Up the staircase we climb, and duck our heads as we enter the tiny entrance. Inside, I still see my breath in the air. Sylvie mentions that the cold of today is nothing to the winters of the past, and none of the Jewish housings had heat. The small living space housed people wall to wall, people slept on every empty space, covering the bare floor. Pictures of the past haunt your mind, articles are all that remain from those that stayed here.
You run your fingers along the sacred words painted on the walls and feel their meaning, the prays to God that for many were unanswered. Lonely images stay with me, keys forever hanging on a hook, an empty chair, tattered blankets, a child’s shoe…..
Constant reminders of the past, never to be forgotten.