Written in the tradition of Jewish historical imagination, this piece reflects the lived experience of the author—a Jewish writer and Type 1 Diabetic—who gives narrative to what history most likely erased.

 

On November 22, 1941, over 1,000 Jews were deported from Frankfurt am Main by train, originally destined for Riga. Due to overcrowding in the Riga ghetto, the train was rerouted to Fort IX in Kaunas, Lithuania. When they arrived on November 25, they were marched directly from the cattle cars to pre-dug trenches and shot by SS and Lithuanian collaborators.

 

 

 

The Sabbath candles flickered, their warm glow stretching across the dining table, lighting the polished wood with golden flickers. The small Frankfurt apartment smelled of fresh challah and steaming chicken broth, a rare moment of peace in a world that had gone crazy.

 

The Rosenbaum family sat together, surrounded by ritual, faith, and a quiet understanding that every moment like this was precious. At the head of the table, Avram Rosenbaum, a dedicated pharmacist, studied his son with pride.

 

“Mendel, tell me—what does your Bar Mitzvah Torah portion teach us?”

 

Mendel, barely containing his excitement, wiped his mouth with his napkin before speaking. “Vayishlach! It’s when Jacob wrestled with the angel. He didn’t give up, even when he was hurt.”

 

Avram nodded, pleased. “And what did he gain?” he asked.

 

“A new name. Israel. Because he struggled and won,” Mendel replied.

 

Malca, his fourteen-year-old sister, smirked and ruffled his hair. “You, my little brother, are always struggling.”

 

“I do not!” Mendel swatted at her hand, laughing. “Papa, tell her I’m strong!”

 

Avram chuckled, reaching for his medical bag. “You are strong, my son. But even the strongest need help.”

 

Mendel sighed, rolling his eyes. “I know. I’m a diabetic.”

 

Avram nodded, setting a small ceramic cup on the table. “And before we do anything, let’s check your urine to see how your blood sugar is.”

 

“And before we do anything, let’s check your urine to see how your blood sugar is.”

 

Malca wrinkled her nose. “Again?”

 

“Again,” Avram confirmed. “This is how we know if his sugar is high.”

 

Mendel groaned but took the cup. He returned moments later, setting it carefully on the table. His father worked quickly, placing a thin glass rod into the urine, then dipping it into a small bottle of Benedict’s solution. The liquid turned a deep orange as Avram swirled it over the flame of a candle.

 

Malca watched with wide eyes. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”

 

Avram sighed. “Yes. Too much sugar. Mendel, you need your insulin.” He reached into his bag, pulling out a thick glass syringe with a long, gleaming needle. The plunger was stiff, the barrel lined with tiny etchings to mark the dose.

 

Mendel swallowed hard. “Is it the same insulin as last time?"

 

Avram held up the small vial, the label handwritten in his precise script. “Not exactly. This one is fish insulin—from the pancreases of cod. It’s what we have access to.” His voice lowered. “If I weren’t a pharmacist, getting this at all would be nearly impossible.”

 

Malca frowned. “Why? Because we’re Jewish?”

 

Their mother, Miriam, stepped forward, setting a steaming bowl of soup in front of Mendel. “Because in this world, medicine is not always given to those who need it most.”

 

Mendel exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. Avram tapped the syringe, flicking out an air bubble before bringing it to his son’s arm.

 

Then—BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

 

The front door shuddered under the weight of fists.

 

Silence fell over the table.

 

Malca’s grip on Mendel’s hand tightened. Miriam gasped, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. Avram whispered, “Stay calm.” He set the syringe down carefully, stood, and took a slow breath before approaching the door.

 

Then—CRASH. The door splintered open, shards of wood flying as black-clad SS soldiers stormed inside.

 

“Stehenbleiben!” (Don’t move!)

 

Avram raised his hands, his voice calm but firm. “Bitte, meine Kinder—” (Please, my children—)

 

The first blow landed before he could finish. A rifle butt slammed into his ribs, and he collapsed, gasping.

 

“Papa!” Mendel tried to run to him, but Malca yanked him back.

 

Miriam lunged toward her husband. A soldier grabbed her by the hair and yanked her backward.

 

“Mama!” Malca screamed.

 

The officer in charge, a man with cold blue eyes, sneered as he stepped forward. His gaze flickered to the medical bag still open on the table. He picked up a vial of insulin, turning it in his gloved fingers. His lip curled. “Drogen? Oden Gift?” (Drugs? Or poison?) He turned to Avram, sneering. “Was ist dieser Dreck, Jude?” (What is this filth, Jew?)

 

Then—CRACK. The vial shattered beneath his boot, a small puddle of wasted life glistening against the wooden floor.

 

Avram, still gasping, forced himself to sit up. “Es ist Medizin.” (It is medicine.)

 

“Medizin?” The officer rolled the vial between his fingers, then—CRACK. He smashed it beneath his boot.

 

“Nein!” (No!) Mendel lunged forward, but the soldier struck him hard in the stomach. He crumpled, gasping for air.

 

“Seht euch die kleine Ratte an.” (Look at the little rat.) The soldier mocked. “Er weint um seine Drogen.” (He cries for his drugs.)

 

Miriam screamed. “Das ist die Medizin meines Sohnes! Er braucht sie zum Leben!” (That is my son’s medicine! He needs it to live!)

 

The officer smiled coldly. “Leben? Juden leben nicht. Juden verrotten.” (Live? Jews don’t live. Jews rot.)

