past the house where I had lived many years of my life, in fact, until I was taken prisoner.
There were fifty of us in the prison car, which had two small, barred peepholes.
There was only enough room for one group to squat on the floor, while the others, who had to stand up for hours, crowded round the peepholes.
Standing on tiptoe and looking past the others’ heads through the bars of the window, I caught an eerie glimpse of my native town.
We all felt more dead than alive, since we thought that our transport was heading for the camp at Mauthausen and that we had only one or two weeks to live.
I had a distinct feeling that I saw the streets, the squares and the houses of my childhood
with the eyes of a dead man who had come back from another world and was looking down on a ghostly city.
After hours of delay the train left the station. And there was the street—my street!
The young lads who had a number of years of camp life behind them
and for whom such a journey was a great event stared attentively through the peephole.
I began to beg them, to entreat them, to let me stand in front for one moment only.
I tried to explain how much a look through that window meant to me just then.
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