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An Angel in Hell-- Little Angela's Story

I have my assignment; check out the children's barracks, to see that there are no children or bodies remaining. It is not an assignment that I relish, but at least it takes me away from the scene of the walking dead--- human beings so starved, so hungry, and yet the obvious remedy so difficult to bring to them! They can't eat our food; we've tried that. They can't control their bowels, the dysentery is so advanced in many that no food remains in their system very long. They carry an odor of dying, and of death around with them, and that permeates the atmosphere of the whole camp.

The poor, wretched souls that have died recently lie piled like cord-wood along-side the barracks, because the carts used to haul them away are filled to capacity; there is no place to put them. The death rate in the camp exceeds the capacity of the ovens in the crematorium. Unfortunately, the gas used for the cremation has been depleted long since, so there they lie, those mortal remains of thousands representing such a human tragedy probably unequaled, and doubly agonizing because it was caused by a human condition, not by natural causes.

I proceed to the children's barracks, trying to escape from the sights and odors all about me by listening for sounds--- the awful silence of the dead is also all about. I arrive at the rectangular, wooden structure which housed perhaps 4-500 children at one time, most of whom had been moved out. I enter the building, and am immediately assaulted by the power of the stench, a combination of excrement, urine, diseased flesh, and decaying bodies all together. The indescribable litter of filthy clothing, soiled bedding (there is no running water in the building, no nurses or care givers to care for the young people). The hundreds of young children, ages ranging from 4-12 years, who suffered life here left every article of their bedding and clothing behind in piles on the wooden shelves used as beds, on the floor scattered indiscriminately about, so that passing from the front of the building to the back becomes a kind of exercise of avoidance, which I attempt as quickly as I can, in order to get out of the building.

I reach the end of the barracks, and am about to return to the front entrance, when I see what appears to be a slight movement in a pile of clothing in the far corner of the last "bed" at the back of the row of shelves;---perhaps a rat, I think, that has found found a home for itself in this hell--- and how appropriate, I think! Then I hear a sound, like a slight whimper, and I stop to investigate; it is no rat! I use a stick to push aside the pile of cloth, and see a small child, a girl, perhaps five or six, huddled in a fetal position. She is barely conscious. I gently pull her from the back of the bed, and taking off my jacket, wrap her in it, and taking her in my arms, rush out the door with but one thought; I have to get her to the aid station as soon as I can! I don't remember much of what I see, or smell on the way. I hear once or twice a slight whimper, then no sounds, and I fear I am too late to make a difference. She weighs so little---I keep looking at her pathetic form to assure myself that she is still in my arms.

The little girl died, perhaps in my arms on the way to the aid station, I do not know. I do know that she lives still in my memory, that little human form, whose name I never knew, perhaps no one ever knew--- and since then she has become a constant companion of mine, and I have given her a name; I call her Angela---little angel from hell, who never lets me forget what happened to her, and moves me to actions whenever and wherever I am to fight such a fate in other children. Angela lives on my shoulder, and close to my heart, and whenever I hold out my hands to comfort or bring relief; to educate others who have not known an Angela, it is Angela who is my motivating force, as she has been for my lifetime. I wish sometimes the whole world could have seen Angela as I saw her that day. If everyone had seen her as I saw her, the world would be a different place. Instead, the world tolerates a continuing assault on children in nearly every nation. That is why I must tell the world about Angela; if only it would make a difference.....if only the world were not so indifferent to the plight of children.....All children, in every nation on earth.
Warren E. Priest