Luba lay in her bunk with her eyes closed. Outside, the night was cold and moonless, yet inside, the drafty prison barracks weren't much warmer. It was Luba's first night in this strange, new camp. She had no home, no family, and questions plagued her sleep: Why am I still alive? Why was I spared? Half dreaming, she thought she heard her son Isaac calling her, "Mama! Mama!" But she knew Isaac wasn't there. Luba sat up. "Do you hear that?" she whispered to Hermina, who shared her bunk. "Children crying." "Only your first night and already you are hearing things?" Hermina rolled her eyes. "You are just dreaming. Go to sleep. The Nazis don't like crazy people, you know." Luba tried to sleep, but the voices returned, "Mama! Mama!" Who is crying? she wondered. Luba wrapped a thin blanket around her shoulders and went out into the frozen night. Outside, she could barely see the snow-covered ground, but the cries were clearer. They led her behind the barracks, to an empty field. That's where she found them: fifty-four children huddled together like lost ducklings. Some were just babies tucked into pillowcases. Excerpted from Luba: The Angel of Bergen-Belsen by Luba Tryszynska-Frederick, Michelle Roehm Mccann All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
