My name is Sara Gittler and I am thirteen and a half years old. I have lived here in the Warsaw Ghetto for more than a year. Can you imagine what it is like to live behind barbed wire and high walls? No one can leave and no one wants to come in. There are thousands of Jews, just like me, who are living here – if you can call it that. But this is not really living. To me, living means that you are free; that you can go where you want and do anything you wish. We are anything but free. I can’t go to school, there are no parks for me to play in, I have so little to eat that I am starving all the time. Maybe what I mean to say is that we exist here – my family and I, and the other Jews. We are in limbo, praying for things to get better, expecting that things will get worse.
I once read a story about a bird that was caged up for years until someone came along and set it free. It spread its wings and lifted up into the sky, floating on a current of air, loving the sweet moment of its liberation. But unbeknownst to the bird, a hungry cat had been watching from behind a tree. Within seconds, the cat leapt into the sky, caught the bird, and killed it. Now you’d think that the saddest part of that story was that the bird died. But that’s not the part that made me sad. The part that made me sad was that the bird was caged up in the first place.
I dream of walking down a busy street and stopping in a café for ice-cream and cake. I dream of going to a real school and sitting at the front of the classroom where I can listen to every word the teacher says. I dream of buying a new dress, or maybe ten of them. Most of all, I dream of being a famous writer and having everyone read my stories and remember my name. I have written dozens of stories and they are all here in this diary. They tell of my life in the ghetto, along with the lives of my family members and best friends. This is my childhood. I don’t deserve to be here. I did nothing wrong. My only crime is that I was born Jewish and for that, I have been imprisoned and condemned.
If you are reading my stories, it means you found them in the special place I am leaving them. And that means that I am not here to read them with you, to tell you about my life, and to share the memories. My stories speak for my life; they speak for me. Please, remember me.
Sara Gittler