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IRENA SIEDLECKI pulls the children closer into the folds of her heavy skirt and says, "It will not be long now, my little ones." Her feet flash pain up her legs, and her lower back aches. Zygmunt, the youngest, pulls his head away from her skirt and looks up at her, the blinking light coming in through the chinks in the boxcar's planking flickering across his dirty, anxious face. "Grandma, I'm-" "Remember, we weren't going to say that again, is that right?" She looks at Janusz, wedged into the corner with their shabby luggage. The oldest of the four of her grandchildren, he has recently been distant and surly, she thinks because of his beginning maturation. And of course there is the problem with his hearing, which she thinks is as much a strategy for him as it is a disability. The railway car lurches violently, and the smaller children clutch at her dress. "Of course we are all thirsty." "Of course," Janusz says. The fright on his face is tinged with a look of frustration and anger. She knows that at sixteen he will not accept her reassurances. Besides, she does not have the energy to shout at his surly, resistant face. That they are going to die is inevitable. She has heard the stories, that at Treblinka they murder everyone who comes on the trains. Irena Siedlecki looks at his face in the dim, shifting light of the railway car as it slowly increases speed. He has the beginning of a mustache, and pimples on his forehead and cheeks. In his square face she sees the features of her husband, his grandfather, who has been dead now?five years it is since the stroke which deadened and made drooling and slack the left side of his face.

Malkinia Station, Eastern Poland, August 24, 1942