• February 3rd, 1940

    It’s been a month and I’m still in this hellhole. Nobody seems to care whether or not I starve and I get fed every 2 days. The rats run in and out of the cell every so often to catch the droppings of the moldy swiss cheese sandwich I ate earlier. Why hasn’t anybody come for me yet? Will Mother worry? If they cared about me they would of saved me. My life as I know it is coming to an end. I don’t know if the strange men are going to kill me or if I’ll die because a lack of food and water first. Whatever happens, I’m going to end up in a grave and my mom will cry and dad won’t know because he’s at war then my suicidal uncle will attempt suicide again then the family will fall apart. So as I struggle in this cell with the slimy duct tape and the splintering rope and the disease ridden rats, my final thoughts are “why and how?”