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)