Thankful

 I am thankful for many things. I'm thankful for my family, my friends, and all the wonderful people around me. I love my family, their quirks, their funny little ways of making life interesting. I am so grateful for my parents, who took the time to help me learn and have fun. I'm thankful for the time spent with my siblings, when we weren't fighting, when we had a lot of fun together. I'm grateful for my awesome aunts and uncles; they tickled me and teased me, talked with me and taught me. I'm so thankful for my adorable little cousins. They run around being cute, squealing and laughing and hugging and being so sweet. Without my friends, I would be quite sad. I'm so glad I have so many great friends who support me and help me when I need them. I'm thankful for our lovely home and that it has enough space for all of us, that our yard is big and beautiful and lets us roam around and do what we please. I'm so grateful that we're well provided for, that my dad has a job, and we're well off. I'm very thankful for all the great things in my life.

More About Me

 When I was little, I thought that when I was older, I would be so smart and life would be so wonderful. I looked up to the sixth graders in my elementary school, but soon in kindergarten I realized that we were better behaved than they were. We had to walk single file down the hallway on the third tile away from the wall, silent, with our hands behind our backs. The sixth graders, though, stood wherever they wanted in line and chatted with their friends and were loud. It gave me some pride that I was better behaved than them, and a little excited for when I could talk in line and not have to stand rigidly with my hands clasped behind my back. I also thought I would be able to stay up so late and get to watch more movies. I figured that I would be able to do whatever I wanted, because I would be so grown up.

 I don't know what the best thing I've ever done is and I'm not sure what the worst thing I've ever done was. I feel bad for teasing Thomas when he was little and am regretting not being nicer to him now, but I don't have one specific huge regret.

 I worry about my intelligence. Not really, but sort of. A little. I don't care enough to do anything about it, so I guess I don't care. I care enough to worry, but not do anything. I don't really care about my grades, so I very rarely study and I'm usually surprised when I walk into class and it's set up for a test. I am happy when I get a good grade, and a little sad when I get a bad grade, but I just get what I get. I compare myself to my brother, Thomas, a lot, which my parents always protest about how horrible it is to be comparing myself to him. Because I'm in MathCounts, I'm constantly comparing what I got to the leading student, this obnoxious sixth grader, my annoying brother. It doesn't help that he gloats that he got all of them right, again, or got the most out of anyone.

 I worry about my family and friends. I worry for their well-being and how they're doing, especially when my friends tell me that they're fine when they've shown signs of someone who's not okay. I also worry about if I've hurt my friend's feelings or if I've done something wrong. I worry about the large and lurking future and what is hiding in it's foggy mists.

 I am the happiest when I'm surrounded by my extended family, usually around holidays. There's such a warm happy feeling when we're all together. My little cousins running around, my aunts and uncles laughing and talking together, a general fun-filled place. I love waking up from a nap and knowing that I can go out of my room and play with my adorable little cousins or go help someone fix up a snack they're making, or have an intelligent discussion with one of my aunts or uncle.

Growing Up

 My first stuffed animal was a little giraffe, which I loved, but I had a large collection of stuffed animals and I didn't have a favorite. I remember lining them all up and playing school or zoo or other random games with them. I would always have a stuffed animal with me, wherever I toddled around the house.

 My favorite book when I was little was Stellaluna, a pretty picture book with lots of words about a bat who was raised by birds, trying to copy their ways. I would read it over and over to myself. When I was a little older, I really liked Ender's Game, The Hobbit, and the Harry Potter series. My dad would read books out loud to my brother and I when I was three or four. We would bug my dad to read more, more, more!! until he would, and if we got bored when he wasn't home from work yet we would take the book and read it ourselves. My favorite TV show when I was really little was Teletubbies, I have no idea why, and when I got older I liked Cyberchase. I don't know why. They're so weird. I guess I liked the bright colors...

 I don't really remember any of my firsts, because Thomas always seemed to get there ahead of me. I remember my first story I wrote with a plot, in kindergarten. I was so proud of myself. It was two pages long and I had an illustration to go with it. It was about a unicorn trying to find a place to sleep. It wasn't that great of a story. But at least the unicorn had a problem, tried to fix it, and ended up with some things that weren't her solution. The first time I rode a bike without training wheels was when I was nine. We didn't bike very much, and only when I protested that I still didn't know how did my dad teach me. I rode my bike around and around in our driveway, then went around Lake Artemesia with my dad.

I don't remember having a favorite birthday, most of them were fun little parties when I was little, then going down in frequency to every other year, when I was nine. My last birthday was fun because I got cute, thoughtful presents I really liked and had a quiet birthday where I just sort of stayed up in my room and read. The next day, I had a party where my friends walked home with me and we just sort of hung out, ate pizza, watched a movie, and roasted s'mores.

