Barefoot, I walk in a line with others down a long row parting brick barrack blocks. The roads are all rock and gravel, slicing my feet as we continue to parade through this compound, bearing our pale, limp bodies as we cover our privates for a sense of modesty in front of whoever is watching us.
By the time we stop in front of one of the identical buildings within the endless row, the sun is scraping along the horizon, a warning of impending darkness. A man in a striped uniform pulls up to our side with a wagon full of roped bundles and proceeds to hand one to each of us. I stare down at the load dropped within my arms, finding a striped uniform, a pair of clogs, a blanket, and eating utensils.
I then enter the open door into the building, finding a large, crowded space with rows of bunk beds, four rows high. The firstopen space I spot is just a few columns down on the right and up on the third tier. I place my bundled belongings down and retrieve the uniform and clogs, wasting no time in slipping them on and covering up.
The shirt loosely fits over my shoulders, and I futz with the waistband of the pants to try and roll it over, so they’ll stay above my hips. This uniform is meant for someone twice my size—odd, seeing as all the Jews have been starved over the last two years.
I turn my attention back to the space I’ve claimed within the bunks, finding a middle-aged man lying on his belly to the side of my spot. His arms are folded beneath his chin, and he stares at me with a scowl, but shifts a smidge to the side to make more room.
I climb up, careful not to jostle the first two tiers of beds. I start on my back, realizing there are only two ways to find comfort here—on my back or on my belly like the man next to me. My hips certainly wouldn’t thank me for putting my weight on them here. My shoulder scrapes against the bunk above as I shift to my front.
I grab the blanket I received, and a matching striped cap falls out of the pile. I slide it, along with the utensils and bowl, to the small amount of space next to my waist. I keep the blanket folded and pull it over my arms to rest my head, finding the first moment of rest since Mother and I were taken from Warsaw.
The voices around me grow louder through my stillness. Whispers in Polish, Yiddish, and German slur into one indecipherable conversation. Though, I hear snippets of statements of survival tips, work assignments, and warnings to stay away from the buildings where thick smoke rises into the air.
“First night is the worst,” the middle-aged man mumbles. His eyes are half open, but my head is facing in his direction. I was trying to look elsewhere to be respectful of his space, butI suppose that’s impossible here. “Don’t ask questions. Do what they tell you. And pray none of them have a reason to talk to you.”
I let his words sink in and I nod against my rolled-up blanket. “Thank you.”
My stare lingers on the wooden beams holding up the bunks across the row, the spots of dry blood painting a picture I can imagine far too easily.
TWENTY-SIX
LUKA
The metal clang of a bell sends a spark through my chest as my eyes flash open. Dim lights glow along the center of the building and men are scrambling to their feet, pulling on their caps and sliding into their clogs.
Another man standing by the front door makes his presence known by shoving and yelling at anyone in his way before shouting, “Outside! Line up for roll call!”
“He’s a kapo. He works for the SS. Do as he says, too. Roll call is twice a day and you must be present,” my middle-aged bunk mate says.
I disjointedly make my way out of the barrack, the cool, damp spring air licking my skin as I step outside. Prisoners in striped uniforms stand rigidly in rows as SS guards pace back and forth with a grip on their growling dogs.
Roll call drags on and on as SS guards shout prisoner numbers and a series of commands. I listen intently for my number, unfamiliar despite it being inked on my arm. The number finally rings through the air, following a direction to join a group off to the left where a shovel is smashed against my chest. “Go,” a prisoner says, one with an armband that depictshim as a kapo, like the man who’d shouted orders at us in the barrack earlier.
We follow him past several rows of buildings until we stop at a trench-like pit. “Dig.”
I follow the speed and pace of everyone around me, noticing some are slower than others. I assume being faster must be safer. Though in less than an hour, the pain from shoveling hard dirt without a break sets in. Then blisters begin to form on my hands. The sting and soreness are a stagnant feeling that grows worse by the hour, but I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact with any passing guard.
“She’s a seamstress.” Did I save Mother from this type of work by telling the SS of her skill? The thought of her digging like this all day makes me sick to my stomach. At least she isn’t in this group, digging alongside me. I couldn’t watch her go through this.
By the time I return to the barrack, hours after wreaking havoc on every muscle in my body, I’m nearly numb as I lift a measly bowl of soup to my mouth. The middle-aged man already warned me to only eat half my serving of bread to ensure I have food for the morning. They plan to starve us here, too. It’s no surprise.
I drag myself up the wooden rung toward my bunk, ready to black out from exhaustion. “Wait. You.” Something sharp pokes me in the back and I stop, frozen, wondering who is behind me and what they want with me. I peer over my shoulder, looking into the eyes of an SS officer. He grabs my arm just as I step back down to the floor and shoves my sleeve up to inspect my number. “Yes, come with me,” he demands.
The blood drains from my face as I notice no one else is stepping back out of the building currently. Just me. We walk the length of the camp once again, exiting the metal gate and taking a different path around the exterior of the camp pastthree long and narrow buildings on my left and a barbed-wire fence on my right where more brick barrack rows extend into the darkness of the night.
The officer hasn’t said a word about where we’re going or what’s happening and, like everything in the last several hours, I’m supposed to keep walking without asking a question. I’ve noticed every weapon draped across his body, the baton in his hand, the whip sticking out of his back pocket. He’s likely eager to use any one of them, or so I can only assume by the behavior of most gestapo police.
We enter a grand foyer, two stories high, outlining the interior opening. Polished wooden floors beneath my feet and dark wooden beams line the tall ceiling. Symbolic German Reich statues and gold fixtures decorate the walls along with ornate torches near every floor-to-ceiling pillar.
People are dressed in formal attire, like that from a time I can hardly remember. There is no war inside this building, just common life for high-class citizens. No one looks at me or finds my appearance appalling or out of place. It’s as if I’m a flea that slipped in through a door crack—impossible to notice.
“What songs do you sing?” the officer asks, his voice quiet in comparison to the rumble of cheer surrounding me.
“I—I, uh, write my own, but I’m familiar with many classics.”
“Fine then. The people here need cheerful, uplifting tunes. Nothing melancholy.”
