Page 24

Dear Diary,
Five of the girls in my barrack are dead. Typhus. God rest their souls, they are in a better place. I don't know why I haven't caught it yet. We all tire of life, this filth, this parasite-infested existence. The stench. That must be the worst part. The stench if the dead burning in the ovens like wood. They stack them up like kindling outside the oven-room door. Those pale, emaciated bodies, no meat left under the skin. The skull- like faces still expressing pain and utter terror. Seeing that with your own eyes is like seeing the stuff of nightmares. The reality of it sticks to your stomach like ice. I had to help stack them up today, so you can see why my thoughts are so disturbed right now. More so than usual. I recognized these were alive yesterday. I can't help thinking that I'm next. The harsh truth that soon, some poor soul will have to stack my pale, naked corpse on top of everyone else's to be burned. I can't help looking skyward at the white, oily, billowing column of smoke, imagining my ashes, floating down like some kind of hellish snow. It's my destiny to join them. There's nothing I can do.

Page 25

Dear Diary,
What irony! How ironic that the worst infliction that will ever be cast upon me has been delivered by my own right hand! Ten pages left. I don't think I ever saw it before, but now I realize that when I am out of pages, I won't have much of a reason left to survive. Of all, you are my dearest friend! You know things about me that no other will ever know! In fact, there's nothing I can't tell you! After every hard, agonizing day, I know I can always sit down with you and spill forth my soul. I empty my heart out to you, and you're always there. But soon, like my sister, my father, my mother; like so many other victims of this Nazi disease, you will also die. You, it seems, were and still are my only reason to live. I'd have killed myself or allowed myself to perish a long time ago if it weren't for you. I am desperately sorry. I know you're probably disappointed in me for saying that. Me of all people to give up hope over a few stained pieces of paper. But you're much more than that to me, you know. I'm sorry, Diary. Forgive me.