None were to live. This is the truth which they would not accept, nor consider. Arm to arm, back to back, body to body, some whose spirit has left them cold and worthless, crammed
against those still breathing bodies that hold no more hope than the dead. Nothing to eat, not a morsel to sustain the crushed, freezing souls.
Some squeezed between others, still others pressed to the point of no movement against the icy wooden walls which shake as wheels below rack noisily, metal rails on the ground to metal
wheels. Stenches of those who had no place to relieve themselves but the floor are even sensed by the people inside passing houses. They are snuggled in coats and quilts, cozy and warm beside their
fireplaces, eating roasted chicken and corn with potatoes with spices and wine, laughing and merry with Christmas spirit, or snuggled close together with their loved ones, asleep and sound, under
sheets and blankets and a stable and safe rooftop. Their noses wrinkle, that is, until the odor fades away. They are disgusted only by the smell.
But outside, in the passing 40and8’s, there were people. Helpless, hopeless, scared, and dying, but people. All are to die. Children are already dead; the old along with them. But to all of
those who stand by, though filled with the dead and dying brethren of their kind, this was just a boxcar.
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