Charlotte R. Steiner
P.S. Today is June 11, 1941. Mama says I am writing cruel things; I should be kinder. I will try to be. But what if I cannot help it?

Dear Journal,
It’s three days later. I miss my sisters Miriam and Karin, and Papa, too. Karin and Miriam are both in America with my Aunt Rachel Charlotte Currier, who left for America when she was eighteen and married a German-American. She’s Mama’s sister. Karin and Miriam are twins and they are fifteen, four and a half years older than I am. They said I was “the
worst pest” a lot, but they love me. They left last summer, when I was sick with measles. I wanted to go, too. Mama said no. Papa is in a work camp, “heaven knows where,” says Mama.
Mama and I left our home shortly after I fell ill. Mama heard a rumor it was going to be raided soon. The soldiers once before had raided our house one horrible winter night in 1940. They took Papa, along with our most valuable belongings. Miriam, Karin, Mama, and I just watched, frozen like the icicles that shattered above the doorway when the Nazis broke open the door. Mama had connections that could bring us to Frau Bachman’s, and here we stayed.
I hate it. It’s cramped. I want to go away from here, anywhere safe. There’s one small window in our tiny space behind the closet, with only a partition separating it. I often look through the gauzy curtain at the street. The German soldiers march by a lot. They are prepared for battle, which is part of a war that is occurring right now in Europe. The Americans are winning, announces Frau Bachman when she delivers our meals.
But I don’t believe it. How could it be true? Nazis are evil and powerful (Mamma just read this. She says, “Having hate in your heart is not a good thing, sweet Charlotte. Have hope; that is much better.”) She always has endless hope. Doesn’t your hope run out after a while? I wonder.
So anyway, I look out my window all the time. It is a dangerous thing to do, but Mama lets me, as long as I don’t get too close. There is a fountain across the street, and children are splashing in it right now. I sit wondering what the fresh summer air feels like. It’s not stuffy like the attic, is it? I want to ask. Or, Let me come out and play with you.
I remember summer. It was hot. Deliciously cold when you swam or ate ice cream. I remember sandy beaches. Sunburn, that tingling feeling. Freckles popping on my face if I wasn’t careful. Carefree days playing. Cool nights trying to catch lightning bugs and crickets. This was before the Nazis. Before the war. Before Papa, his laughing bearded face, left. He used to tease my dark-haired sisters and me. “What’s that on your face, eh, Char-Char?” He’d tease about my freckles. Oh, I miss him. I cannot write about him. I am too sad. Now he’s at a work camp. Maybe gone forever.
I’m crying now, salty tears running down my cheeks. Mama doesn’t notice, though. She is napping.
Charlotte

Journal:
The Nazis are here, thumping up the stairs. I want to scream. Will our lives be shattered like icicles like that cold night when Papa left? More later, I promise, I promise. I promise!
Charlotte

June 19-the next day
Dear Journal,
They came barging in at midnight, while Mama and I were sleeping on our dirty mattresses. They bashed open the door without knocking. But I did not wake up to that. I woke up to shouts and curses. They smashed things and yelled and spat, says Frau Bachman.
Then, they came storming up the stairs. One of them yelled to poor Frau Bachman, “Bet you have something hidden up here!” I shuddered. Mama didn’t move-she was a frozen statue, as frozen as the night Papa was taken away.
They stomped and banged and smashed. The noises became deafening, coming much closer. They were coming up the attic stairs, pounding. Our closet was opened. I prayed. Mama cried silently. I didn’t breathe.
A sound of hoarse breathing and loud boots came closer. “Hey, lady! What d’you have back here?” the man shouted.
Frau Bachman replied, “Nothing. That’s what I’ve been telling you. Absolutely nothing.”
“You’re lying! I can smell something you’re hiding, I can!”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not hiding anything. I support the cause as much as you do.” Frau’s voice was still level.
“Let her go, Hans! We have more important things to do,” shouted another voice. They left, Hans growling, “We’ll be back, lady, I can assure you that.”
Frau Bachman came in after they left. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “Are you all right?”
All Mama could do was say weakly, “You have been very kind to us, Ernestine. But it’s dangerous. Charlotte and I must leave immediately.”
“No; it is too dangerous to leave.  You must stay!”
“You are too foolish!” Mama whispered fiercely. “Don’t you understand, Frau Ernestine Bachman? That man said he would be back! We must leave at once!”
Frau Bachman looked upset.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Mama again. “We must…”
So we’re leaving tomorrow night. I am so frightened. I wish we were free-but maybe this place is better. I shall have hope, as Mama says. I shall have hope.
Charlotte

Epilogue: After being smuggled out of Germany, Charlotte and her mother remained in hiding in Denmark until the end of the war. Her father had died in a concentration camp, Auschwitz, but Charlotte and her mother were joyfully reunited with Miriam and Karin in America in September, 1945. “We are survivors,” her mother declared. They made a good life for themselves in America. But Charlotte would always remember her mother’s motto. “Have hope, little ones,” she would tell her grandchildren years later, “Always have hope.”