My Name

 The name Tyra is Swedish, said tee-rah, said like the way you would pronounce Tyr, that god of war, but then with an a at the end. Tyra means battler, warrior. I guess my name sort of fits me, but I'm not that violent. Also, I'm quirky and...different. I have many different personalities, depending on who I'm with, just like how my name is pronounced or written differently by many different people. My parents didn't know about Tyra Banks when they named me because she wasn't that popular yet, and I am forever correcting people on the pronunciation of my name. I don't really have a nickname, but my aunts and uncles sometimes call me Teezeranne, strangely combining my first and middle name, Zanne. My middle name isn't actually a name, but just my mom's thinkings of liking the name Anne and the letter Z. I got the last name Draper because the king's drapers lost favor with the king. He needed new drapers and some of my ancestors filled the position.

 My parents were thinking about naming me Hannah, but when one of my grandmas remarked about how happy she was that she could help them choose the name Hannah, they decided to not name me that because they didn't want to keep hearing about how she helped name me. I think Hannah would've been a good name, but I'm not sure if I have one name that I really love and wish I had been named. I used to love the name Jane, but when it became my littlest sister's middle name, the name Jane lost it's appeal. I don't really have any favorite boys names. If I had been a boy, my name would have been Thomas, after my dad and grandpa. It's sort of a tradition to name the first son Thomas.

 I don't really think that I would be different with a different name because people come to think of your personality when they hear your name. Even if I had been named something else, say, Beatrice, then the name would stretch to fit my personality, or produce a nickname that better suits me.

Thoughts about family and where I live

 I was born in Silver Spring, Maryland. I lived most of my life in Berwyn Heights, Maryland. I lived there until I was 11½, when we moved up to Skillman, New Jersey. I've liked New Jersey better because here I have more friends and I know more people, whereas in Maryland, there were only about seventy kids in my grade. Also, in Berwyn Heights, I didn't live very close to any of my friends and we lived on a busy road. We lived right across from the elementary school, so I didn't have any bus experience (other than on field trips) until we moved here. The school was tiny, so there weren't really any extra-curricular activities, and for band or chorus we had to be pulled out of class. I would literally read through all of class, and still get straight A's. I didn't study, and am still trying to get in the habit.

 My fondest memories from my childhood are mostly playing with my siblings. We had a big backyard and we'd explore “The Bamboo Forest” together, which connected the backyards of neighbors four or five houses down, and to the houses on the street behind us. We'd also play in our sandbox and “paint” the benches with sand and water mixed together. We'd play carnival on my brother's big bed with him giving rides to my sisters and me playing games with them. Oh, what fun we had before we detested each other.

 As far as I can remember, I wasn't a huge troublemaker, that was my brother's job. I teased him, of course, and my parents said they always warned me not to. I kept teasing him and eventually, when he was, like, four or five he teased me back and I was shocked. I stopped, but he's been bugging me for as long as I can remember. I have a brother and two sisters. I'm the oldest child, and my brother is second. I sort of like my position because I get to babysit my siblings and have more...benefits, but I'm also expected to do the most. It isn't fair because my brother gets to do everything good I do, except he doesn't have to do as much work because he's younger. Also, he'll always side with my little sisters against me whenever I've done any little thing and get me in trouble.

 I used to have a beta fish named Ruby. I named him when I was eight, and called him Ruby because he was reddish purple and had pretty flowing fins and tail. He lived for about 2½ years, when I had to be the one cleaning out his tank and remembering to feed him while my sisters got to have a pretty little pet. He died when I was eleven, and I'm sorry to say that I was rid of my duty to him.

Elizabeth Cady Stanton

 Elizabeth Cady Stanton inspired many people to fight for women's suffrage. Her childhood as a daughter of a lawyer and judge helped spark her desire for equality for all. Her organizational skills helped unite women. Her dedication to the women's suffrage movement never ceased, even in hard times. This amazing woman was the first women's suffragist.

 Even as a child, Stanton tried to right things she saw as politically wrong. She was born in Johnstown, New York on November 12, 1815. She would read her father's law books and if she found a law she thought unjust, like that married women couldn't own property, she simply cut it out of the book. Her father had to explain to her that just because the law wasn't in his book didn't mean that it was gone altogether and that they didn't need to abide by that law. When her brother died, her father told her that he wished she was a boy. Stanton studied classics and learned horseback riding to try to be more like a son for her father. She wanted to go to Union College, where her brother had studied, but was instead sent to Emma Willard's all-female seminary for three years. Stanton studied hard there, even though she disapproved of single-sex education. Later, she met Henry Stanton, an abolitionist. Disregarding her father's objections, they were married and went to the World Anti-Slavery Convention in London for their honeymoon.

