Hardtack and Brittle Bones
“Hey you boy!” a gruff voice shouted to my slumped, tired back. I choked on the hard bread they had given me, as I slowly turned around to face the owner of the voice.
A tall man stood about five feet from where I was slouched, a thin-lipped grimace on his face. A mean glint was reflected in his eyes. I sat, terrified. If I was the surprised deer, he was the oncoming truck.
“Listen, boy, I don’t like bein’ stared at, so get your dirty self off the floor and follow me!” He spat the words at me as he turned away. I took a quick sip of the burning, tasteless coffee I had received, and then stood up shakily, having to run to catch up with his brisk pace. We walked past the Canada, where the prisoners belongings they had come with were stored.
What had I gotten myself into? More so, what had my father gotten me into? I was nowhere near ready to be a Nazi, nor would I ever be. What had the Jews done to me? Not a thing. So why should I do a thing to them?