Narrative Essay On Camp Life

Before the knock on the door, Angelina and I played. There was music and laughter overflowing the house, and the scent of kosher dinners wafted from the kitchen. Before the knock on the door, I had a doll. I had a bed, a warm, pink quilt fluffed by the unmade sheets, and stuffed animals under it. Before the knock on the door, I had books. I had stories that I was consumed in, and had read billions of times. They never got old. Before the knock on the door, Mother was happy, Angelina was happy. I was happy.

Camp Life:

The stench of rotten cheese and burnt bread wreaked from under my pillow. Saved from the previous night, I had breakfast awaiting to be scarfed down. Mother always said it was better than nothing, but then again, she always sat by the window. The light was drained from her face that night. It seemed like all the life was sucked out of her when we were seperated from father. It seemed as if she had fallen under a spell, going along with those soldiers orders, listening to that

We'd light candles, say the prayers and motzi, and I'd happily devour whatever was placed in front of me. As the years went on, the dinners became smaller, and there was less meat, but it was no less delicious. Mother was a wonderful cook, but I could tell, the stress of Friday night was definitely not her favorite time of the week.

Camp Life:

We filed out of the grimy tent and I peered into the sad brown eyes of the woman in front of me. They were filled with hope, but I knew, that nothing could allow us to escape. She looked seventeen, but she was probably more around twenty two. They were starving us, and everyone one looked smaller and younger than they really were. Mother looked younger than her age of 42, and I was struggling to look 14. We marched on, and I felt dismal at the sight of the wire fence, and the german guards blocking it. That day, when that Nazi soldier came to call.

The Bakery, Part