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People began to die in the cell, either from the beatings or the dogs or ex- posure to the cold. The Germans came in the next morning and went about the cell, kicking at us to see if we were still alive. Those who did not move were kick- ed again, more severly. And if they still didn't move, they were carried away for dead. I was beginning to die myself. I realized that a person could actually become one of the living dead; could go on living but feel nothing, not pain, not fear, not sorrow. I was very near to this state. My mind raced. I thought about my mother and brother. I thought of their anguish over losing their family one by one. I also remembered how I had promised myself to protect my mother with my life. I felt the familiar sensa- tion of hate burning within me. Damned Nazis, I thought to myself. I'll show you. I won't die. You will not be able to kill me. I will live to see you pay for your crimes and to have your name erased from this world. When I awakened, I was no longer in the prison. I was in bed in a darkened room, and I could see light coming in through the doorway. I didn't recognize the room at all. Was I dreaming? Or could I actual- ly be dead, and at some stop- ping station on my way to heaven? I felt terrible: hot, clammy, then cold and very ill. My joints ached and my head hurt. I felt tightness around my back and chest. I tried to get out of the bed, but I was so weak that I could barely even roll over. Soon after, a woman entered my room. "Oh, you are awake!" she said. "That is wonderful. Oh, Jules" — she called to some- one in the outer room — "the girl is awake!' A man entered. He smiled at me. "So, dear one," he said, "how are you feeling today?" He felt my forehead. "Hmm, still warm, but I believe you will recover now!' "Where am I?" I asked "In our home, in the Chor- tkov ghetto," the man answered. He was a gentle man, and I felt very safe with him and the woman. "I am Jules Gold, and this is my wife, Sala. You have been with us for two weeks!" Two weeks! It didn't seem possible. I had been un- conscious for 14 days. While Mrs. Gold prepared my soup, Mr. Gold propped some pillows behind my back and began to tell me the story of the last two weeks. I was in their home, Mr. Gold told me, because he had discovered me in a pile of dead bodies awaiting burial at the prison cemetery. The earth had frozen badly, so the Germans called in ad- The schoolchildren looked from the policemen to us with puzzled eyes, sensing that something was wrong with the huddled people on the sleigh. ditional help to dig graves. Ghetto Jews were forced to bury the corpses of their own people who had died in prison. Mr. Gold, as a member of the Judenrat, accompanied the men from the ghetto to the cemetery so that in case the Germans decided to shoot them, he could at least try to plead for their lives. Apparently, after I had become unconscious in the prison cell, I had been assum- ed dead, either by my cellmates or by the German guards. My body had been thrown onto a pile of bodies, in the middle of the room, which was then carried out- side and left in the snow for burial. Mr. Gold told me that when he picked me up, he thought he heard a moan, and then he realized that my body was warm. The Jewish burial party pretended to bury me and actually put me in the grave. But when the German guards left, they pulled me out, wrapped me in a coat, hid me under the straw of their sleigh, and brought me into the ghetto to Mr. Gold's home. Since then, he and Mrs. Gold had cared for me as though I were their own child, not knowing if I would live or die. For two weeks, I had tossed and turn- ed in the bed, moaning, talk- ing in my sleep, sometimes calling for my mother, sometimes for my father. Mrs. Gold brought in a cup of tea and a bowl of broth. When I finished eating, Mrs. Gold tucked the blanket tightly around me. "lbo much excitement at