I did not know what fear was before that day. I thought it was swimming out too far into the ocean only to be discovered by a hungry sea monster. I thought it was turning around at the market to find that my mother was no longer in sight. It was not until the winter of 1942, when a cold wind gently passed along the back of my neck, that I genuinely experienced fear.  

The sun disappeared as clouds of black smoke filled the sky. Soldiers yelled over the sound of trains passing. One man’s voice rang out above all other noises as he desperately pushed through the lines. His face was the epitome of anxiety. He waved his wrinkled hands around frantically, as though he were drowning. He yelled in the faces of the men, women, and children, “Save yourselves! Do not go! Everything you hear is a lie!”  

The chaos he created ended abruptly with the boom of a gunshot and a thump on the ground. I did not know what fear was before that day. 

My mother held us close to her body throughout the ride. It seemed as though fear had finally made itself known to her. In that moment, every hint of an upcoming tragedy had fallen into place. Every person in the cart held their luggage tightly and remained silent. I could see the frightening realization grow on their faces.  

Hours passed by, painfully unrushed. The air was almost too heavy to breathe in due to the crowdedness. Moonlight crept into the cart between the cracks in the walls. I watched the light dance and move on my sister’s skin.  

To make the slowly passing seconds more bearable, I would count the number of times a stream of light touched her face, which was as youthful and bright as the moonlight. Her features were identical to mine. But we were “not a perfect match,” my mother would say to remind us that although we were twins, we were also individuals.  

For two nights, I would watch this light dance until my eyes became too heavy to keep open. When the day was new, my sister woke me to point to a sign that read “Auschwitz.” She announced our arrival to the cart full of people. They awoke and responded with conflicted mumbles. Many secretly knew a small portion of what lay ahead of us. Others, however, were simply relieved that the long ride was over. 

The moment we stepped out of the transport, Nazi soldiers yelled for us to get into lines. They told us we could set our luggage aside and that we would come back for our stuff after processing. I looked up to my mother, and she looked back at me. The distress in her deep brown eyes flooded my heart like an overflowing cup. I knew she was afraid, but she tried her best to tuck away any expression of it to keep us calm. It was like she was hiding a present from a child on Christmas Eve but failed to keep it secret.  

My poor mother. She just wanted to be strong for us. After each quick examination, I would see a clean white glove rise, directing either left or right. Our turn came. My mother managed to pull a small, comforting smile across her face.  

“Come on,” she said to us.  

A man stood before us, bearing the posture of a king. His overall presentation manifested authority, but his face screamed horror. He glanced up at my mother for one second, then at my sister and me. 

“Twins?” He asked. My mother asked if this was a good thing. He did not reply, and my mother’s tiny smile disappeared. He looked down at his clipboard and scribbled. He asked again with more force, “Are they twins?” 

“Yes.” She swallowed heavily. “They are.”