Good luck homing pigeon

Chapter four 20th July 1942

Three days. They'd kept us at the Vélodrome d'Hiver for three, damned days. What, you might ask, could possibly happen in three days? You wouldn't be the only person to ask that. Such a short amount of time was thirty six hours that it just seemed plain uncomprehensive that anything overly bad could happen. Well, recently, we've discovered that it only took six minutes to carry out a bloody execution. Two, to gather up the escapees found at the wall, near the end of the racetracks, two for them to give the bravest, most inspiring speech Paris has ever seen. And then, two for half a dozen soldiers to aim their guns and shoot all five of those escapees in the heads. I'd never seen a person die before; nor had I ever imagined what it would've been like to be one of them. Bravely awaiting death, like a visit from a beloved friend. Angelo tried to cover my eyes, but I pushed his hand back. I didn't want to see it; I had  to see it. The man in charge of the firing squad; one of the same men who welcomed us in to this place, told us that this was what happened to those who tried to break the rules. This was what proved Jews to be a danger, and an abomination to the 'pure ones' of the Fatherland.

I'd never forget the smile he had on his face when he said that. It was greed, pride and pure hatred, stirred together, brewing in his eyes as he glared  straight through each and every one of us. Nothing; that's what we were to him. Or-we were whatever he decided us to be at the current time. And right now, we weren't semi-human, or vermin, or creatures for target practise. We were just...nothing. Nobodies.

The night of the execution, we all lay, huddled together. Our pooled food-supply grew gradually smaller over the past night and day; that didn't mean we were going to run out soon though. It just meant we had to stretch what we had. We'd been giving away small bits of food to other families: families who'd been here longer, who'd been without food, who needed it more than we did. But the problem with generosity was that there came a time when soon enough, we wouldn't be able to live on the gratitude of others. If we could, then I would've handed every last crumb of food I had to all the children in here who cried out for more. And that was what I actually did-until mama took me and Briana aside, and warned us that food was becoming scarce. At first, my childish mind cried out that she was being selfish and greedy. But then I looked into mamas eyes, and then did I truly see the worry in them. She wanted us to survive-and I did too. But she knew, just as well as I did now, that to stay alive you had to take sometimes, rather than give. It was natures law to survival; I just wish it didn't have to be so difficult.

Those thoughts carried me from then, to right now. Where Angelo and I lay; face to face, in between our mothers and sisters. He looked paler than usual, as the streaked moonlight from the window above filtered across his skin. His freckles still stood out though; amongst lips that were pink and chafed, eyes that were such a smooth brown, specked with gold and green, and darker, mousy whiskers that showed signs of stubble, it was the golden freckles that dotted his cheeks and nose that I'd noticed the most about him at the moment. And though I was nothing special; short, slim with just as much freckles, and eyes that always seemed so watery blue, he still looked at my face with just as much curiosity. Why? I thought sometimes. Briana was prettier, and so was mama. Why didn't he look at either of them when plenty of other friends did?

"What're you thinking?" He whispered, his voice so unusually gentle for such a boy as he.

"I'm trying not to think too much." I confessed, "About the food, about the...what happened today. Mama keeps telling us not to dwell on it, that it had nothing to do with us. But I can't help it Angelo. Half of me wishes I wasn't here to begin with, and the other half wishes I could've been up there with them, to hold their hands."

He paused for a moment, then let out a deep, well-needed sigh. He asked to know what I was thinking, so I told him. If he didn't want me to let him in, why must he sigh like that? Did he consider my thoughts too morbid for even silence?