 

One by one, he crushed the remaining vials.

 

Avram begged. “Bitte—er wird ohne sie sterben!” (Please—he’ll die without it!)

 

The officer only laughed. “Besser so.” (Better that way.)

 

A sharp bark cut through the chaos. Their small dachshund, Felix, yipped at the soldiers, his tail raised in defiance.

 

The officer sighed. “Was ist es mit diesem Ungeziefer und ihren Hunden?” (What is it with these vermin and their dogs?) He drew his Luger.

 

Mendel knew what was coming. “Nein! Bitte! Er ist nur ein …” (No! Please! He’s just a …)

 

BANG. Felix crumpled, his small body twitching. Blood pooled across the wooden floor.

 

Malca screamed. Avram wept. Mendel just stared. Felix’s eyes were still open.

 

The SS officer turned to his men. “Nehmt sie mit.” (Take them.)

 

And everything went dark.

 

For one breathless second, Mendel remembered the warmth of challah between his fingers, the way Felix’s ears twitched in sleep. That, more than anything, felt like it was being stolen.

 

The cattle car stank of sweat, piss, vomit, and something worse—the scent of bodies breaking down, of death creeping in. Mendel’s head lolled against Malca’s shoulder, his breath ragged, his skin burning and cold at the same time.

 

Three days. No insulin. No water. No escape. His body was eating itself alive.

 

The first day, Mendel had fought it. The thirst, the hunger, the acid gnawing at his belly. He had pressed his fingers into his ribs, trying to ease the ache, had begged for water, but there was none. His father had stroked his hair, whispering, “Not yet, my son. Hold on.”

 

By the second day, the pain had twisted into something worse—his muscles locked, his legs cramped, Mendel's breath turned thick and sickly sweet. He felt his body rotting from the inside, his stomach a pit of poison. His father had tried to explain. “Mendel, listen to me. Your body is drowning in sugar, but it cannot use it. Your blood is thick, like syrup, clogging everything inside you.”

 

Mendel had tried to listen, but his ears roared, his thoughts tangled. He saw flickers of light, strange shapes. Someone had collapsed beside him—an old man, gasping for breath. His chest rose once, then never again. Malca had turned his face away.

 

By the third day, there was no more fighting. Mendel had drifted in and out, slipping from the cattle car into dreams, into nothingness. But then his father was there again, his voice pulling him back.

 

“Mendel,” Avram whispered, holding his face between trembling hands. “Stay with me.”

 

“I want fish,” Mendel murmured, his lips barely moving.

 

Avram swallowed. “Fish?”

 

Mendel’s cracked lips curled. “To suck out the insulin.”

 

A sound broke from Avram’s chest, something between a sob and a laugh. He held his son closer. “Yes, my boy. Yes, my sweet boy. If only.”

 

Mendel’s eyes fluttered. He saw Malca’s face, pale and wet with tears. He reached for her, his fingers weak. “I love you,” he breathed. “I will see you … in the light.” And then, his chest rose one last time and didn’t fall again.

 

Malca let out a sound that wasn’t human. Miriam clutched her son’s body and rocked him like he was still a baby, whispering his name over and over.

 

Avram kissed his forehead and then tore his jacket, his voice unsteady as he began the Kaddish. Malca and Miriam joined him, their words broken, raw, unfinished.

 

The train screeched to a halt.

 

The doors were wrenched open, and the air rushed in, frigid and cruel. Dogs snarled, their bodies tense, their teeth bared. Soldiers barked orders, their voices sharp and guttural. “Schnell! Raus!” (Quickly! Out!)

 

Avram tried to lift Mendel’s lifeless body, but before he could, a soldier wrenched him away. Another grabbed Miriam by the arm. Malca screamed as hands clawed at her.

 

A high-ranking officer stepped forward, his ironed uniform pristine despite the filth surrounding him. His insignia gleamed—SS—Sturmbannführer. His boots polished to a mirror sheen. His eyes flicked to the boy slumped against the wall of the cattle car, his body cooling, his face frozen in peace he had not known in life. “Was ist mit ihm?” (What is wrong with him?)

 

Avram stood tall. Avram’s voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Mein Sohn … Er ist tot.” (My son … He is dead.)

 

The SS officer smirked. “Nun, falls du lügst … dann sorge ich dafür.” (Now, if you’re lying … I’ll take care of it.) He pulled out his Luger, pressed it to the boy’s head, and fired. The shot cracked through the cold air. Blood. Bone. Mendel’s small body jerked once—then nothing.

 

The officer laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. He leaned in close to Avram’s ear. “Jetzt ist er es sicher. Genau wie du bald.” (Now he certainly is. Just like you will be soon.)

 

Two soldiers grabbed the lifeless boy and dragged him to the edge of the train car.

 

“Nein!” (No!) Miriam screamed, struggling against their grip.

 

They hurled Mendel’s body off.

 

A sickening thud. Frozen ground. Flesh against ice. Like garbage. Like nothing. The officer turned back to Avram—his smile gone.

 

And then they were moving, shoved toward the trenches.

 

The frozen earth crunched beneath their feet, the wind biting, carrying the scent of damp soil and gun oil. No prayers, no final words—just the sharp bark of orders in German, the muttered curses in Lithuanian, the sound of boots shifting in the snow. The officer smirked, stepping forward. He leaned in close, his voice low, almost amused. “Jetzt du.” (Now you.)