Tatiana scribbles down the name on a small note card, folds it up and presses it into my hand, folding my fingers over the note. I offer a small smile, the only form of a smile I’m capable of here.
I rush back to my desk and pull out a piece of note paper to hide beneath the catalog of names—a blank sheet I can use if I find the name we’re searching for. I could search previous pages, one or two at a time between entering a column’s worth of new names.
I take the top paper from the pile and set it down next to the open catalog. I dip my pen into a bottle of ink and scriptout the prisoner number, surname and first name, date of birth, place of birth, nationality/ethnicity, religion, date of arrival to Auschwitz, reason for imprisonment, occupation, and assigned block.
I flip the paper over and set it to my left, then take the next paper from the pile to scan before jotting down the information.
I blink, holding my eyes closed for a moment to clear my focus as I recenter my stare on the name:
Family name:Bukowski
Forename:Lukasz
Born on:4.5.1918 in: Krakow
Status:Unmarried
Religion:JewCountry of Origin:Poland
My blood turns cold, despite the words “it’s not him” rushing through my head. Luka. 1918. Polish Jew. I wouldn’t want him to be here. I know what they do to most of the Jewish people here. But my Luka is Luka Dulski, not Lukasz Bukowski. Same age, but Luka was born in February on the 2ndof the month in Warsaw, not Krakow. My heart splits down the center, the fibers of tissue tearing like a thin fabric, filling me with a pain that will never subside. In a humane world, I could write to him, but in this world, it could endanger him under the policing laws of the ghetto.
I see people who look like him every day, making me feel like I’ve gone mad. Every man here is bald, left only with their eyes, nose, and mouth as their only discernible features, making many of them look nearly identical to one another. That’s the point. We’ve all been stripped of our identities, left with a number,striped uniforms, and hollow eyes. We’re objects used to work and make the daily lives of the SS easier.
I force my hand to scribe the information across the page, spelling out the man’s name as my heart continues to bleed onto the desk beneath me.
The nights are the hardest, even worse than working twelve to fourteen hours a day. I’ve found that when there is less time to think, the better off I am. At night, after we’ve eaten the second half of our daily allotment of bread, our stomachs still angry for something more, we are sent to our straw-filled mattresses to sleep elbow to elbow with others in the same block.
There’s no reason I shouldn’t fall asleep within seconds of lying down. My body is always in an extreme state of exhaustion, yet my mind refuses to concede as it searches for sustenance to fill the gaps of the thoughts that I actively avoid from the moment I wake up, until right this very moment when I’m staring at the back of a shaven head, counting the beauty marks along her scalp. I suspect none of us had ever questioned how many beauty marks or freckles we had on our scalp before arriving here. To be so unfamiliar with our bodies makes me realize we, as humans, think we know far more than we do.
With a deep breath, I let my eyes drift closed in search of sleep, but instead find Luka’s presence in the darkness of my mind—his beautiful hazel eyes filled with hope and determination. That was the Luka from over a year ago. I’m not sure if he’s even still breathing. I tell myself he is, knowing the likelihood is slim. Too many people were dying in the encampment within Warsaw. I was bringing him and his family extra food. Without that, they would likely be just as worse off asthe rest of the people living there. To know I could have kept him alive, but didn’t listen to Arte in that one passing second, will haunt me for the rest of my life.
The lights flash back on as if a strike of lightning breaks through the barrack. “Roll call, now!” Francine, the block-elder shouts at us. We’ve already been through roll call, just after we ate our crumbs of supper. “It’s been brought to my attention that several of you didn’t return from the latrines before lights went out.”
Who would tell her such a thing? No one converses with Francine unless necessary. I, for one, can’t understand the reason for the pure cruelty behind her actions. She treats every woman in this barrack as if we’re the German soldiers who dragged her away and imprisoned her here, when we are the same as she, if not worse off. The Jewish women here were taken from their homes or plucked from the streets. Many, separated from their families.
We all pull ourselves from our beds, our bodies landing heavily to the ground against the day’s imposed weakness. No one speaks. We all slip our clogs onto our feet and shuffle toward the door into the cool, dense fog, walking through mud toward the roll-call square within the orange glowing lights. I stare up at the closest light, watching flying insects swarm the glow in masses, fighting for something better than the darkness can offer. We’re living a similar life down here.
Francine disappears, leaving us in rows, cold to the bone and tired. One woman falls into the next and that woman begins to fall in the same direction. The women behind her grab hold of their smocks, fighting to help them remain upright. Whoever was behind them would decide their fate tonight. Some of the other women no longer converse or attempt to help another. They move when they’re told and carry on like walking corpses,unaffected, or maybe unknowing of whether they’re even alive or dead.
My eyelids become heavy the longer we stand in silence, listening only to the buzzing of the bugs and heavy breaths of the women on either side of me. And then, warm melodic notes weave through the air with a rich silky tone that breaks into a smooth vibrato between a bow and a violin’s strings. Am I dreaming? The music softens, blending into the silent buzz around us, welcoming a tune carried by a male voice.
Through battles of a time long ago
Triumph and victory will carry on
Through smoke and whispers of foe
It is all we must see, the light, so very strong
Very strong…
It is for us to achieve, bravery for free
For one and all, this, is our solemn vow
Set forth and though shall not see
What is left behind, then and right now
