Author's Note: I thought of this story while I was at work, and since I don't have the attention span to write a full length story (or pay attention to my customers) I decided to write it into a short story. Please enjoy and educate yourself.

The bookstore was quite busy, but that didn't stop her grand-daughter from galavanting about, picking up this book and that, for she truly did love to read. However, she commonly threw the books over her shoulders as soon as she was done glancing at the cover, which left her fifty seven year old grandmother to pick them up.

"Grandma! Grandma, look at this one!" She said, yanking a book from the shelf and proudly displaying the cover. "Oh, wait. I grabbed the wrong one." And with that, she threw it on the ground again and sorted through the book spines. Sighing and shaking her head, her grandmother bent over and picked up the book she'd mistaken for the one she wanted. It's title, 'The Hoax of the Twentieth Century: The Case Against the Presumed Extermination of European Jewry' caught her eye.

Frowning and opening the book to look at the author, she saw the name of 'A.R. Butz' on the inside cover. It had been written in 1976, four years earlier. Slowly opening the pages, the grandmother tilted her head at the text and read it slowly. Then she closed it quite suddenly, with a snap.


In the year of 1941, there was nothing worse than being a Polish Jew. And unfortunately for myself and my family, that is what every one of us were. Until that fateful year, however, it had not been much of a problem. Hardly even an issue, to us four children and our hard-working, middle-class parents. Myself, my two older brothers and my younger sister went to school, played with other children, and did our chores. We lived normal lives. That all changed in a very short period of time.

Poland is known to its countrymen as the 'forgotten' country. For, even though our mother land had been invaded by the German Nazis, and even though our fellow Jews were forced into one of the worst Nazi death camps of the second World War, we were never compensated for our losses. Even though we could never regain what we had lost, we knew when the war was over and the Americans had left, we would be left in shambles. Germany would not take care of us - They were war torn as well, and angry about defeat. America was not worried for us; We did not trade with them in big business like others, so they did not feel obligated to repair us. That is why we are the forgotten country.

My family was forgotten, as well. We were left alone.

Alone in Auschwitz.

"Hier! Bewegung!"

There was a loud whistle blowing from the train, and my brothers, myself and my sister were tugged from the train car. We had been on the train for several hours, having been summoned by the Nazis that had stormed our village to get on the trains. They were taking us to a meadow in Hungary, that told us. We did not believe them, of course. But what choice did we have? We were forced to leave our homes at a moment's notice, my family and myself. My parents were forced onto a seperate car than us, and we crammed into a confined space with other people, both young and old. My brothers and I understood what was happening, but we did not know for sure where we were to go. My sister was too small to realize this. She asked questions constantly, tugging on our coats and blinking in confusion when we told her to be quiet, to sit. Then we sat down with her, in the train, and told her stories and played guessing games for the long ride.

When the train stopped, it was raining. Oh so harshly it was, making the ground grey and wet. The doors slid open very suddenly, and other Jews dressed in striped uniforms ushered us out, speaking rapidly to us and telling us to seperate. My brothers and I grasped for each other, but they put the able bodied men in one line, and the women and children in another. My mother found me and my sister, and grabbed us both. Father was put with my older brothers, in the line on the right.

The women and children were on the right. I will not forget looking over the mud and grime, at the line including my brothers and father, and other young men that I knew. Some I had just met, on the train ride. Others I had gone to school with. They were trying not to look frightened, but I could tell they were. They were just as frightened as me, a sixteen year old girl.

"Adina," My mother whispered to me, turning and grabbing my shoulders and ignoring the chaotic yelling of soldiers around her. "You must remember what I say to you now. Trust in God, and keep yourself aware. You will stay alive this way, Adina. You will stay and take care of your sister if anything happens to me."

My eyes widened and I shook my head frantically. "No, mother, nothing will happen. Odelia will be fine. We will all be fine. This is just for a little while." I told her, motioning to the forboding gates that loomed before us. My mother did not look comforted, and this did not do well to me. Tears sprung to my eyes and I clung to her cloak, choking back a sob. "You will not die, we will be fine. We will go back to the village as soon as the Allies come. You will see." My mother only shook her head, turning away from me as the line of women and children began moving.

We entered through the gates, soldiers close at the flanks of the lines and holding their guns menacingly. The men were led off in a different direction, and I somberly watched my father and brothers go. How I wanted to go with them, so that my father could come back and comfort my mother. I wished my little sister, Odelia, would stop crying. I know she is scared, but so am I! I can do nothing to comfort her. I only try to shush her so that the officer does not take notice. We had heard so little about these camps - It was early in the war in 1941, and tales of it's horrific nature had not yet reached our tiny outpost village. Our line moved towards a large steel building that appeared to have only one room, and no windows. I wondered if this was where we were to sleep. I hoped that they would simply leave us be in there. I wanted to get away from their angry stares, I wanted to comfort my sister and mother, and look for my family. I wanted to find my friends that had been seperated from me, but I knew I could only wait.

