The Girl in the Gas Chamber

I visited the Theresienstadt concentration camp while studying abroad in Austria. From the moment we stepped onto the grounds, I noticed the silence. It wasn’t just quiet—it was hollow. No wind, no insects, no birdsong. Even the air felt suspended, like time had been paused and forgotten there. As we walked the grounds, I realized I hadn’t seen so much as a spider in the corners of those empty rooms. The final stop on the tour was the gas chambers. A squat, cement structure that seemed to sink into the earth. The guide began explaining how the process had worked—who had been brought here, how they were packed in, what they were told.

That’s when I saw her. A little girl, maybe eight years old, in the far corner of the room. Her hair was stringy and brown, her clothes looked dirty, and her wide eyes were locked on the group—terrified, but silent. I thought she was lost. I turned to get the guide’s attention, but the moment I looked back, she was gone. Later, packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the “shower room,” I noticed the peeling walls. I leaned to my friend and whispered, “I can’t believe the claw marks are still there.” Bloody streaks—faint but frantic—scratched into the paint. She looked at me strangely. She didn’t see them.

Three months later, I had a dream. I was in the same concrete room. The same silence. The same air like stone in my lungs. The little girl stood beside me and said, “Thank you for trying to help.” Then she was gone again.