Today, I should have been ninety-four, I’d be having a party with cake. I’d have two fine sons and a daughter too, Grandchildren to cuddle and stay.

I’d have met a great man, dashing and tall, He’d have worked in an office in town. We’d have lived in the country, two dogs and a cat, And I’d have worn a beautiful gown.

Margot would have lived nearby, Surely a mother herself? My mother and father would have been so proud, We’d raise a glass to good health.

But instead, we slept on wooden slats, Shivering with hunger and cold. Beaten for any and every small thing, With no toys or comforts to hold.

My mother was starving, she gave us her food, Scabies rampant in the camp. I wanted to die, for this wasn’t life, Living with rats in the damp.

My best friend was in the camp next door, I missed her riotous laugh. I was thankful for my sister with me, Loneliness, both our past and last.

I dreamed of food, of something to eat, Wishing for potatoes and meat. If I survived, I’d wash it all down, With wine, and something sweet.

Then typhus arrived, and we both got sick, No doctors were ever called in. We died one by one, Margot went first, For death was an easier win.

I hope I didn’t die in vain, I hope the world has learned. Hatred has no place in life— My diary, forever preserved.