March
People are clumped in bunches in the gloomy street dressed in dark, dirty garments hardly suitable for protection from the winter chill. The air reeks of gunpowder and fearful sweat. A cold wind pierces through the thin layers of old clothing as the mistreated Jews shuffle forward by order of the Nazi soldiers. Worn-down black boots can't stop the freezing sludge from the street from seeping through socks and enveloping already frostbitten feet. The polluted air burns like acid as it goes down the windpipes; it tastes of soot and smog. Baby's mournful screams and their mothers' soft moans are barely heard over the orders barked out harshly first in German, then in Yiddish. Tears flow silently down filthy cheeks, leaving streaks where the dirt is washed away. A little boy with wide, frightened eyes hidden underneath a tweed cap holds his hands in the air, signaling defeat. They continue their sorrowful march with the solemnity of a chain gang, leaving the dank air of the ghetto for the hellish pain of the concentration camp.