TWENTY-TWO
ELLA
March 1942
Oswiecim, Poland
For five months, I’ve been holding on to my memories of the life I had before Auschwitz—perfect in comparison to what’s around me—as if they will save me. I can’t find any semblance of warmth here, even with the hundreds of people sharing tight quarters in this barrack. I’m back-to-back with one woman and holding a thin blanket in front of my face for separation from another woman’s face that’s within a fingertip’s reach. She breathes so heavily all night; the sound and smell often keeping me awake with my heart racing. It’s hard to breathe through the blanket, but it blocks out some of the bodily fluid stenches that I’ve yet to grow used to.
Mama used to make my bed for me even after I was far too old for it. She said she enjoyed adding a touch of love to every room in our apartment. She would line up the doll, stuffed elephant, and a pink teddy bear, all of which Tata gave me for birthdays as a little girl, in front of my pillow. The sheets taut and the quilt perfectly folded. Everything in my small bedroomwould be neat and tidy. She would spray a touch of vanilla in the air and close the door. Meals were on the table every night, no matter what our days would bring. She always greeted us with a smile, but she must have been tired from taking care of us. I never appreciated how much work it was to keep a clean home, food on the table, clothes pressed, bills paid, and errands completed. A thankless job that I took for granted. How can I apologize?
I squeeze my eyes closed, pleading for a dream to take me away from where I am. I picture Luka, the same image every night. It’s almost as if he’s with me but frozen in my memory, stuck in the same place we were that last night I was with him in the tunnels, promising to help him find herbs for his grandmother. I was as worried about him as I was about her, with how thin he was becoming. I don’t want to think of him that way but even when I sleep, my fears sneak in and take over. That’s why I stick with the one image—a favorite moment in our tree. The touch of his lips on my fingertips still lingers in my mind. His melodic murmurs, just out of reach, leave me pleading for the sound of his voice.
The darkness of exhaustion pulls me under…
“Sing for me,” I whisper, searching for him in the dark. “Tell me you still love me, and everything is all right.”
His fingertips sweep across my cheek and a glow along his face teases me with his beautiful smile as it grows along his lips.
“My heart sings for her…” he murmurs. “For you, my beautiful.”
“No,” I say through a grave exhale. “Luka…”
“Even if my voice can’t be heard…” he continues.
“Not that song…”
“Our moments are no more,” he sings. “We’ll be trapped like a caged bird.”
“I never told you I heard you singing that night from the other side of the wall in Warsaw.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I wish things could be different.”
“No, don’t say that. Shh,” I hush, holding my finger up to his lips. They’re ice-cold.
A deep echoing hum thuds through my ears. I gasp for air and bolt upright, crashing my head off a beam of wood. “Luka, no!” I shout, then immediately slap my hand over my mouth.
“Quiet, you’re going to get us in trouble,” the heavy breathing girl next to me snaps.
I blink, finding darkness with a faint light, and a pain swelling through my forehead. My moments with Luka were alive in my head, but even there, he’s taken from me. Is it because he’s truly gone? The thought of the vivid dream quakes through my chest.It was just in my head. It wasn’t real.
A chill zips down my spine, followed by another, and another—the next one always looming. Yet, sweat glosses my skin, beads trickling down my torso and back adding to the raw coldness. I roll onto my side, scraping my brittle hands and jagged fingernails beneath my chapped cheeks as I will myself back to sleep. But it’s too late…
The first morning gong bellows between the walls, screaming at us to move faster.
I drag my hands out from beneath my cheek as the lights flicker from the ceiling. I squint against the tired ache and wait for my vision to clear.
The sharp pointy bones along my wrist are what I notice first every morning. If they become any thinner, they might snap. I try to push myself up to slide off the bottom edge of the bunk, panting from exhaustion with such little movement. My breath lingers in a ghostly fog, drifting away until disappearing.
I skim down the side of the wooden frames, flinching from each splinter I scrape against. Other women are moving in every direction as if blind and disoriented, each bumping into one other, into me, their warmth almost inviting in an unnatural way. We’re surviving off a few hours of sleep each night and worked to the bone before starting the horrific cycle all over again.
A quick visit to the latrines to use the toilets and wash whatever body parts time allows.
Then, it’s disbursement of watered-down, cold coffee, and a slice of stale bread. I eat so fast, my jaw aches and my stomach muscles tense.
Before the last bite of bread falls to the pit of my stomach, the second gong rings, causing another atrocious headache.
Now, it’s roll call…again.