 Stanton worked her whole life trying to get rights for women. At the World Anti-Slavery Convention, she met Lucretia Mott. They worked together to hold the first women's rights convention in 1848. Stanton declared that women and men were equal and that women should be able to vote. Stanton wrote articles on women's rights and through the paper, met Susan B. Anthony. Together, they organized the Women's Loyal National League in 1863.

 Stanton is remembered as the “brains” of the women's suffrage movement. She wrote and spoke out for women's rights. She contributed a lot to the movement. Even though she had seven children and a house to tend to, she still found time to write and make speeches, and go to conventions. She wore a short skirt over trousers, even though mocked by many, to make a statement about women's rights. Stanton's feminism led her to oppose the fourteenth and fifteenth amendment because they extended the rights of African-American men, but excluded women. She even wrote and published The Woman's Bible, where she tried to correct what she saw as a degrading view of women in the scriptures. Stanton continued to put forth her opinions and stayed up to date with women's suffrage until she died in 1902. She didn't live to see the amendment passed, but she helped tremendously in bringing it around.

Stanton is known as the founder of the women's suffrage movement. She dedicated a lot of her time to convincing people that women should have more rights because they are equal to men. Through many speeches and conventions, she influenced many people. Her life is a testament to what one person can do to change the world.

The Locket

The cacophony of the forest quieted placidly, as if time had stopped. The only aberrations were the small ripples gliding gracefully away from the luminous necklace sinking slowly into the watery depths of the pond. Glittering and glowing, the necklace drifted softly to the muddy pond floor. Even the trees seemed to sense the moribund evil pulsing from within the locket. The bottom of the pond soon became desolate, and within a couple inches' radius of the necklace only blackened clumps of algae remained. Only one morbid fish dared to venture down to the gleaming chain, and the seared, acrid corpse crumbled as soon as the malevolent, dark particles reached into it's heart.

**********

“Sara, look at this!” crowed Michael, “I think it's some sort of coin.”

Sara ambled over to where Michael stood, stopping to giggle at a couple of squirrels chasing each other around a tree, one deftly eluding the other. Squinting into the pond, she could faintly make out the innocent and now lackluster shape of a heart.

“No, it's a locket, silly,” proclaimed Sara, “It's all dirty, too. I wonder what it would look like, all cleaned up.”

“I'll go get it for you,” Michael said amicably, “but mother would be upset if I got my clothes dirty again,” he worried, remembering what had happened the last time he had returned home in repugnant, dirty, stinking clothes.

“Use my butterfly net,” suggested Sara with innovation, “It's getting old, anyway.”

Michael took Sara's butterfly net and dipped it into the pond, sending ripples across the previously still water. The stiff hoop knocked the rusting metal out of the silt and decaying algae and into the white net. Michael flipped the contents of the butterfly net onto the grass. Both children stared.

“What happened to my net?” cried Sara.

The bottom of the net had a heart-shaped burn. The once verdant area around where the locket landed was now full of crisp and blackened strands of grass. Wisps of acrimonious smoke drifted from the scorched soil and made Michael's eyes sting as he bent over the necklace.

“This is really weird,” whimpered Sara.

“It's okay. It's just a necklace,” murmured Michael benevolently, but unknowingly erroneously. He knew Sara would probably impugn his reassurances, so he reached down to pick up the locket to show her that it was harmless.

“Wait!” shrieked Sara when she realized what he was about to do, but she was too late. Michael's fingers closed around the burning metal heart and instantly turned black. The voracious blackness consumed his arm and over the rest of his body, not allowing Michael any time to scream. The black started flaking off to reveal a deep, pulsating, glowing red. Michael writhed and made muffled sounds of agony, then rolled into the pond to trying to relieve the incisive pain penetrating deep into his heart and ripping across his skin.

As soon as he hit the water, most of the scorched skin peeled off and the glowing red subdued to an ashen gray. Michael rolled out of the water and stumbled over to Sara. She stared at his vacuous gray eyes, not seeming to focus on her or on anything.

“How could you let this happen to me?” the now pugnacious Michael shouted hoarsely. He stepped forward belligerently and menacingly, black flakes swirling off his skin.

“I didn't burn you, the loc--”

“Why are you blaming it on the locket?” Michael thought it was ludicrous of Sara to think that the silly little locket had anything to do with anything. And why was she looking at him so strangely?

