As the general direction of movement leans to one side, I slink along in the middle, taking in various stenches as I walk. A combination of unbathed skin, sweat, and fermented sickness assaults my nose and wrings around my stomach. I swallow against an acidic burn and continue making my way toward the arctic blast outside.
With my arm over my eyes as a shield from the flood lights striking us from both directions, I imagine the glow being from the sun instead, and rather than the frost bitten air, the breeze could be warm, a scent of wildflowers in a meadow, Mama calling my name to return home after picking ripe herbs. My dress would twist and bloom around me and I would run with the wind’s hands pushing me forward like a swing in motion.
“Aufstehen!” A shout tears me from my hallucination. All of us move in a line, shoved forward with impatience. We fall into rows, for roll call. Eyes graze over us, up and down, staring with a telescoping glare to find something out of place—someone where they don’t belong, doing what they shouldn’t be doing, breathing the wrong way.
I try to block out the action of standing still for so long by holding my breath in increments of fifteen seconds each, hoping my legs won’t shake. There’s no escape. Every one of us is out in the open, but restrained, waiting for an inspection.
Francine, the block-elder, a Polish member of the resistance, stands before us, her shoulders as square as her jaw, her eyes narrow with ire. She holds a clipboard and a pencil as she moves back and forth in front of the rows wearing a man’s overcoat with an armband that denotes her as a block-elder—the person in charge of us. The person who will rat any one of us out to an SS officer for any small infraction. She spews hate through every word and all I can do is stare at her day to day, wondering how anyone who referred to themselves as a Polish resistance member could treat others as if we were the Germans she spent her days fighting. She must have forgotten what she was fighting for or realized she’s the only one worth fighting for.
The resistance was trying to help. That’s what Tata and Miko spent their days doing. I wasn’t an official member, but I wanted to help Luka’s family. Help is all any of us wanted to give. Even until the last moment as the gestapo police were coming for us.
The air nips at my face with every step I take following the end of our roll call, walking to my designated checkpoint. I keep my eyes pinned to the ground, focusing on nothing more than the old frozen snow crunching beneath my feet.
Though I can’t see the stares, they weigh on me. Every day, I sense people watching me just as I watch them when they walk by, wondering what they did to end up here, whether it wasbecause they were just simply Jewish, or standing up for their country. What innocent purpose could so many people have to be here, living like this with the never-ending fear of being sent away, never to return. It’s become apparent those people are sent to their death. The train stops at Auschwitz—or so I’ve heard through murmurs of others.
A gust of wind showers me with freckles of snow, blowing my scarf back along my shaved head. I yank it back into place, holding it until I come to the guard post.
“Here for clerical duty in administration,” I say, pushing the sleeve of my dress up to show the dried ink of numbers beneath the top layers of skin.
The guard grunts and nods, then releases the gate for me to pass through where other guards line the short walkway between that gate and the administration door. They all stare at me as if I’m some creature from outer space.
The moment I step inside the building, the intense cold ceases, turning into a more manageable chill. The air is filled with the scent of cigarette smoke and old coffee, with the sharp zing of paper and ink. The walls are covered with maps and propaganda posters and my clogs create a hollow thud with each step I take down the corridor.
An SS guard follows behind me, making sure I go to where I’m supposed to. His eyes burn against my back and he’s walking too closely. I reach the end of the corridor and enter the open area lined with desks. I approach the one I report to each day, finding a stack of papers spilling out of a folder. The guard walks past me, presses his finger to the pile and taps twice.
Each paper is a single prisoner record, all needing to be entered into a catalog along with their numbers and block assignment. I see so many names every day and have no idea who anyone is, what they look like, or what their fate is. I can’t afford a mistake. Consequences await mistakes. I sit down onthe oak wooden chair and pull myself in closer to the desk and take a pen from the lonely tin can. My hand is still cold and shaking from the walk over, but I need perfect penmanship. They said that’s why I was chosen in the first place. No one has ever told me I have perfect anything, especially not my handwriting, but it appears it might be the one thing saving my life now.
“Psst,” a hiss grows from the desk behind me. I look around, making sure the guards aren’t within sight, and twist around, finding Tatiana cupping her hand around her mouth. Maybe it was coincidence, luck, or the two of us listing off similar occupations, but it was a relief to find a friendly face here the first time I reported for duty. “Open your hands.”
She unrolls her sleeve and plucks out a small object from the cuff then tosses it into my hands. A warm, foil wrapped strawberry candy rests in the center of my palm, calling for an angry stomach growl—a reminder of how little I consume each day. “Where did you get this?” I ask, keeping my voice to a whisper.
“Many people here know someone who knows someone who can get things most of us can only dream of, and well—I received information. The guards in this building keep a stash of sweets in a narrow, inconspicuous closet behind the door guard’s post. Apparently, they never lock it, and the door guard leaves for twenty minutes at noon every day. It’ll be the most delicious treat you’ve had in months.”
I don’t waste a second before peeling off the wrapper and shoving the tart candy into my mouth. My cheeks clench and lips pucker. For a moment, I’m in heaven. It is the most delicious taste and I had almost forgotten something so sweet existed.
As I crunch through the candy, I realize I don’t have anything to offer Tatiana in return. I cover my mouth to stop the drool from pooling at the corners of my lips and stare back at her. “Idon’t have anything for you. I’ll find something. I’ll do anything. What can I do?” I ask.
“Stop it. We’re friends. I want to share.”
“Friends. Always,” I tell her. It hasn’t been long, but anyone who shows empathy to another person here is someone to hold on to for as long as possible—a thought I cling to all day.
For endless hours, I listen to my pen scratching against paper with background drone of boots clomping down the hallways or hushed conversations between guards. The hanging light above my head flickers all day, causing spots to float in front of my eyes, landing on the papers I’m trying to focus on. Then the click of the flicker becomes a repetitive silence that makes my heart pound with every inked letter I form.
The sweetness from the candy has worn off my tongue and my stomach has grown a new level of anger and hunger from the delectable tease. In the final hour of the work day, the dark thoughts always return, reminding me my life has an expiration date—friend or no friend, and this is how I’m spending whatever final days I have—a slave to the Wehrmacht who believe they have a right to whatever they want.
TWENTY-THREE
LUKA
April 1943
Warsaw, Poland
Sitting in this apartment with thirty or so others, each holding a loved one, or a reminder of a loved one on this first night of Passover—a day in which we are to be thankful for our freedom and the ability to hold on to faith even when the odds are against us. To celebrate when we’re suffering and being treated as slaves here, seems nonsensical, but I keep that thought to myself. Mother has her arm locked around my waist and I have Grandmother’s favorite scarf pressed against my chest. I trace my eyes over the spot on the floor where she slept beside me, trying to understand how she’s already been gone for six months. I lied to her and told her she wouldn’t die.
With time to think about the promise I made to her, I have tried to come to terms with being thankful for her freedom—the end of suffering, days without starvation or sickness. Therefore, though we continue to suffer, Grandmother can be a symbol of Passover this year.
“Chag Pesach sameach,” Mother says out loud to the others around us. “May this Passover bring us a reminder of the freedom we were once strong enough to acquire and may our faith carry us forward.”
