To her right Shari noticed three teenagers, roughly her own age, dressed in black, with matching black lipstick and fingernail polish, their hair raven with dye and their ghostly faces powdered. They chattered noisily, excitedly referring to the photographs with adjectives such as “sweet,” “awesome,” and “cool,” words that bit her deeply.
And Shari had to wonder. If they were subjected to the same tortures and suffering as those in the photos, would they still think it was sweet, awesome and cool?
She thought not.
Moving along and leaving her unenlightened peers behind, Shari thought about her grandmother and the way she carried herself courageously through the remainder of her life. By surviving Auschwitz, her lineage continued. Her grandmother gave birth to three children, who extended the line further with seven grandchildren, Shari being the youngest. Without her grandmother’s will to continue on in one of history’s most notorious travesties, none of them would be alive today.
Thank you, Grandmama.
Shari stood over a glass case with her reflection staring back. She was attractive, with an errant lock of hair curling over her brow like an inverted question mark, just to the left of her widow’s peak. And her eyes, a dazzling copper brown that shined with the luster of newly minted pennies, gazed back with something inquisitive about them. Why was there such fanaticism in the world to warrant the murder of over six million Jews? In Shari’s mind it seemed all too tragic that mankind had not matured enough to see its own downfall.
Sighing, she looked beyond her reflection and saw the Nazi flag resting within the case. The red and white colors were crisp and clean as if new, and the swastika stared back at her as the symbol of intolerance.
“Because you’re one of Jewish faith,” her grandmother told her, “you’ll always be persecuted. But never forget who you are and always be proud, because one day you will be reminded of what you are, and you’ll need to fight back to survive. Never forget that, my littlest one.”
“I won’t, Grandmama.”
Shari smiled delicately, a small curvature of the lips in remembrance of a remarkable woman. Coming to the Holocaust Museum was not only an homage to her grandmother, but also a reminder to Shari of what her grandmother instilled in her — to be proud and bold and never forget where you came from, or those who didn’t make it. But more importantly, always remain strong in the face of adversity, which is inevitable.
“Remember, my littlest one. There will come a time. Believe me.”
In a country where religion was a constitutionally protected freedom, Shari doubted that being Jewish would cause any marginalization of any kind. But she couldn’t quite dismiss it either.
If it became an issue, then it would be one more obstacle to conquer in order to champion the cause for many, she considered. She knew she would always persevere, because persevering was a part of her grandmother; therefore, a part of her, genetic or otherwise.
Walking along the cases from one display to another, Shari spent most of the day reflecting on the courageous people who survived the camps, and praying for those who didn’t.
CHAPTER ONE
Two Humvees and a canopied cargo truck in the color scheme of desert landscaping moved quickly across the desert floor, kicking up plumes of dust and sand. The forward Humvee, easily equipped to handle the environment, escorted an M-Series cargo truck deep into the valley while the aft Humvee kept pace, making sure those held within the truck’s cargo bay did not escape.
As the Humvees took the rises and falls of the desert floor with little bounce, the cargo truck, which lacked certain capabilities for such terrain, was less cooperative. With difficulty, the commando inside tried to steady the point of his MP5 on the eight Arabs sitting along the benches, their wrists bound by flex-cuffs.
The farther they moved off-road the more barren and inhospitable the landscape became. Enormous rock formations poked through the parched wasteland as windswept dust sped across the plain like sea swells. The clay was worn and brittle, the surface fragmenting over time from the elements of searing wind and unforgiving heat. And the caretakers — the snakes, scorpions and lizards who adapted to a wasteland that offered little rainfall and blistering sun — inherited a kingdom that no one cared to rule.
It was a place of no contrition.
Once the vehicles had negotiated the miles of ruts and rises and the topography finally leveled, the forward Humvee slowed to a stop, with the other vehicles coming to a halt in its trail. As the dust slowly settled, nine commandos, clad in desert camouflage, goggles and helmets, exited the Humvees and seated their magazines into their assault weapons.
In the forward Humvee, a commando stood through the open roof to the gun turret with a Laser YardagePro, the range-finding system making the binoculars so heavy he had to use both hands to steady them as he made a slow scan of the horizon. After confirming no movement, he lowered the binoculars. “Clear!”
At that moment the team leader, sitting in the rear of the cargo truck, lifted the canvas flap and, with the barrel of his MP5 pointed to the desert floor beyond the tailgate, shouted for those bound by flex-cuffs to exit the vehicle. When he spoke he did so in fluent Arabic, a language he had become accustomed to, by living in the Middle East his entire life.
One-by-one the captives leapt from the cargo hold, their eyes narrowed against the severity of an unforgiving sun, as the remaining soldiers barked orders, knowing full well their captives had little command of the English language. Yet the prodding with the tips of their weapons was language enough as they goaded the Arabs to a clearing of dead brush and sun-baked clay.
From the rear of the cargo hold, the team leader looked on dispassionately while his unit led the hostages before a stone structure shaped like a half shell, its surface having been worn smooth by the winds. He then turned to face the two Arabs still sitting along the hardwood benches, their ankles shackled to a steel ring welded to the floor. With cold fortitude, Team Leader directed his weapon on them.
“Today marks the beginning of the end,” he told them. “So consider them—” he tipped his head in the direction of their brothers standing before the half shell— “the lucky ones.” With mechanical slowness, he pointed his weapon ceilingward. “I’m afraid Allah has a far greater destiny for you both,” he said, “so your Paradise will have to wait.” There was nothing cynical in his tone. It was simply a straight-forward statement that death had its place and this was not their time.
Recognizing the Islamic scripture, Team Leader, previously so self-possessed, became incensed.
“If Allah truly hears you, then ask Him for divine intervention for the sake of your brothers. And if He truly is your savior, then have Him strike me down before you as a show of His almighty power. I will grant Him one minute to do so,” he said. And then he held up his forefinger. “He has one… minute. Not a second more.”
He abruptly jumped out of the truck and slammed the tailgate shut as a sign of his resentment. He walked toward the half shell, his eyes fixing on the Arabs, and then gestured to his troops to force the captives to their knees.
Having regained his composure, Team Leader gripped his weapon and took stock of his enemies, exhibiting little emotion as they pleaded for clemency. But their words fell upon deaf ears as he looked skyward.