“Are you okay?” Sara questioned, then realized that there was a very obvious answer, “No, evident that you're not. Your skin's gray and you're acting strange.”

“Let's see how you feel!” Michael exclaimed as he hurled the locket at Sara.

“No!” she shrieked, but the blackness was already spreading.

Sewer Girls: Chapter 9

When the soldiers gather up enough people, they order us all out of the horrid room. I stare back longingly into the emptied room, now thinking that that place of despair and sorrow is actually better than wherever the soldiers drag us. We shuffle out, accepting the fact that we're about to be killed. Many of the ghostly pale faces in our lonesome group no longer hold any emotion, while others are filled with grief and sorrow. I look at the haunted faces of people peering out of doors and windows. They look sorry for us, but too terrified to do anything about our impending deaths.

My eye is drawn towards a very familiar shack. Mother is standing in the doorway, her eyes searching through the crowd, her tear-streaked face creased with ainxiety.

“Mother!” I shriek. She looks at me and a fleeting expression of joy passes over her face, soon replaced by shock, then horror.

“No!” Mother wails, “No, please!”

Izabella turns to see Mother. She gasps, and her eyes open wide to memorize the last image of her mother. “I love you forever,” she cries out.

“I love you my darlings!” Mother calls out, her voice cracking, “Never forget it!”

“I love you! I'm so sorry Mother. I shouldn't have--” A soldier pulls me away from Mother's shack, dragging Izabella and me roughly back to the group. I stumble into Izabella, then grip her hand, still murmuring “Sorry, sorry Mother.”

They take us out the gates of the ghetto, and guide us towards the forest. A giant hole has been dug into the ground. I stare in horror. Surely they don't mean to fill all of it with our corpses.

“I love you, Sara,” Izabella sniffles.

At the mercy of the soldiers, who look more menacing and purely evil than I've ever seen them before, we stand by the edge of the pit, awaiting death.

“I love you too, Izabella,” I whisper as I squeeze her hand, letting her know that I'll always love her, and always be there for her.

Then a bullet rips through my chest.

With my last strength, I pull Izabella to me as we both fall into the pit, encircled in each other's arms.

Sewer Girls: Chapter 8

“Okay Izabella, you can come,” I whisper, pulling her hand.

“I'll be a really good girl,” she says proudly.

“You'd better be, otherwise we'll get caught,” I say. “Be quiet, now, we don't want to be heard.”

We sneak out of the room, eying each window suspiciously. I bring Izabella over to the sewer. When I lift the top off, she scrunches up her nose, suddenly looking sick. I slowly ease her into the sewer, and I hear quiet coughing. I slide in after her and move the lid back into place. Izabella grabs my leg and murmurs something about being wet and scared. I grab her hand again, and begin feeling my way down the sewer with my other hand. Izabella squeezes my hand a little tighter when we meet up with the rat, but she keeps marching through the muck. We don't meet up with the body, but it has been weeks since I was last down here.

We reach the opening, and I push it up a crack. I can't see anyone, so I slide it all the way out and climb out. I turn around and pull Izabella out. She coughs and splutters coming out, but the fresh air seems to clear her up.

“Okay, all you need to do is look in the trash bins and look for food,” I whisper. “Even if it seems disgusting, we still need food. If it's edible, take it.”

Izabella shudders a little, but nods her head and runs off to find food. I look around, and all I find is a smashed pickle, which I wrap in a napkin. When Izabella comes back, she's carrying a large piece of bread, slightly moldy but good all the same, a few hunks of potato, and an apple core. I stare at the food.

“Wow. Good job,” I whisper, patting her on the back. “Let's go.”

I open the sewer and lower Izabella in, then climb in myself. Izabella moans at the stench, and starts walking with me through the sewer. She clutches her precious finds and squeezes my hand. We slosh through the filthy water together, daydreaming of freedom. I find the cover and slide it off, lifting Izabella out of the sewer gunk. I pull myself out, and start to pull the cover back over when I see them. Soldiers. Running towards us.

“Hey! You there!” one of them shouts. “What do you think you're doing? I command you to stop!”

I grab Izabella's hand and start running away. I weave through the streets and duck behind shacks, but they still keep running. And getting closer. One comes up behind me and tackles me to the ground. I hear Izabella shriek, then a sickening thud. She starts moaning.

“Let's kill 'em now,” growls one of the soldiers.

“Naw, they're doin' another shoot tomorrow.¹ We can hold 'em 'till then,” says another.

