The Boy on the Wooden Box by Leon Leyson

passengers boarded, oblivious to our presence. They showed absolutely no interest in who we were, where we were going, or why. That our misery, confinement, and pain were irrelevant to their lives was simply incomprehensible.
    As we neared the Płaszów camp a short while later, I was still overjoyed I had succeeded in leaving the ghetto.All that mattered to me was that I would be with my family again. As I entered the chaos of Płaszów, I saw before me a world far worse than I ever could have imagined, far worse than I ever thought possible. Stepping through those gates was like arriving at the innermost circle of hell.

MY FIRST IMPRESSION OF PŁASZÓW as hell on earth never changed. I only needed one look to see that this was an entirely foreign place. No matter how difficult life had been in the ghetto, at least outwardly it had appeared a familiar world. Yes, we were packed like sardines into too few rooms, but those rooms were in normal apartment buildings. There were streets and sidewalks and the sounds of a city beyond the walls.
    Płaszów was an alien world. It was built on two Jewish cemeteries that the Nazis had desecrated and destroyed.It was barren, dismal, chaotic. Rocks, dirt, barbed wire, ferocious dogs, menacing guards, and acre after acre of drab barracks stretched as far as I could see. Hundreds of prisoners in threadbare clothing hurried from one work detail to another, threatened by gun-wielding German and Ukrainian guards. The moment I entered the gates of Płaszów, I was convinced I would never leave alive.
    Immediately, the guards divided our group by gender. I shuffled into my assigned barracks on the men’s side of the camp. My hope of finding my family plummeted when I learned that I was to stay there indefinitely. I had no idea where my father and David might be. With only my precious thermos bottle, my legacy from Mr. Luftig, and my blanket, I crawled onto a narrow wood shelf and lay down. Famished but with no prospect of food, in a cramped room filled with strangers, mercifully, I quickly sank into the oblivion of sleep.
    All too soon lights flashed on. Although it was still pitch-black outside, guards beat with their sticks on the bunks and shouted at us, “ Steh auf! Steh auf! ” “Get up! Get up!”It was time to assemble for work assignments. Half asleep, I got down from the shelf and joined my group along with row upon row of prisoners from the other barracks. We stood in the dark and cold for hours; we were counted, counted again, randomly abused—verbally, physically, or both—threatened, counted again, and finally assigned to work. The work was both menial and dangerous. Most days I hauled lumber, rocks, and dirt to build more barracks. At the end of the day we received a pitiful portion of watery soup. Then I returned to my shelf in the barracks for a few hours of restless sleep before beginning the ordeal all over again the next morning.
    The room where we slept was so crowded that if I left to use the latrine, I would lose my spot. When I returned I had to elbow my way back into my space. One night as I stumbled back into my bunk, I found my blanket was gone. I had stupidly left it there, and another prisoner, perhaps even colder and more desperate than I, had taken it. I was left to wrap my arms around myself, think of my mother’s embrace, and will myself to sleep.
    Then the miraculous happened. Some of the men who had begun to watch out for me told me where the Schindler Jews had been assigned. I resolved to search until I found my father and David. This was not an easy decision. I had to be alert every second. If I were spotted, I could be killed; but my yearning to see my father and brother overpowered reason. Weak as I was, I stole away, determined to find my father and brother. Finally, totally exhausted, when I thought I would have to abandon my search, I opened one more door.
    There they were.
    I had never thought of my father and brother as beautiful, but right then