My attention snapped up as, over the pounding of the rain against the soil below our feet, screams echoed off the walls of the room they were herding us toward like sheep. So horrifying were these yells of anguish, frantic cries of help, that I was paralyzed in my spot. What was happening? Who was screaming? There were so many voices, and then, there weren't. They stopped. Before I even realized what was happening, the hard butt of a German gun hit me between my shoulders blades.

"Bewegung!" The harsh looking soldier snapped at me.

'Move', he had said. Move to where? That room? But it was a room of death! I realized with horror that we, as the women and children, were useless to these Nazis. They were going to kill us. All of us? Yes. My mother suddenly became panicked, and shouted to the heavens for help. Her answer was the blunt end of a gun to the back of her neck. She fell on her knees, right in front of us, and when I moved to help another Nazi pointed a gun at me. He was going to shoot me, right there, but another uniformed man walked up to our group.

"Wir benötigen Frauen zu nähen." I was confused. The soldier had asked if any of the women among us could sew. Several of us tentatively raised our hands, including myself. I could sew quite well, as that was how most of us made our clothes. The German soldiers grunted things to each other and then looked at us again, gesturing to five or six of the girls around my age group.

These, they had decided, were the right ones. Not too young but not too old, they would last the longest. We would last the longest. Exactly how long was that? They yanked us from the lines, the other girls and me, and I looked upon the sad face of my sister, who was too young to be a good seamstress, and my mother, who was still on her hands and knees and muttering to herself. Terrified at the sight I was, but I did not have long to stare. My shoulders were seized and my body lurched forward as the soldiers pushed me on without mercy. We trudged through the rain, and the rest of the line, including my sister and mother, were led to the large, grey building that I later knew to be the gas chambers.

I never saw them again.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to wail and scream so much, because I knew that they were dead as soon as they crossed into that room. But I didn't cry, or talk, or protest anything that the Nazis did. Because I did not want to draw attention to myself. In that way, I might stay alive. So I walked on, to a long, thin-walled building with many uncomfortable looking, wooden bunks. It was as if I was watching myself from a place outside of my body as I saw the sunken faces of my fellow Jews, grown men who looked like twelve year old boys because of lack of body fat. They had shrunken, I saw, but the worst thing to look at was their eyes. Their eyes were hopeless, but also leering. They were so lonely in this prison, they thought to themselves. I was lonely, too, but not for them.

At the end of the long room was a door that we were all pushed through. The room was tiny and dimly lit, and I remember thinking that it was like being in my pet's dog house at home. Somehow, a table had been managed in it and was set up with the most basic sewing supplies. We were ordered to sit, and I did so immediately. Others, more hesitantly, sat down and looked up expectantly at each other. But I kept my eyes down, and my hands in my lap. They told us that if we were to sew, we would live and be useful. As much as we could be anyway, another added and the two Nazis laughed. My cheeks burned with embarrasment and hatred, but my mouth remained silent as the night. So then, we began to sew.

It was mostly the striped uniforms we saw the other Jews wearing, when they'd brought us off the train. Someone had to make them, for there were so many Jewish men on this one camp. We had to repair holes in the surgical curtains, which were stained with blood and often stinking with death. I tried not to think about what went on behind these fabrics as I pushed a needle in and out of red-stained material. Some of the other girls, they did not do what I did. They drew attention to themselves, crying and sometimes slacking on their work. I only watched in tearful silence as they were beaten with a blunt object, or shot. Right there, in front of my young eyes, I saw a person die. A young girl, younger than myself. But that was nothing.

Once, after I had been sewing day and night for so many days that my hands bled onto the material, a girl that I had befriended had slowed down on her work for distraction of her thoughts. One of the German officers ordered her to hold up her hand, palm face down over the table. She did so, hesitantly, and then the soldier slammed down her palm on the table. A needle, which had been sitting underneath, went straight up through her hand. Through her screams of pain, the uniformed man then hit her roughly in the back of the neck and ordered her to keep on working. She sewed, with a long needle stuck protruding from her hand on both sides, until her wound became infected. She died at the table, and they dragged her off. I cried, but I waited until they allowed us a few moments rest, and were not watching as closely.

