The Virtual Historian

He coughed, at first lightly, but then continuously and deeper, gasping for air like a drowning man. His wailing spread through the full length of the barracks. It lasted most of the night. Soon, his coughing fits increased. Someone passed him an eating bowl, the type assigned to everyone for his daily soup ration. He spat into the pot, he urinated into it, he vomited into it and when he started to throw up blood the contents turned an ugly red. There was no one to help. In the morning, he was sprawled on the floor, dead. I must say something about the heroes in our midst. Freddie Hirsch was a dark-haired young man who had organized athletic meets in Terezin and who taught us to have strength of spirit. Freddie was somehow able to squeeze a bit of feeling out of the camp Kommandant and arranged for small children to be permitted to spend the cold days indoors. The authorities permitted part of one of the barracks to be opened to children up to age fifteen. Here we could sit on benches in small groups; we could play, read and stay in greater comfort. The older boys and girls, the madrichim (youthleaders), organized little groups, played games with us and told us stories. We played word games, exercised a little and sang songs. Someone brought a tennis ball into the camp and we boys divided into teams and played soccer at the very edge of the camp. We children, even then, in the concentration camp, had some spirit left.