They Come With Knives

They come with knives. They come with guns. They come with darkness in their hearts and the rage of a thousand suns. Their words are harsh – language unknown. They usher us, rouse us, move us alone – to where, we do not know. We go with nothing, we go with fear – we go with home behind, and cattle cars drawing near. Shots ring out – One. Two. Three. My uncle is shot dead, but we keep moving not looking at whom did the deed. Later, much later, black chimneys loom, like dark ghostly tendrils against the sky. We do not know we are about to die.