“Come on,” says a third, “Up you go,” He pulls me up and shoves me. I stumble forward and he grabs my arm, dragging me behind him. The other soldiers laugh, pulling Izabella behind me. They take us to a room crammed with young children, elderly people, ill patients, and people missing an arm or leg. I grasp Izabella's hand even tighter, not wanting her to be frightened.

Terror, dread, sadness, and despair fill the air, twisting around my heart, filling my lungs, pushing in on me. I feel like I'm suffocating in a wild torrent of emotions. My head suddenly feels groggy and clouded, and I stumble to the ground. I sit there, next to Izabella and realize that I'm going to die. Not in a exaggerated and worried sort of "die". Or a really tired kind of "die". I am actually going to die.

Along with Izabella.

How could I have let her come with me? Such an innocent child shouldn't be sentenced to something so horribly gruesome.

Then I remember.

We never told Mother.

I let out a low, moaning wail. I grab Izabella and hug her as tightly as I can. She squeaks a little, but realizes that something is horribly, terribly wrong.

1“Because children were generally too young to be deployed at forced laor, German authorities generally selected them, along with the elderly, ill, and disables, for the first deportations to killing centers, or as first victims led to mass graves to be shot” (“Children During the Holocaust” 1)

Sewer Girls: Chapter 7

I return to the sewer in a week. All goes well going there, and I find a slice of bread and a potato. I jump into the sewer again, and when the oily water washes over my legs I groan. I pull the cover back over and begin walking. I even start whistling, it's better down here in the dank, dark, dampness, than up in the ghetto. The bodies, the blood, it's absolutely disgusting up there.

“Aaaaahh!” I shriek as I tumble into the sewage waste. I try to get up again, falling over this huge thing again. “Eww...”

Then I realize that it's a body.

I scream again as I slosh away, heart thumping louder than my shrieks. I clutch the mushy potato, and I slip on the dissolving bread. I fall into the water, a rat crawls into my hair. I try to shriek again, but the polluted water slides into my mouth when I open it. I cough and splutter, ripping the squealing rat out of my hair. I stumble forward, and prop myself up on the slimy wall, clutching my potato. I burst into sobs, wailing into the darkness of the sewer.

Sewer Girls: Chapter 6

“You smell really disgusting,” Izabella states, crinkling her nose, “Oh, and weird. You smell absolutely horrible, like you just went swimming in a garbage can.”

I'm the last one to wake up, and Izabella is leaning over me, looking at me like I'm an alien. An alien that goes swimming in garbage can.

“Hush, Izabella, don't make your sister feel bad. They haven't let us take a shower in weeks. It's not her fault she smells like that,” chides Mother. I smell my arm, just to see how much Izabella was making up, and I gag. She wasn't making up any of it. Dried sewage doesn't smell any better than when it's wet.

“I have a present,” I say, reaching towards the corner of my bedroll. I pull out the soggy, smashed, and moldy bread crusts and pirogies. “Ta-da!”

“Food!” Izabella exclaims. She takes a pirogi and sniffs it. “These smell even worse than you do,” she says, wrinkling her nose again.

Mother's eyes widen, but she doesn't say anything. She just sits there, staring at the food in my hands.

“Mother, are you okay?” I ask her.

“Where did you get this?” She questions back.

“From a dumpster,” I mutter. Izabella, who had been about to take a bite of her pirogi, holds it far away from her with two fingers. She looks at me disgustedly.

“What dumpster?” Mother asks. She knows that there would never be any leftover food in one of the dumpsters here in the ghetto. People would eat it all.

“Um...” I say uncertainly “Uh, in the city.”

“How?” she asks again.

“Through the sewers...” I reply.

“My brave Sara!” Mother exclaims, pulling me into a hug. She releases me, telling me about how I should never go through the sewers, how it's too dangerous.

“But mom, we need food. We can't eat the rocks they give us,” I protest, “I was just helping. Please let me do it. I'll be careful,” I promise.

“I wanna help too!” adds Izabella, “I'm a really really good finder. I can find lots of food for us!”

“No!” Mother exclaimed. “No! Never!”

“But Mother--”

“No buts. I don't want you in the sewers too!” Mother cries.

“But Mother--”

“Time for bed now, sweetie,” she says, guiding Izabella towards her bedroll.

“But Mother, it's morning! I just woke up!” Izabella exclaims.

Mother lets go of Izabella's arm and trudges, defeated, out the door. I look towards Izabella and see her questioning face.

“She just wants to do what's best for us” I explain.

“I don't think she wants me to help,” Izabella says sadly, munching on her pirogi. I pick up one, too, and gnaw on the rubbery noodle.