We had it easier than others. For one, we were alive. That was much more than other people on the camp could say. We sewed, day in and day out. But our room was at the end of the barracks that the lonely, crazed men that we had seen on the first day lived in, and they would stow away in the sewing room where we slept and rape us in the night. I was fortunate to be spared. Others were not, and some became pregnant. When they began to show, the German soldiers took them away and they were never seen again. They were dead, and we all knew it. We did not say anything about them, or question their whereabouts. Our sewing room was also right next to the crematorium, where the bodies of those that were gased were also burned. Some of them were not dead when they were put into the furnace, and they woke up in the burning flames. Their cries became a constant sound for us, which we could hear so clearly through the thin walls. All day and all night, never ceasing, we listened to people cry and scream and yell and curse. Eventually, we just learned to tune it out.

The only thing that kept me alive was the thought of my father and brothers. I knew that my mother and sister were dead, and that they might have been voices I'd heard screaming. I did not cry, though, because I did not want the soldiers to look at me. I waited, silently, and did not try to escape. I lost very much weight, so that my stomach dipped noticeably below my ribs and my arms were the size of what my fingers had once been. They fed us only what was necessary to keep us alive, and that was not very much at all. It soon became routine for us to work around the dead bodies of collapsed girls. They were simply replaced with others, and we did not mourn for them. We only were thankful that they were not ourselves.

I lived in Auschiwtz for four years, until the Red Army liberated us in January of the year 1945. I do not know how I managed to live that long, nor do I know how many I saw die. It was too many to count, of that I am sure. I was numb to it all by now, but I never slept. Not at all did I sleep, wondering if my father and brothers were still alive, wondering if there was really a world outside of that horrible room and its walls. I even wondered if God cared about me any more.

When the Soviets stormed the camp, all we could hear were Russian cries and shouts, but little gunfire. The Germans were busy destroying records, and they blew up the crematorium beside us. Luckily, myself and the other four girls in the sewing room had already been evacuated to the trenches outside of the camp. I waited there, barely able to hold myself up for it was January and very cold. I was so weak that I could not comprehend what was happening. I did not feel elated, for all emotions had left me a very long time before. And when I looked around at the thousand or so Jews that had survived the camp, the ones the Germans had left behind, I realized that I did not see my brothers or my father anywhere. But then - for the first time in four years, I felt strength and hope - Otto, who was now aged 24, was there! Oh, how different he looked.. It saddened me, but he was alive, walking numbly through the carnage and chaos. I rushed to him, tripping from my weak knees, but when we met I could not hug him. He was so small, so skinny, so tired. I simply stared at him, and he at me, and he gave me a tiny smile. I did the same for him, for it was all we had to give just then. After hours of seige, we were put onto trains once again and taken to a large village in Poland. The Soviets were there, and they fed us what we could stomach, and gave us warm clothes. My brother and I said nothing to each other. I did not ask him about my other brother, Lector, or our father. I knew they were dead, too. My little sister would have been fourteen in just a few days, I remember thinking. How joyful that would have been.

Even now, when I think upon the days after my brother and myself were liberated from the camp known as Hell on Earth to those who heard about it, I do not feel sad for those who died. Why? Because I died in that camp, too, even though I did not experience it physically. I never gained anything from that place, but I lost so very much. Something that takes but does not give back, that is something that you remember. Hatred is easier to hold onto than forgiveness or even grief.

"Grandmother!" The little girl tugged at her grandmother's arm, and the woman was shaken out of her daze. "I found the book I was looking for." She said, pointing to the title and reading it slowly. "Good..night..moon. Good Night Moon!" Grinning proudly at the older woman she admired, the little girl hugged the book to her chest. "What's the book you have, Grandmother?"

Adina Adlin turned the book over in her hands. Hoax of the Twentieth Century, it said. The Jews were liars. The Holocaust was exaggerated, if it even happened at all. There was none of this .. mutiliation of the Jewish population. That was what it said. Adina gave a small, quiet laugh and put the book back on the shelf calmly, before turning to her granddaughter and kissing the crown of her head.

"A work of fiction, my darling. A work of fiction."

The book mentioned, The Hoax of the Twentieth Century: The Case Against the Presumed Extermination of European Jewry , is a real book, written by a real writer who was not a historian, but instead an electrical engineer who fancied the idea that the Holocaust was indeed a lie, or exaggeration. I will not write a full list of my views on this subject matter, for I hope that they are clear from this story, but I will say that I have personally spoken to people who are 'survivors of a Hoax', and I assure you that it is no more the aforementioned than the world wars or the creation of the United States. I hope you enjoy reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing, and I hope it is as powerful to read as it was to think about. Please comment. (: