You find a girl crying next to a grave. “What’s wrong?” You ask. She cries harder. “Nobody came to my funeral.”
"What do you mean?" I ask, crouching down next to her.
"Nobody could," she wailed. "They threw me into the ground. No prayers or anything."
I sat next to her, smoothing the loose dirt.
"They didn't even let my mother stay," she said. "She had to keep running with the others."
"Why did you fall behind?" I asked gently.
"I was so tired. I couldn't help it."
"I understand," I said, playing with the frayed edges of my dirty jumper. "I couldn't keep up either."
"I don't remember seeing you in our group," she said, looking up at me with wide brown eyes.
"I was earlier, I think. My sister had to keep running as well."
The girl shivered. "It's awfully cold. I wish they had let us bring our blankets."
"You're telling me," I smiled wryly, showing off my frostbitten toes. "At least you had shoes to wear."
"Yeah, I suppose." She glanced down the path. "Do you suppose they made it?"
I tried to smile, but she could tell I didn't mean it. "I hope so. I really hope so."
"I miss my hair," she said, suddenly. "I miss how Mama would braid my hair. Said if I didn't brush it enough, she'd have to cut it off. Tata never let her, though."
"Well," I said, reaching to pluck one of the corn poppies growing nearby. "If your hair wasn't gone, this would be hidden." I tucked the flower behind her ear. It made her smile.
"I almost made it," she said. "I'm sure of it. If I had just a little more food, or sleep, I could have made it."
"I know," I wrapped an arm around her. "We were close."
"I really hope they made it," she said. "Mama and Tata. I know my little brothers and sisters didn't. But I really hope they did."
"Guta was strong," I said, remembering. "She let me give her my food, sometimes, and I snuck her other pieces when I could. I think she could have made it."
"Mama made me eat all of her food," the girl said. "She would never take any of mine. I heard her cry when they shot me. But she still kept running. I hope she made it."
She picked a poppy of her own, twirling it by the stem. "I wonder if the others helped Mama through shiva." I looked at the patch on her jumper.
"It sure is cold," she said again. "What I wouldn't give for something hot to eat."
I squeezed her hand. "Even if they don't find us, it will be alright. Sometimes, we just have to host our own funerals."
She smiled sadly, and went back to playing with her flower. "I suppose so. Maybe we can say them together?"
I held her hand. "You lead. I've got a brown patch, but I always listened and prayed with the others."
She nodded.
"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake."
"Thank you," I said, once she had finished. "I think I can keep going now. Can you?" She nodded. We stood, and walked towards the green pastures together.
....
Inspiration: Night, by Elie Wiesel, where he details the run they took before liberation from the Auschwitz camp. Here, I have imagined something similar, but with the Ravensbruck camp. 20,000 or so women ran as well, and I imagine the conditions were much the same. I also read about Jewish funeral practices, and hope I did not falter in my rendition. May those who were lost in such tragedy find peace and rest.