Sewer Girls: Chapter 5

In the night, I sneak out, hoping no one spots my bony figure. I dash towards the sewer I found and pry up the lid.¹²³ The reek of sewage water and rotting waste clogs my nose, but I jump in anyway. I slide the lid back over me, plunging the sewer into complete darkness. Filthy water splashes up to my knees. I have to stoop over so the rusting ceiling doesn't grate against my head. The stench is so horrible I almost climb back out. I trudge in the direction I think is nearest the walls. Feeling my way along the slimy walls of the pipe, I search for a way out as I walk. A sewer rat brushes by my leg, and I shudder.

My fingers brush against a different texture of metal. Could it be? I push at that spot, and hear the squeal of metal grating against metal. A circular disk is now obvious on the ceiling, pulled farther away than the walls. I shove against it the best I can, and I see the dark glow of streetlights seeping in from around the cover. I get underneath it and shove up. The lid slides off, moaning as it grinds against the cobblestones. I hoist myself up out of the sewer, breathing in the fresh night air. I let out a small sigh of relief. I pull the lid back over the hole as quietly as I can, freezing every time it squeaks.

It feels so good to walk down a street not littered with bodies so thickly. I quickly search the garbage cans nearest the sewer. I find a few crusts of moldy bread, and two soggy pirogies, noodles filled with mashed potato, with the potatoes leaking out of them. I'm disappointed in my small find, but I rush back to the sewer, deciding that my time here is running short. I heave the lid up and slip in, splashing the filthy water on me again. I slosh through the water once I slide the lid back, clutching the food in one hand and feeling the ceiling with the other.

I stumble over a furry lump. Muffling my shriek, I regain my balance as the rat scurries away. I wander forward, and feel a familiar circle design on the ceiling. I push it up and stare at the pitch blackness. I peer out the tiny crack and don't see anyone, so I heave myself out. When the lid slides creakily back over the sewage hole, I quickly glance around, hoping no one heard my return.

The streets look haunting and the shacks suspicious. All are spying on me and my food. I clutch the soggy crusts and pirogies, and hurry back to our shack. I sneak in and sit on my straw bedroll. I hide the food underneath the straw, and fall asleep, dreaming of rats and sewers.

1 People smuggled food, quite illegally, into the ghetto and sold it in the black market or kept it for themselves and their family. Some soldiers could be bribed to let people with food in, but some would shoot any person trying to get in. Smugglers would use cellars, pipes, and streetcars to get food in (Stewart 55-59)

2Since all the food people in the ghetto received were scraps, they were forced to smuggle it in from the outside. Most of the smugglers were between the ages of 7-14, but some were as young as 5 (Stewart 60-61).

3Able-bodied teens, adults, and children smuggled in food and weapons (Anflick 21)

Sewer Girls: Chapter 4

I'm outside playing in the morning light with Izabella when Mother runs towards us from a nearby street.

“Get inside! Hurry! We need to hide!” She says forcefully. She grabs our hands and pulls us inside. “They're taking people off the streets.”¹

The sounds of people drift in through the cracked windows. I hear a familiar voice belonging to my friend, Krystyna Kwiatkawskas. I never knew she was here, in the ghetto. Her shrieks and pleas tempt me to at least peek out the door. A gruff voice of a soldier and Krystyna's responding cries tell me enough. I huddle with Mother and Izabella in a corner of the room as we listen to the heavy footsteps of soldiers passing by our tiny shack.

I look at Izabella. Her eyes are as wide as a startled faun's. Her lower lip trembles and her face has gone pale. I feel her shaking beside me. I reach out a hand to comfort her.

I move my gaze over to Mother. Her face is ashen and grave. She looks grief-stricken and worried, looking at Izabella with concern.

If I looked at myself, I'm sure I'd look like a frightened rabbit, hiding in the bushes, hoping no one will see my face. I push back my hair, then pull a lock back and start twirling it around my finger. I nearly bite my fingernails when I remember that I haven't showered or washed for weeks. The sound of footsteps fade, and I shakily peer out the door. Not a single person is in the street.

1“From July 22 until September 12, 1942, German SS and police units, assisted by auxiliaries, carried out mass deportations from the Warsaw ghetto to the Treblinka killing center. During this period, Germans deported about 265,000 Jews from Warsaw to Treblinka; they killed approximately 35,000 Jews inside the ghetto during the operation” (“Warsaw” 2).

Sewer Girls: Chapter 3

I stare at the tiny room, meant to house Mother, Izabella, and me. It’s no more than eight paces long and five paces wide. I don’t see how we are all meant to live here in such a tiny space. There were too many people crammed into this ghetto in the first place.¹ Why were we brought here? We didn’t do anything, anything at all. The Nazis took our freedom, Father, and our home. What on earth did we do wrong?

