April 25, 1940
Today they took us. Today they took us all. Nothing will ever be the same, we know that now. As we walk towards our train, our friends and neighbors are throwing. Throwing rocks at myself and kin. Spiteful glares were thrown at my wife and I. As I take a step to step onto the cold, hard, metallic metal floor of the pitch black train, I feel a sharp pain of jagged roughness from a dusty, hard earth. I look down at my feet and I see the grey, crusty tracks of the horrid train splattered with a deep dark red color, but I don't feel a thing as the ground disappears below my feet right into the jagged steps of the train.
END OF JOURNAL 1
April 26, 1940
No bandages have been given to my deep wound under my shoulder blade. My face has been cut up, but I feel nothing now. As I write this, I am laying on the cold metallic floor of my compartment with my wife and children sleeping not so comfortably on the ripped pale green seats. Every time the train jolts, I see the grimaces on my children's faces. They are only 3 and 5. I don't think they can take a couple more hours of this, let alone another day.
END OF JOURNAL 2
April 27, 1940
We finally arrived at this horrible place, I am already shivering of pure terror as they shove all of the families out of their carts. I step off the now dusty grey steps which are painted with sickening red blood. They file us out, take all of our belongings, I even had to hide my journal. They were taking no chances. My wife and children were filed into the bathrooms. Whereas I, as well as several other men, had been ushered to the small huts which were surrounded by black chain link fences and blood churning barbed wire on top. I fear I might never see my family again.
END OF JOURNAL 3
April 27, 1940
I wake in the middle of the night to hear ear-piercing shrieks of terror fill the air. I sprint out of the shabby shack as the voices start dying. I fall to my knees as I see my wife lying, lifeless in the middle of a row of countless other women. I fall to my hands, but as soon as I do, I regret it. Some of the barbed wire has fallen off of the fence and was laying where my hands fell. I cry out, but not because of the pain, but because I see my children.. Lying dead.
END OF JOURNAL 4
Author's note, I will post 4 Journals per page, please comment