Status Updates From Poslední svedkovia

At school I went to the sixth grade. During the lessons of literature and history, the teachers talked to us, and we sat and knitted socks, mittens, tobacco pouches for the army. We knitted, and memorized poetry, recited Pushkin in chorus. We were waiting for the war to end. It was such a cherished dream that Mama and I were even afraid to talk about it.

Our house burned down. The garden burned down. There were baked apples hanging on the apple tree. We gathered them and ate them.
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-- Varema Presnikova Kaminska, 6 years old. Now, a worker. (Spelling of name unclear; this is an audiobook.)

She lay for two days & couldn't walk, and on the third they took her away on a stretcher. There was only one way out of the camp: thru the chimney. Straight to heaven. . At night, she & I talked. "Does an angel come to you?" I wanted to tell her about my angel. "No. Mama comes to me. She always wears a white blouse. I remember this blouse she had, with cornflowers embroidered on it."
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There was only one way out of the camp: through the chimney. Straight to heaven.

I don't understand what strangers are, because my brother and I grew up among strangers. Strangers saved us! And what kind of strangers are they? All people are one's own. I live with that feeling, though I'm often disappointed. Peacetime life is different.