I turn my gaze to little Izabella, huddled in a corner, staring into space. Not again. No, they couldn’t do this to Izzy.

Mother walks in through the door, her face pale. She takes a deep breath and sighs.

“Home, sweet home,” I murmur sarcastically, kicking at the ground. I make a dent in the dirt floor, kicking up dust.

“Now, honey, we have to be…optimistic in times like this.” Mother says. “Think about the good things. Like…at least we’re together.”²

“No, we aren’t. And you know that. Father isn’t here, they took him--” I stop and look at Izabella, her eyes growing wider and wider. She starts to whimper, and I go over to comfort her. She snuggles into my arms, and I start to whisper soothing words when three small chunks of black bread are thrown into the room.³ A few molding potato peels are also tossed in. I walk over and inspect the bread. It’s hard as a rock, and even darker.

“Are we supposed to eat this?” asks Izabella, eying her piece of bread suspiciously.

“I suppose so, sweetheart. Try to eat it, but save some of it. We don’t know when we’ll be fed again,” Mother says, picking up her bread and the rotten peels. Izabella bites into hers.

“Ouch…yuck!” She yelps, spitting out her bite “That’s disgusting! This is a rock! It’s horrible! This is worse than dog food! I hate this place! I want to go home! Now!” Mother rushes over to her and comforts her with soothing coos.

“Try not to spit it out, sweetie. This is food. It’s good for you,” Mother says uncertainly.

I eye my piece of bread and try to nibble it, but, like Izabella said, it's as hard as a rock. I toss my bread to Mother. I'm just so generous.

1 “The ghetto was enclosed by a wall that was over 10 feet high, topped with barbed wire, and closely guarded to prevent movement between the ghetto and the rest of Warsaw. The population if the ghetto…estimated to be over 400,000 Jews…with an average of 7.2 persons per room” (“Warsaw” 1)

2 Many people lost almost all of their family members, and they only had themselves. Luck was needed very badly if you wanted to survive. Some of the soldiers killed people for no reason and you heard of your family member’s deaths from friends in the camps (Zullo and Boushun 184).

3 Food was very bad quality, things not wanted by Germans or Gentile Polish people. Bread was filled with sand and ash, though food could keep them alive. The people in the ghetto shared with and took care of one another. Some, though, who were starving, literally, stole packages from people walking down the street. If there was food, they ate it. If there wasn’t, they threw it away. (Stewart 55-59).

Sewer Girls: Chapter 2

I awake to a pounding on our door. I pull myself up out of bed and stumble out into the hall. Pleading to the unseen person, Mother is already at the door. He steps into our house, a Nazi soldier.

“Collect all of your vile family and come outside,” grunts the soldier. “Hurry, or I might just have permission to shoot the slow ones.

Mother rushes into our room, bumping past me, wakes Izzy and drags her out of bed.

“What are you doing? I'm still asleep,” Izabella says sleepily, probably adding in extra yawns to prove her point.

“We need to leave. Now. Get dressed as quickly as you can. Sara, you too,” Mother says as she leaves our room. We get dressed and step outside. I can't see Father anywhere.

When the Nazi soldiers take us away, I stare at the crumbling buildings and smoldering bricks. Poland used to be so beautiful¹ and wonderful². My favorite art museum had been demolished, and is now a gruesome pile of blackened stone. The hollow faces of starving people line the streets. I clutch Izabella’s hand as we march next to Mother.

A horse trots down the street. It looks happy to be roaming the streets without a master to guide it, but soon that happiness melts away to anxiety. Rearing up up on its legs, the horse kicks at the thin ghostly people crowding him. They claw at the horse’s flesh in an attempt to gain food³ for their starving stomachs, the horse neighing and kicking at its ravenous attackers. The skeleton like figures of the people beat at the horse and each other, eventually pulling the horse to the ground. Izabella squeaks and Mother puts her hands over Izabella and my eyes.

“Just keep walking. Don’t look,” Mother tells us, her voice catching at the end. I hold onto her arm as she guides us away from the horse. When we are past this, Mother uncovers our eyes and shivers.

“Why would they do…that?” Izabella questions, shaking.

“You don’t want to know. It’s okay, just stay in the group and we’ll be safe.” Mother says.

“Right,” I murmur sarcastically. “So safe, with guns pointed at us with trigger-happy fingers holding them.”

