Good luck homing pigeon

Chapter three 17th july 1942

We were in that cattle truck for just one night; but those few hours could make a difference. As the truck bumped and jolted along the gravelled road ahead, we sat; our legs stiff and aching for movement, and our skin coated in goose bumps from the biting chill that came from outside. It was a few weeks until spring yet, and though we were beginning to have some fine, sunny days lately, it was still cold during the nights. It was sad, I couldn't help but think. Those little ones should be tucked, safe and warm in their beds! Instead they were cold, scared, and had no idea what was happening. Their parents held them close and ushered for them to be good and quiet, but I could understand how they felt. Grownups others respected treated them like dirt, and they didn't know why.

The truck stopped only twice through the journey-but we were never let out. It was so the two men driving could stop to eat their meals, walk about and share a cigar between the two of them. The younger ones glared at them in envy as they trod through the thick, uncut grass during that greying dusk, but it was no use. They weren't going to let us out for air, or even to eat. The only time we'd be getting out was when we arrived at whatever place they were taking us.

I think it was about four in the morning by the time we arrived. We were all trying in vain, to sleep in a truck that was constantly moving and shaking. With our winter coats, tucked around our fronts, and each others shoulders substituting for pillows, we were about as comfortable as we could get in a place like this. And to our luck, we'd managed to sleep for a couple of ours before the truck stopped abruptly, and the drivers from the outside started banging on the truck doors.

"Scnell! Move!" The doors were thrown open; the cold hitting us like a bucket of ice. "Move! Get out you lazy pigs!"

The six of us threw on our coats, picked up our suitcases, and joined hands as we each leapt out of the truck and followed the swarm of people ahead. It was so...so dark outside, and we hadn't the slightest idea what we were walking towards. But when I spotted that blinding search-light, sweeping across acres of dry, dirt-land, I felt uneasiness sinking into the pit of my stomach. Wherever we were, it was heavily guarded. They had no intention of letting us out, unless it was their decision.

"I know this place!" Angelo whispered to me, "It's Vélodrome d'Hiver; a...racetrack."

"How long do you think we'll be here?"

"A day or two, I think.  It must be where they decide to send us next."

I swallowed down my fear as we gradually advanced through the swarm. As we got closer, I made out what was the entrance to the racetracks. A post, where the sign for the Vélodrome d'Hiver must've hung was now covered with writing the read 'administration'. We'd never been to the races before; papa never was one for gambling on horses, and mama detested those stuffy, old racing events that required her to wear best clothes for just one day of socializing with complete and utter snobs. And now they were using this place to organize us all; like pigs to the slaughter.

"Make your way to the administration in an orderly fashion. Those straying, or trying to escape will be shot." I hated hearing that again. Did they think us so stupid, that we would forget their sadistic rules? Well, it scared the children easily enough. Those old enough to understand the threat clung to their parents; quiet and weeping as they neared the same men, holding holster guns, whips and truncheons. I was beyond glad I hadn't any children yet; the place and time I'd have children would be nothing but the safest, possible circumstances I could ever find for them. They would grow up, exactly the way children should. Innocent, sweet...happy. And if men like the Nazi's ever so much as looked at my children the wrong way, they'd be answering to me.

For such a long line, we'd reached the end of the line in what seemed like no time at all. There stood, not surprising, more soldiers, holding longer, thicker truncheons which they were using to steer people through the entrance. Steering us like cows, I thought miserably. Seeing this, I felt Angelo grasping my hand tighter and tighter as we neared the entrance. We wanted to stick together. And if I was going to be here with any of my friends, I was only glad that friend was him.