INT.  HIGH SCHOOL—DAY

 

RECHA SIGBAUM, a shriveled little woman in her seventies, stands in front of a wide-eyed class.  On the blackboard behind her is written “Recha Sigbaum, Holocaust Survivor”.  She speaks good English, but has an unquestionable Austrian accent.

 

RECHA

It was very dark inside the train.  I can’t tell you how long we were inside.  It seemed an eternity.  At last they stopped and opened the doors and let us out, and they told us to separate into two lines.  Those who wanted manicures were to go to the left…pedicures to the right.

 

A beat.

 

RECHA (Cont’d)

My Mother and my Father…they chose the manicures…it was to be the last time we saw them before the luau.

 

Beat.

 

RECHA (Cont’d)

I remember they took me into a white tiled room and left me with nothing but a lavender bubble bath and a small vial of honeyed facial moisturizer.  The cucumbers…they were like ice cubes on my eyelids.

 

Beat.

 

RECHA (Cont’d)

Some weeks later, they ran out of vanilla ice cream.  We were forced to either opt for the fat free brand or to eat our cake dry…like animals.  My brother, David, he did not like the taste of the Bismuth, so he went for almost five days without dessert, altogether.

 

Beat.  A student raises his hand.  Recha acknowledges him.

 

RECHA (Cont’d)

Yes?

 

STU

Uhm.  We read that the prisoners within the camps were given minimal food and sometimes, none at all, and that, like, thousands died from starvation.

 

Recha considers as he speaks, and trails back in her memory as she explains.

 

RECHA

There was one night where they would not serve dinner until Herr Goebbels and Herr Himmler finished their puppet show.

 

STU

…look, no offense, but…is that all?

 

RECHA

It’s not like it was a song and a jingle; they were performing Showboat!  AND it was on Cinnamon Bun Night!  We’d smelt them from the chimneys all day long!