Yasha's mind extends over the camp’s grounds, as always. He feels the weight of history upon him. The weight of the present and future. Tangible in a way he can’t be.
The weight made up of casual gunshots, firepits, and mankind’s hatred.
*This weight I feel, it's the remainder that is left when our bodies are all gone, as all will be, someday.*
He drifts along the trench that was dug by his friends and family, then filled back in with their bodies, then covered over with dirt flung by himself and other Jewish inmates.
*I cannot believe it happened. That we came so close to extermination, that only one of my own family made it out.*
He hears the whispers of his mother and sister, who went the way of the trench. He hears the grunts of his father, who shoveled the dirt onto them.
Yasha hears his own grunt, repeating down through history, as he shoveled the dirt onto his father days later.
Yasha sees the camp emptied of its undesirables, either through the Allies’ liberation or the grave. The eyes that found the camp bore a striking resemblance to those of the survivors.
Yasha can see them, and almost touch them, as he almost touched them the day they arrived. So close.
*How far we've come. For it all to have ended like this. And my brother, who I can no longer see, for he’s left the confines of this place that houses us.
Poor Isaac, to have been the last of us to carry on, alone.
What must it have been like to have to shovel dirt on top of me, his last relative, and wake up hours later to find the liberators chasing out the Nazis?*
*I wish Isaac would return, so that I could almost touch him, and then tell him I do not blame him.*