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Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado

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Books by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado
The Search For Papa. (Part Four)
By Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado
Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Rated "PG" by the Author.

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A child is forced to work from sunup to sundown with very little food to eat or water to drink; he is worried about his family and little brother, but most of all, his father, who has been missing for over a week now.

I don't know what is going to happen to me.  I don't know how I ended up here, in a concentration camp, but that's exactly wher I am at.  I am terrified: I don't know what has become of Mama or my family, in particular, Freddie, my little brother.

And I don't still know anything about my Papa.  I haven't seen him for over a week.  Don't know if he is dead or alive or if he is working for the Nazis, who are crawling all over the place.  Everywhere I turn or look, there's Nazi soldiers about.  That, or prisoners. 

I am one of them.  The prisoners.

I am forced to wake up before the first slivers of light pierce the night time sky; if I do get anything to eat it's nothing more than a small glass of filthy water or a couple of pieces of moldy bread.  The taste of the food makes me want to vomit or gag, but I force it down and report to the line up at six sharp, where our names are called.  If we don't answer or step out to where the guards can see you, then you are yelled at, kicked, hit, or spit upon.

I have had my hair shaved: I'm now balder than the rocks I am forced to break with a big, heavy hammer.  I don't know how I am going to do this without tiring or falling over: the hammer seems to weigh a million pounds.  My muscles strain as I try to lift it over my head, but I know I must do it or else I face a terrible beating (or worse).

The air hangs thick with the acrid smell of smoke and only G-d knows what.  I see the big, tall chimneys and the fires that burn day and night and I wonder what they must be burning in those factories.  I see people spit upon, kicked, shoved, stabbed, or even shot; the sight of the beaten, bloody bodies is enough to make me want to ge sick, yet I swallow the vomit that gathers in my throat, shut my eyes, and pray for G-d to take me before the Nazis can do their terrible deeds to me.

All day long it's like this.  No letup in sight; if we do get a break it's maybe for five or ten minutes, maximum.  Then we're back at it.  As I said earlier, my job is to bust rocks with a hammer.  By the time I'm done late into the night, my bones, muscles, and joints beg for mercy and the pain radiates throughout my entire body like liquid fire.  It seems I just get to sleep before it is time to get up once again.

I don't know what will happen, but as I work, I think of ways to escape, knowing deep inside that it may be impossible.  If I even attempt to escape this hellish place, I just may end up dead.  Maybe that would be for the best; anything has got to be better than what I am going through now!

~To be continued.~


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Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner 5/22/2012
HEARTBREAKING. Man's inhumanities to man ... well done, Karen.

(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.

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