They think that I am incapable of sight, but I can see more than they ever will.

My lack of sight inhibits me from seeing the world as the others see it, but I pretend to live like the others. I am forced to. Hitler is in charge now.

Joana tells me that we are almost at the ice. Then I only have to worry about crossing, about the thousands of people there, about the hundreds of Nazi soldiers, the boarding, the ships, the war.

I don’t like lying. But I live in a world full of lies. I live in a world where my cousin died because my neighbour didn’t want to. I live where no matter who you are, you are always in danger.

They will kill me—if I lie, if I tell them, if I say nothing at all—they will kill me.

I am a subhuman, a plague; a cockroach. I do not belong here. I should not live because I will contaminate the rest. Those around me do not care whether I live or die. My blood is wrong.

But still, I am alive.

Joana tells me that the Germans are losing, but that is not what I hear. I hear bombs and bullets and breaths crying out for help, the buzzing of planes and missiles in the skies. I hear the people of Germany hurting, and the chancellor awaiting the end in his bunker.

And… I hear death.

My legs hurt. We have been walking for days and days and I’m so, so tired. I feel a small child run past me, their little shoes pattering on the icy road. He slips and falls, hitting his head harshly on the cold, hard ground below. I hear the thud as his head makes contact with the freezing surface below, and after that: the sobs. Heartbreaking, body-wracking cries of pain fall from the child’s lips.

“Where are his parents? Come take your boy!” A loud voice yells from behind me, it’s harsh tone spiking through my ears, sharp daggers pricking my hearing. But before anyone can supply the woman who spoke with an answer, I already know it. I can picture in my mind the way the child’s chin wobbles as he remembers that he is an orphan. He is alone in this vast world, surrounded by people who are indifferent to the hundreds of thousands suffering across the ocean and at their doorstep.

He is invisible.

He is just like me.

The boy opens his sobs pitifully, crying out. “Opi! Opi!” He is calling for his grandfather, the one who didn’t wake up. As someone walks to him, his voice is easily recognizable. The kind shoe poet, the one who spun tales of hope in a time of horror, a voice that filled my senses with longing and sorrow. I remember he mentioned that this child didn’t make it onto the train that would have taken the young boy to his safety. The poet quickly rushes to his ward, feet skidding across the ice and making me wonder where his wife could be. Dead, injured, kidnapped, each a possibility in this never ending war. Another family broken.

I step closer to Joana as she pulls me to her side, away from the large crowd of people walking across the feeble ice that may give under our feet at any passing second. “They are watching our every move,” she whispers in my ear. The Prussian boy, the thief, walks on my other side, gingerly, as if he were injured. I can hear the soft breathing of the young Polish girl behind me.

Joana describes her as German-seeming, yet shy, with a pink cap on her head. I wonder what pink looks like. I focus on the heat the thief’s body gives off, and pay no more attention to the small orphans.

Over here, during this war, it is to each their own.

I am suddenly shoved forward, a push of hands sending me sprawling across the thin, slippery ice on the hard concrete. I cannot see anything. I am blind, I am blind, I am nothing, nothing, rings through my head as I am ripped from the firm hold of Joana. She quickly grabs ahold of me once more, aided by Emilia, their thin, almost sickly arms digging into my bones as a reminder of all that we had lost, of the fact that we were completely disregarded by the rest of the world.

“We have reached the ice, Ingrid,” Joana murmurs in my ear, the soft caress of her breath ghosting my ear, “Stay here while I test the steadiness.” No. I will not let that happen. I’ve heard of the mines and bombs hidden underneath the ice, of the pain they bring, I’ve heard of the accounts of the many who have travelled across the winter ice, and fallen in and drowned to death, their frozen faces nothing but a memory to be forgotten. Joana must be safe. She is our medic, our healer, the one who will rescue us from our dismal fate and save the rest from inevitable death.

“I will go,” I turn first to the thief and then to Emilia, giving them what is hopefully a reassuring smile. I can hear Joana try to protest, try to pull me back, but I turn my head to her instead. “Don’t worry,” I can hear the blatant lie in my shaking voice, hoarse from disuse, “It will be fine. Just follow after me.” I set off.

If anyone must risk their life, it should be me.

After all, I am only an insect, a burden to others because of my lack of sight.

But I will not make my death meaningless.

Even if I pass away today, I want the memory of Ingrid, the small, blind girl to live on. I want those who pay no attention to our suffering to understand that their indifference killed so many, and hurt more. When no one speaks up against a wrongdoing, evil reigns. Hopefully, Joana, with her calming demeanor, the Prussian boy with magic in his hands, and Emilia, the Pole with the brightest aura in her disposition make it to our destination.

Freedom.

I take a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Again.

Delicately, I stretch out my foot and place it on the ice. It doesn’t crack underneath my weight. I feel my mouth stretch into a sad, small smile. I take another step.

Then I hear.

“Wait!” I shriek.

Russian planes.

I feel the end before it appears. I feel pain, anger, hurt, relief, resignation and finally, hope.

Hope that no one will have to go through this torture that was caused by hate, and loathing, and the disinterest of others who are strong enough to help us.

The last thing I register before everything disappears is a flash of color.

I could finally see.