$XRP $BNB #Write2Earrn #Write2Earn Spring 1945**

Three years. A thousand nights of whispered prayers, of swallowing screams so the guards don’t hear. The camp is a machine—grinding, relentless—and yet, somehow, I am still here.

I remember the first day. The cattle cars, the stench of sweat and terror. The barking dogs, the SS men with their polished boots, pointing left, right. My mother’s hand, ripped from mine. *"Work sets you free,"* they said. Lies. The chimneys never stop.

I learned the rules fast. Eyes down. Move quick. Never meet their gaze. The weak vanish first—the sick, the slow, the ones who cry at night. So I became a ghost. I stole scraps, licked bowls clean, learned which kapos might look away if you coughed too much.

The days blurred—roll call at dawn, the ache of hunger sharper than the cold. We dug trenches, hauled stones, buried the dead in piles. Some mornings, I envied them. Then came the guilt.

When the Allies closed in, the SS marched us west—the Death March. Frostbit feet, rifle butts against ribs. Those who fell were left in the snow. I walked because dying felt like surrender.

And then—gunfire. American voices. The gates swung open. I stood there, skeletal, disbelieving.

They call us survivors. But the dead walk with me. Their whispers wake me at night.

*Why me? Why not me?*

I don’t know. But I live. And that is my revenge.@Binance Africa