'Helga's Diary' by Helga Weiss: exclusive extract, part one October 5 1941 A month has passed. In the morning I go off to school and return at noon. Meanwhile, Dad is at home, cooking. It might sound a bit strange, but almost all the Jews do that. What else should they do all day? After all, it's three years since they lost their jobs. It's wonderful what progress you can make in three years. Before, Dad couldn't even make tea, and now he bakes desserts and cooks entire lunches all by himself. It feels like we could survive another few years of this life. But unfortunately the Germans think we are too well off and are now thinking of more things to spice up our peaceful life. This time they came up with a great idea that even the Middle Ages would have been proud of. Conspicuously labelling the Jews. Stars! Bright yellow, with the word JUDE. At school we all boast about whose star is sewn on best. Even though it's not pleasant to have to wear it, we make light of it. In the afternoon, I go for a walk with [my friend] Eva. We count how many stars we meet and compete to see who can count more. We talk gaily and laugh loudly. Let the Germans see that we're not bothered. We put on cheerful faces and make ourselves laugh. Deliberately, to make them angry. December 4 1941 Night-time quiet, interrupted by the sharp sound of the bell. Dad goes with an uncertain tread to the door. "It's for you today, don't be afraid - after all, it's only Terezín!" says the man with the summons, trying to calm us down. "Only": easy for him to say; he'd feel differently if the order was directed at him. Dad signs the summons with trembling fingers. After the man leaves we sit, motionless, for a while. I don't even realise that two huge tears are running down my cheeks. The moment I notice, I wipe them away. I won't cry! Dad and Mum aren't crying either. Mum has pulled herself together; she is hustling me off to bed and has already put the washing water on to heat up. Everything dirty will need to be washed overnight. December 7 1941 Five o'clock in the morning. The light is on in the living room; my parents are also up. My underclothes and dress are laid out on the chair. There are some notebooks on the desk; probably mine from school. On the doorframe opposite are hooks for the exercise rings. The piano stands in the corner. My eyes wander around the room from one object to another. Lying on my back, hands beneath my head, I etch all these familiar things into my memory so they will never disappear. We sit down to breakfast - our last. Today everything, no matter what we do, is the last. Achtung, Achtung! All numbers up to 50 board now; everyone else remain in your place. We receive some instructions regarding our journey, and afterwards we learn something that surprises all of us. That is, it would surprise us if it were true. We are supposedly off to a new land to avoid persecution, so that we can start a new life. We will be taken care of, things will go well for us. This and other flattery come to our ears. It's just strange that none of this corresponds with the letters sent secretly from Terezín. We stare at the speaker and silently calculate how long we think he can keep speaking. In front of us is a large building - barracks, apparently. They lead us inside. The current of people sweeps me along towards the courtyard. Arched windows one after the other, like a colonnade. Some people are already here, so we're not the first. All women, must be the women's barracks. Will we have to stand? I won't be able to hold out. Up since five, then the trip, I really can't, I'm terribly sleepy and tired. If only my feet didn't hurt. No, Mum, I'm fine, I'm just a little tired. After all, I'm not going to tell Mum I can't hold out. How could she help? After all, she's no less tired than I am, poor thing. But it shouldn't have to go on this long. If only they'd take us somewhere, no matter where; if only I could sit down, even on the ground, just so I wouldn't have to stand any more. Today the men are moving! The announcement resounds through the barracks, buzzes through the corridors, echoes back from the opposite wall of the courtyard. We accompany Dad to the courtyard. For now we can be together. For now, but in a few minutes, maybe an hour or half an hour and then - farewell - and - maybe - no, I won't think about it. But thoughts go where they will. What comes next? Perhaps we'll never see each other again. "Dad," no, I won't, I can't speak. A whistle. We have to go. "Helga, be good and if it turns out that... we can't know what will happen..." I bite my lip and hold back my sobs. I squeeze Dad's hand; it is hot and in his eyes - for the first time in my life - I see tears. We feel - I can't find the word, and maybe none exists that could express the sorrow of this moment. And yet Mum and I will stay together, while Dad will be alone. It must be a hundred times worse for him. Again the whistle, this time for real. December 13 1941 Three days in Terezín. There are 21 of us in quite a small room. Mum and I have 1.20 square metres. At night people lie in the middle as well and if anyone goes out they have to jump over them. We stick our feet in other people's faces - truly horrible. One day even we will find it difficult to believe that people could live in such conditions. We've not seen Dad since Friday, but he sent us a letter through a man who has a pass. So one great worry of ours has been lifted: we know he's still in the same town as us. We can't have any contact with him, not even by writing - only when someone with a pass comes by and takes the letter with him. Of course a letter doesn't mean writing paper and a sealed envelope; it's just a scrap of skilfully rolled paper that can be hidden in shoes, stockings or elsewhere. They often have pocket searches and God forbid if