We approach a train, and the group of soldiers motion us on. We step on cautiously, followed by other families. The train is crowded and smells of sweat and illness. Once everyone is on, the doors are slammed shut and locked. Rocking and screeching, the train starts rumbling over the tracks. Babies wail, and adults talk in desperate voices. I put my hands over my ears and close my eyes, trying to shut it all out, but the piercing shriek of the train whistle startles me, and I open my eyes again.

We've been on the train for hours now, or maybe just minutes, it's very hard to tell with the blinds down. Clutching my hand, Izabella hums a tune that seems to be in a minor key.

“Izzy, can you stop humming? It's freaky here even without you humming...that,” I sigh to her.

“I can't help it if I'm scared,” she states.

“Well, just be quiet, okay?” I grumble.

“No. I'm going to do what I want to,” she says defiantly.

“Don't make me make you be quiet,” I warn.

“Well then I'll--”

“Quiet, girls! Stop arguing!” Mother says sharply, giving me one of her stop-acting-like-a-little-child look. I can practically hear her unspoken words, “We are on a train with the blinds down and locked into place, going to an unknown destination, with no idea what will happen, and you two are still fighting? What has happened to you girls?”

We hang our heads in shame, but Izabella is still humming. I think she's smirking. I can't tell in the dark.

1 Warsaw had many old and beautiful churches, museums, and temples. More than ¼ of the city had been destroyed by bombs, leaving a dusty wreck. Many disheartened citizens roamed around, looking for shelter (Stewart 22).

2The capital of Poland, the city of Warsaw was the main center of Jewish culture and life. The Jewish population in Warsaw was 350,000, and was 30% of the overall population. Warsaw's was the largest Jewish community in Poland and in Europe, and second largest in the world (“Warsaw” 1).

3People ate raw horse and drank polluted water; there was not very much food (Stewart 22)

Sewer Girls: Chapter 1

I stare at the remnants of father’s store. The sign we had so carefully painted had been torn down and still smolders slightly. Pieces of shattered glass carpet the sidewalk and road nearest our shop. Father's famous pickles lay scattered and smashed, ground into the broken glass. A small cry escapes my throat as I stare at the ruins. Izabella’s hand clutches mine, shuddering.

I turn quickly, and trudge home. Izabella, my younger sister, runs after me, and starts crying. Rushing into the house, I slam the door to my shared bedroom. I flop into bed and try to go to sleep, but not able to get the images out of my head. I pull up my covers and hear Izabella come in and lay down on her mattress.

I stare at the ceiling, cozy in my bed, yet shivering. The Nazis had come. They had come and demolished father’s store. They’re everywhere now, killing people and destroying property. They had hurt Grandfather, beaten him. Then a cruel soldier had pushed him to his hands and knees and got on top of him, and rode him to the nearest well. They had nearly…killed him. I sniffle a little, hoping that won't happen to Father.

I hear a rustle of blankets and the squeak of a mattress. I turn and am not surprised to see Izabella huddling in a ball on the end of my bed.

“Sara” she squeaks “I’m scared.” Poor Izabella. I should have told her to stay when she came with me when I saw father’s store. All the destruction, it must’ve been too much for her. Her young mind doesn’t have room for tales of soldiers and bullets. It shouldn’t be troubled by a demolished store and places to hide.

“It’s okay. Everything will be all right. Don’t worry” I try to hide the anxiety that I’m feeling myself. She shudders, and I doubt my silly little comforting words convince her. “In a couple weeks you'll be going back to school, right? Then you'll learn your letters and numbers, and you'll be a really smart girl.” She stares up at me with her puppy dog eyes.

“It’s not okay. And I am worried. No matter what.” Her little forehead wrinkles and furrows with concentration and sadness. “Daddy’s store got hurt, and now he can’t make money. Then we’ll be poor and we won’t have a house. I won't be able to go to school, then I'll just be a stupid dirty girl begging on the side of the street.” She breaks into heartrending sobs.

“Izzy, don't cry. It makes me so sad.” This only makes her cry harder.

“I can't stop,” she sniffs, “and don't call me Izzy. It makes me sound like a little girl.” she snuggles into my arms, and curls up under my blankets like a little kitten, “Good night, Sara,” she whispers as she drifts off into sleep. She whimpers a little in her sleep, like she's already having a bad dream.

I pet her hair and stare off into space, thinking. What will happen to our lovely little peaceful life we've taken such care to carve into the world? Will the Nazis find us? Will we be taken away? What will happen to us?

Welcome!

Hi! My name is Tyra and welcome to my writing blog. I'm not sure how I'm going to organize my stories, but I guess I'll figure that out...somehow. Anyways...read and enjoy! Please post comments oh what you like/dislike about the stories, and how I could improve them. Thanks!

                xo
                   Tyra