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had died in Siberia. From the time we left Latvia—I was almost nine— until the end of the war in Europe, my family’s only goal, along with thousands of others, was just to survive. We were frequently on the move, traveling by trains that were often attacked from the air by American planes. At the first warning signs we would debark and run for cover—all except the Jewish prisoners who were confined in cars from which they couldn’t escape. I’ll never forget how these planes always came from out of the sun so we couldn’t see them but we could hear the whine of their engines and then the stacca to of the machine guns as they swooped down, shooting.
We were told to lie down flat anywhere we could find in order to avoid becoming a target. At one point I lost my parents but I never cried. Nobody ever cried. We were in shock and, by then, all we were programmed to do was to try to survive. Nobody comforted me and I didn’t have the language to talk about my terror. I witnessed trains and buildings being blown up and people killed from spraying bullets. When not on the move, we lived in run-down hotels in different cities with lots of other refugees. Food was
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