they should find a letter on someone. It's a crummy Christmas. I won't even see Dad and it's been a fortnight since he was here. And on top of it they made caraway soup. Somehow the kitchen mixed up the menus. But what of it; we have it every day, so why not today as well? Because it's Christmas Eve? Stomachs don't know that and won't complain, and that's the main thing, after all. In the room next door the girls prepared a show. Everyone from the rooms nearby came to see. It was beautiful. We sang, the girls even acted out a short play. For a while we forgot completely. It was as if we were home, somewhere at the theatre, as if the candles set on suitcases and mugs were shining on a Christmas tree and we were at liberty and free. No one is listening any more; no one notices the girls" songs and dances. Their thoughts are somewhere else. They're no longer prisoners in these cold, dirty barracks. No longer do they face each new day with empty stomachs and constant fear. We're free, far beyond the ramparts and gates of the ghetto that hide so much suffering and woe, where death lurks for its thousands of victims - far from there, around a packed table, among so many dear faces and things - that's where everyone's thoughts are, and in the glow of the candles burning they see that beautiful, unforgettable image come alive before them... Home. I can't even write, my hand is trembling so much just from thinking about it. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed that today, in the 20th century, something like this could happen. This morning they ordered us to shut all the windows. We already suspected something. We knew that behind Ústí barracks they had put up a gallows. Around nine we saw (you can see through closed windows) a small group enter Ústí barracks. In the front and rear were the SS, in the middle nine young men with shovels on their shoulders - so they could dig their own graves! Nine condemned to death. What did these boys do that was so terrible to be dealt with so cruelly? Twenty year-olds, maybe even younger, sent news about themselves to their mothers. So they sent the messages illegally? How else could they send them, when contact with home is forbidden? That's why they were executed. Why shouldn't it be possible? These days nothing is impossible. I live with one girl who's four days younger than me; her name is Francka. Our mums figured out that we were both born in the same maternity ward. From that day on we were friends. In bed, we talk long into the night and have no time for crying. Anyway, why should we be weeping? We're all young girls, after all, we're supposed to be cheerful, no snivelling allowed. No one ever died for lack of a cinema or theatre. You can live in overcrowded hostels (there are relatively few of us here, only 33), on bunks with fleas and bedbugs. It's rather worse without food, but even a bit of hunger can be tolerated. They want to destroy us, that's obvious, but we won't give in. We'll hold out these last few months. Altertransports. 10,000 sick, lame, dying, everyone over 65. Are those corpses among the suitcases? No, one of them is moving; through the screen of dust whipping around the vehicle a yellow armband shines. Who could forget them? We met them daily near the kitchen. On crutches, blind, with a little bowl in their hands, asking for a bit of coffee, soup, scraping out the unwashed tubs and basins used for cooking, or raking through the mounds of rotten potatoes, peelings and rubbish. Yes, it's them: emaciated, hungry, pitiful. They, the living on the funeral wagons. How many of them will make it there, how many will come back? All the hearses are in use. For the first time, they carry a living load. And yet for these people nothing could be more appropriate. Where will these wrecks of human beings go; where will their bodies be thrown? No one will weep for them, no one will lament their passing. Until some day there will be a mention of them in our textbooks. Then the only fitting title will read: "Buried Alive." January 15 1944 This afternoon there's a celebration on the tower; I'm really looking forward to it. Ota will probably come as well. It's been a fortnight since the second dance lesson and he still hasn't asked me on a date. Each time he meets me he stops for a while, but that's all. I just hope he comes this afternoon. If even today nothing happens, then it's probably a lost cause. He was there. He walked me home and asked me on a date this evening. He's a great guy; we had a nice conversation. He's not one of those crazy boys, like the ones some of our girls date. After all, he's 25. It's a bit much for me at my age, but it doesn't really matter, since we understand each other so well. I'm looking forward to tomorrow. At half six again, at the corner of L410. Today it's exactly five weeks from that celebration at the tower - five weeks since our first date. People might say it's a ridiculously short time, but can one really compare time here with what it is outside? Does our life have anything in common with the rest of the world? We're only separated from it by a couple of ramparts, but isn't it something else that broke the bonds connecting us with them? When Terezín's gates open one day, once the barbed wire is torn down and the ramparts levelled, will we be able to walk on in life alongside those who stayed outside and went their own uninterrupted way? Five Sundays, no more. How close we grew in those few weeks. The thing that binds us here to each other also deepens the gulf between us and those from whose midst we were violently ripped. Read the second extract from 'Helga's Diary: A Young Girl's Account of Life in a Concentration Camp' (Viking) at telegraph.co.uk/books To buy the book for £14.99 (RRP £16.99) plus £1.35 p&p. go to books.telegraph.co.uk or call 0844 871 1515