HENRY ALDEN, Age 14 (February 12th, 1941):
Sadly, the sun rose again today and I did not die in my sleep as I'd hoped. Instead, I woke up shivering in this God-forsaken meat locker of a boxcar, cupping my hands around my half-frozen ballsack for warmth. I know it's wrong, but the next time my sister Jessie and I are alone, I'm going to make sure I don't die a homeless virgin.
VIOLET ALDEN, Age 10 (August 9th, 1941):
Keeping your milk cool under a waterfall is not as easy as it sounds. Upon opening the bottle this morning, we found not milk, but curdled chunks of insect and bacteria-infested sludge. Henry, being his usual Nazi self, told me not to drink it, but I hadn't eaten for weeks. Since then I've been vomiting every few minutes, and it feels like my eyeballs are being scooped out of my head with a shoehorn. Is it getting dark early today?
JESSIE ALDEN, Age 12 (August 10th, 1941):
Yesterday, Violet died of dysentery. Henry sawed off her legs and arms, and he's roasting her thighs over a fire for dinner tonight. I plan to read a poem. On top of this, I have been carrying Henry's baby for six months. We mistakenly thought I wouldn't become pregnant if we did it in the caboose. We will probably drown the baby in the marsh, if I don't die in labor first.
BENNY ALDEN, Age 5 (October 4th, 1941):
Oooohh a kitty!