"Charlie, family is everything," she said as a hitched sound lodged in her throat. "Everything. I miss my mama, papa, and my Jakob. It hurts."
I glanced from side to side, ensuring we were alone, and I wrapped my arms around her. "You needed a hug that day you lost your family, and now too. I am so sorry about your mama. She didn't deserve what happened." Our hug was short-lived, due to the fear of being seen, but she needed a human touch for comfort.
"No, she didn't." Amelia's dark eyes stared through me, appearing to be lost within the horrors she may have been replaying in her head.
"I will try to find your papa and Jakob," I offered. It might not have meant much; they both could have been sent to a death camp, but I would look for them.
Amelia nodded her head, and a tear threatened to fall from her eye, but she pressed it away with the back of her fist. "I would appreciate that."
"What was your favorite past-time?" I asked her, wondering about the artwork I spotted in her bedroom after I placed her mother down.
The corners of Amelia's lips curled slightly. "I'm a painter. Though I planned to attend a nursing school like many of the girls I grew up with, I promised myself if it didn't work out, I would happily live as a painter—an artist. I want my paintings to be on display in a gallery window for the world to see. I know it's a silly dream."
"It's not silly at all. It's a beautiful dream," I said, enamored by the way her eyes widened at the thought. "Were you aware that Bohemia is known for producing some of the most incredible artists in the world?"
Flutters erupted in my chest while listening to her excitement. "You will someday become a famous painter too." It was not a promise I could make, but it was a prayer I would make. I knew her chances of surviving in those living conditions was unlikely.
"Maybe," she said as her smile faded. "At least I'm getting experience with nursing, right?"
I didn't feel any better about helping that situation work out, but it could have been worse.
"Ja."
Amelia took the bread from my hand and unwrapped the paper, taking one roll into her other hand. She pocketed the remainder. Amelia fed herself the bread fairly quickly, holding her hand up to her mouth to catch any fallen crumbs. She was starving, and I was not.
The Jews were all starving, and we were not. The idealism made us savages.
"Thank you for the bread," Amelia said once she had finished the small ration.
"Don't thank me. You deserve food," I told Amelia.
I should have been worried about another soldier finding out what I had done. I should have asked her to keep the bread a secret, but I couldn't.
"Yes, but so do the others."
"They do," I agreed.
"Come, I must bring you back to your line."
Amelia had grown to understand the appearance we needed to portray. She should be fearful of me, and I must handle her as if I was disgusted by her presence. I wrapped my black-gloved hand around her arm and walked in front of her, leading the way back to the main square.
"Let us not have this conversation again, ja?" I say as I release her to the line. My throat tightened against the words I was forced to speak. We were a picture of realism, but if someone were to take a closer look at the details within the mixed colors, they might see the truth.
Chapter 16
1942
Terezín, Czechoslovakia
It was the first day of spring, though it didn't feel as such. There was a brisk wind, and the sky-covering clouds were ominous. I was on duty to intake another import of Jewish prisoners, and it was my task to transport as many people as possible to their next destination. We were to keep only a certain number of the elderly, wealthy, women, and children. The men were to go. I didn't understand the reason, but surely there was an illogical reason blooming from behind the Führer's desk.
Sven walked by me with a clipboard in hand. Fog was pluming at his lips from the cold, and for a moment I thought I might have escaped an unwanted chat. Sven considered us comrades, dare I say friends, but I had never given him a reason to assume such a thing.
"Crane, what are your numbers?" Sven asked without turning to face me. I reached toward him with my clipboard, handing over the list. "Send the next group directly to the Auschwitz killing center." He was free with his choice of words, whether or not it be the truth. The prisoners could hear him clearly, and by the ghostly looks sweeping across each of their faces, the panic was palpable. Mothers were grabbing a hold of their children, cradling them against their warmth. Men were doing the same with their wives. All I could do was stare down the line of families who would never be together again. I recalled the days when I was taught that the Jewish people wanted us—the Germans eradicated. Is this irony? I think not. Now, I'm here, watching these Jewish children try to hide their tears.
"Move," Sven yelled at the line of Jews. As the year progressed, the incoming prisoners were showing up in worse conditions. Stores and markets were no longer selling goods to Jewish people because Germany had invaded so many countries with our rules and laws that we took away hope for survivors. Once the Final Solution was put into place two years prior, there was only one end goal—kill the Jews.
"Women and children to the right," I said. My voice wasn't loud. Each word burned in my throat. "Men to the left." I closed my eyes, because bearing witness to the prisoners' expressions after they comprehended my statement was too much to see. The sounds of cries and pleas escalated, followed by Sven picking the offenders off with his pistol. Hands were covering mouths, and eyes were bulging. Smoke was filling the air. I wanted to tell each one of them how I sorry I was.
