striving to learn from the past. What.
She is you, she is your mother, your father, your country. She is Poland.
Guilt is a hunter. My conscience mocked me, picking fights like a petulant child. It’s all your fault, the voice whispered.
Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.
What a group we were. A pregnant girl in love, a kindly shoemaker, an orphan boy, a blind girl, and a giantess who complained that everyone was in her way when she herself took up the most room. And me, a lonely girl who missed her family and begged for a second chance.
Was it harder to die, or harder to be the one who survived? I was sixteen, an orphan in Siberia, but I knew. It was the one thing I never questioned. I wanted to live.
Hitler said KdF brought opportunity for everyone, all were equal. But how could all be equal if some were favored?