To be Heard

In the annals of my childhood, two days stand starkly apart from the others: the day I was gifted my first camera and the day that very camera nearly became my undoing. This is a real anomaly of sorts.

When I turned seven, my persistent pleadings were finally rewarded with a stunning 1938 SIDA camera, its gun-metal gray finish cool to the touch as I ripped away the wrapping paper.

“Remember, Wanda, that film isn’t easy to come by,” my father cautioned, a hint of pride in his voice. He was always a self made and practical man.

“Capture the photos that come with stories,” my mother added, her words a puzzle I would come to understand with time.

And so, I embarked on a mission to document the world around me, from the vibrant colors of a European green woodpecker to the solitary beauty of a white lily. My camera became an extension of myself, capturing moments that words alone couldn’t describe.

My frequent visits to the local library, overseen by the kind-hearted Miss Ferenz, became an essential part of my routine. Her library was peculiar, with only one wall lined with books, the rest standing empty and forlorn. When I once asked about the missing books, her evasive response hinted at a story too heavy for my young ears.

As the youngest on my block, I was often excluded from games and conversations deemed beyond my years. Yet, my insatiable curiosity led me to eavesdrop on a conversation that forever altered my understanding of the world.

“Have you heard about the camps?” whispered a blonde-haired boy one evening, his words tinged with fear.

This clandestine exchange about the Nazi camps left an indelible mark on my young mind. When I dared to question my parents about it, their dismissive responses only fueled my determination to uncover the truth.

One evening, I approached Agata, an older girl from my neighborhood, seeking answers. Her whispered revelations about labor and death camps sent shivers down my spine.

Determined to validate these horrifying accounts, I sought the guidance of Miss Ferenz. Her hesitancy was palpable, but she eventually revealed a stash of hidden books detailing the atrocities committed by the Nazis. The truth was even more chilling than I had feared.

Fueled by a desire to be heard, I embarked on a perilous journey to document the evidence. But what I discovered was beyond my worst nightmares—a forest littered with the mutilated remains of dolls and toys, stained with blood.

With trembling hands, I captured the haunting scene on my camera, a silent witness to the unspeakable horrors of the Holocaust. My heart raced as I raced back to the safety of the library, my camera and I drenched by the pouring rain.

In the dim light of the darkroom, Miss Ferenz examined the developed negatives with a solemnity that spoke volumes. Her silent acknowledgment was all the validation I needed.

Years later, as a seasoned photojournalist, I find myself reflecting on that pivotal moment. My camera, once a simple gift, had become a powerful tool for bearing witness to history. The haunting images I captured that day serve as a reminder of the importance of speaking truth to power, even in the face of unimaginable evil.

As the young reporter before me eagerly pressed for details, I couldn’t help but reflect on the label of “hero” that had been bestowed upon me. But I knew better. I was no hero; I was merely a witness, determined to be heard.