Dachau, Germany
Days ago I worked alongside men, drowning in our own sweat, digging holes with tools too flimsy to dig sand, never mind the wet dirt we were working with. I cycled through various jobs until the SS called for me this morning to report to the medical block per my agreement to avoid execution.
I thought anything would be better than the forced labor I was being subjected to.
I was wrong.
Twelve hours into this never-ending day, I’ve done nothing more than stand in a room full of men waiting to be called. Anyone would choose this option over digging a hole.
Not me. Not after my heart disintegrated in my chest upon spotting Emilie following in Otto’s footsteps around the sick bay, working alongside the evil tyrants of this hellhole. They were on that list of all the people I had never expected to see again. They were also on the list of people I could never imagine in Dachau, especially Emilie.
Upon spotting me, she looked like she’d seen a corpse, her expression was unfamiliar. In all our years, she’d never looked at me that way. She also seemed surprised by my presence and the fact we’d seen each other here. Otto, on the other hand, walked through the doors and right past me as if I was a ghost. Despite our shared feelings for Emilie, he supported me, unlike the majority in this country who had turned their backs. But now, he was amidst Nazis who found pleasure in torturing innocent people.
I told Emilie she would have a good life with him. I was sure of it.
How could I have been so wrong?
My eyes are still set on the corner she disappeared around when Otto called for her. I’ve been waiting for her to return, but she hasn’t. I need to know why she’s here. It just doesn’t make any sense.
“You won’t be seen today,” a guard shouts. “Return to your barrack.” After standing and staring at the corner of the room, wavering like a flag that could blow away with one slight gust of wind, I learn it was all for nothing. For today, that is.
Some men here are truly ill, and I’m just trying to avoid execution. Every man in the holding room exits in a single file, heading out of the block and into the sticky, humid night air that adheres to my skin like oil. We stumble along, stiff, tired, hungry, and weak, toward our barracks. Lifting each foot feels like someone’s tied a brick to my soles, the thuds on the wooden floors reinforcing that notion.
Most of the men in my barrack are curled up under their thin blanket despite how hot it is within these walls. I know the feeling. We just need something that symbolizes the idea of comfort, even a prickly wool blanket.
“Please, God, I beg of you, spare me of these days. Take me from this pain. Take me in my sleep so I can go in peace,” Fred,the man in the bunk below mine whimpers. I stop on my way up to my bunk and tap his ankle.
“Don’t say that. We can do this together,” I remind him. “We have each other. Remember that, okay?”
“He’s right. I can smell the chicken casserole now. The potatoes, boiled just right, and the bread warm with honey dripping down the edges,” Eli adds.
“Don’t forget about the apple tart for dessert, the sweet and sour freshly plucked apples from the orchard, sliced and sugared just before being baked. A heavy plop of cream melts over the side of the slice and it tastes like heaven. Doesn’t it, Fred?” Hans asks.
Fred’s heavy breaths come and go, slowing slightly as seconds pass. “Yeah,” he says, panting. “Yeah, I can taste it now. I can.”
Other moans and groans clash around me like an untuned orchestra and I wish I could block it all out. Most have been here longer than me, which makes me believe I’m staring into a future where I’ll be crying myself to sleep, praying for death to find me painlessly. However, if I can give comfort and hold others up, even just with hollow words, I will. It’s what we do for each other.
My muscles struggle against the rungs leading to the top bunk, my wooden plank between Hans, who’s writing out a note with a pencil the size of a match, and Eli, who’s staring at the growing spider web glistening along the ceiling.
“Danner,” he says, “I was worrying where you might be this late into the night.”
“They sent me to the sick bay.”
“Are you all right? Are you sick?” Hans says, pushing up on his elbows to take a closer look at me.
“No, no, I was assigned to go there.”
“For what reason?” Eli snaps. “Those damn Nazi monsters thinking they can use us like pin cushions.”
“I’m not sure yet. I stood there all day, wondering the same.” I’m leaving out the part where I was offered exemption from execution in exchange for whatever medical research they want to use me for. I don’t think Hans was given the same offer.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “They just want to mess with your mind. That’s the only game they know how to play.”
“I think you’re right about that,” I agree, folding my blanket halfway down the wooden plank.
“I was just writing a letter to Matilda. Another one that may or may not ever reach her,” Hans says, with a sigh that ends as a dry cough.
“If you ever need paper. I have a friend,” Eli says, tapping me on the back.
