When I was little, I played with pots and pans. I pretended that I was in the military, rapping away to the beat of soldier's footsteps. I had two pots; one small but deep, the other wide and shallow. Sometimes I'd wear the smaller one as a hat.
Those pots were the only 'toys' I had. There wasn't anything to do in the bunkers. My father had lied to me, saying that the other kids were all playing outside, but in a different area. He said there were others that were hiding, like me. It was all one big game of hide and seek, and I was too young to know any better. But I remember the rainy, snowy, freezing days of boredom in that bunker. Staying on the top bunk every day, wishing that I was in a bunker with other kids. But that was a stupid thought, seeing as all the other kids were dead.
I guess it was the combination of my father and I's stubbornness that saved me. He refused to give me up to the soldiers. He refused to tell me the truth. And I, I refused to 'shower.' I had no idea that it wasn't really a shower; that it was actually mass homicide—a slaughter house. To me it was water to make me clean, and I didn't want that. After that first offer, I was never offered a shower again. Not because they decided to spare me, but because they didn't know I was there. After all, it was just a big game.
There was one day that I came close to being caught. It was raining as usual, and I was the only one left in the bunker. All the older men were sent out to work, including my father. This was usually the time my father told me to be the most quiet. He said that when they went out to work, soldiers would come and inspect the bunkers, looking to see if anyone wanted to resign from the game. They were very persuasive, he'd say. They'd try to scare me into quitting, but I had to stay brave and be quiet. He'd tell me to imagine all the kids they must have caught already, and see myself still staying, being the only one left and winning that majestic, imaginary tank. If only I knew the truth. Anyway, I was bored. I was tired of my father telling me about the children and had been there long enough to figure out that at this point, I must be the only kid left, so what had I to lose?
So I banged away on my pots and pans, creating a little tune they'd play for me as I would march up to my prize. I had just gotten started when the door swung open, yelling bursting through the still air, causing me to dash under the sheets.
"Ich habe gehört, Trommeln, wurde es von hier kommen!" shouted a man. There were two of them.
"Das ist unmöglich, alle Juden am Werk sind."
"Aber ich hörte, ich weiß,"
"Der Platz ist leer. Lassen Sie es sein. Der Offizier würde unsere Köpfe dafür haben."
There was a resounding bang as the door slammed shut. The air was silent excpet for the rain and my racing heartbeat. I never touched the pots again.
