Still another week passed. Another gloomy, sorrowful week filled with anguish and tears. But one night when mother and father were out having dinner there was a knock on the door. I opened it and received an envelope addressed to me. I rarely get mail, so I was more than curious. I opened it and was amazed to find that it was from Peter before he died. I sat down hard and began to read it.
Dear Willie-
I can't tell you how much I miss you. Every day, the only thing that keeps me going is hope to see you again. I wonder what you look like many sleepless nights. You're taller, I know. And stronger, much stronger. I'll bet you're handsome, because you have father's blood in you.
I assume mother looks mostly the same as I remember her, because she's fully grown and couldn't of changed much. But maybe her hair is greyer, and she has a few small wrinkles. But even those small changes are hard for me to imagine. She never seemed to age to me, and maybe she still hasn't.
And sometimes when I'm working or getting beaten, it doesn't seem as painful as it should. Do you know why? Because I daydream about you and what you are doing at that very moment. At night I hope you're swinging, but I can never be sure. I fear too much has changed for that. I really, really do wish it, though. It is so much fun, Willie. Honest. You must at least try it.
But then, maybe I shouldn't encourage you to. The last thing I want is for you to be here. Or, let me rephrase that: the last thing I want is for you to experience what I have experienced. But I do want to be with you. If only for a minute, just to say hello. Or long enough to look at you, just once.
I miss mother, too. So much. We weren't on good terms when I left, and that I regret with all my heart. Love her, Willie. Love her and respect her and do as she tells you. I don't care if she's changed or not, you must always respect your parents… if not for anyone else, please do it for me since I have now lost my last chance.
I wish I could tell you this advice to you face-to-face, but I'm afraid that too much separates us. Far too much. Miles, mostly. Miles, along with most of Germany. I don't want to write the rest of this letter, but you deserve to know what I'm going through. If you're in a fragile state right now, I beg you to stop reading and save this for another time, because I don't want my words to haunt you in your sleep.
Each of the camps in this area have numbers, from what I understand. My camp's number is 1789511. All of the residents are tattooed with numbers, too. We are shaved bald and transform from humans to numbers. It is horrible, not only the pain of the number being burned into us but the reason behind it. As you can guess, we all look mostly the same. I try not to look at my number on my underarm. I feel that if I ignore it then it will go away. But I must give it to you, because it may help you find me someday. Mine is 259728.
I get very lonely here. I know no one, and I'm afraid to make friends because they would only die soon and I feel it's best not to get too attached. I don't know exactly what it is they feed us here… something between stew and vomit, I imagine. You may think I'm joking, but I'm not. Sometimes I truly wonder if they take the vomit from the prisoners and mix it with the food to create more of it or something.
I heard that as many as 600 people die here each day. I am very lucky, because I have survived for a very long time. I hear that if you are in average health when brought here, you will most likely live for 2 months. I suppose swing dancing and all of that exercise did me good, but it is not only my health that helps me survive. It is also my luck.
I share a small 1-man bunk with two other people. Often the two on the outside, or even all three of us, will wake up on the floor. We used to fight over who slept in the middle, but now we are all so weak that we simply take turns. It is the smart thing, anyway. Did I say "sleep?" I didn't mean it, because we rarely sleep. It is very hard to with the people all around me groaning like they do. For pain, hunger, or emotional reasons I don't know. Sometimes I'm not sure I'd like to know.
No one is really very friendly, but it would be unfair to call them mean. Most people just ignore the world around them and do what they must. Everyone knows that if even 1 punch is thrown, 5 bones will break because we are so scrawny. We are smart enough to stay away from fights.
For the first time since father died I have shed tears. I thought I was doing well. Coping well and getting emotionally stronger, but this place has broken me. Not always for the simple reason that it seems hopeless, but it hurts me to think that maybe father endured this. Maybe worse, even. I don't know.
Now I am beginning to have wet eyes, so I'm afraid I have to go. Mind your mother. Even if she doesn't show it, she loves you more than you will ever know. And be grateful for everything, even simple things like a piece of bread. You don't realize how much it's worth until you suddenly loose it all. I hope I can somehow get out of here and see you soon.
Your loving brother,
Peter
