She stares out, ignoring the madness all around her. She pleads to join other children in carefree play and endless laughter, in the joy of being young and alive with the excitement of so many things to explore, with a full life ahead.
But she cannot move. She begs, looking straight at us, to get her out of this horrible place where she finds herself trapped, to save her from an agonizing death that will soon arrive.
No matter how I try, I cannot save her. She stands there, 4 or 5 years old, in a white coat with a ribbon in her hair, her tiny hands held in prayer. But I cannot reach her through time and space and hold and comfort her, tell her it is only a nightmare that will soon be gone.
She now looks down at us from heaven, but she will never know what it means to have been a child. That gift was stolen from her many years ago, thrown into a heap of burning ash.
Her name is Christine, or Krista, it came to me in a dream. I hope you’ll pray for her and all the other little children murdered. You can see her in the photograph next to the granite sculpture in the NH Holocaust Memorial on Main Street.