The weight of my eyelids lifts, the wind burns as I forget to blink. That sound, the hum, muffled but clear, traveling through the few trees and gates between the barrack behind us and the Commandant’s villa on the other side. My heart goes still, then gallops up into my throat. I clutch my chest.
Is it another delusion? I’ve seen him in so many faces, felt the warmth of his endearing stare from people I’ve never met.
Through battles of time long ago
Triumph and victory will carry on
Carry on…
So strong…
My breath hitches, the weight of exhaustion lifting like a fog. That voice—unmistakably his. It awakens a part of me that has been asleep for so long. Where is the sound coming from? It’s close by, but faint. My chest tightens as the song continues, each note pulling me in closer.
We are one and the same
Alive with courage and heart
Time will come when they chant your name
The heroic tales of war’s subdue art…
The way he carries the last note, lifting it to travel like a silk scarf twirling through the air. I’ve only known one person to sing like that. Only one.
But it can’t be. It can’t. He wouldn’t be here. Please, don’t let him be here.
The thought twists in my stomach with a mix of hope and terror.
I can’t allow myself to believe it’s Luka.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ELLA
My hands are unsteady today, or more unsteady than usual. The papers slip in my fingers, but I keep moving, hoping it doesn’t show. My mind isn’t at its sharpest, going over and over the question of whether I might have unknowingly written out Luka’s name as if it was just any other name, monotonously grinding my pen against lines over and over all day. Or one of the other clerks could have logged his name and wouldn’t have given it a second thought because they don’t know anything about him. There are too many variables to consider, which leaves me desperate to come up with a way to confirm whether it’s Luka’s voice I’ve been hearing.
I could ask the others to look for Luka’s name the way we’ve been helping Iza search for her sister, Zofia. Though part of me thinks it’s foolish to look for Luka’s name because if I was to find it, it would mean he’s here. It would mean he’s no longer promised a tomorrow either. I wouldn’t dream of that for him. It’s the last thing I want for him.
Furthermore, I can’t avoid the reality of odds that he would end up in the same place I am—they must be slim. I already know my mind has been playing tricks on me, making me think I see him in others. This is the last place he should be. He wasalready a prisoner of the walls in Warsaw. This place—this is intended for torture and death.
Something sharp strikes me in the shoulder and I whip around, terrified I’ve been caught flipping through the pages of the log rather than continuing to enter the names. I find a small, triangular folded card on the ground behind my chair and scoop it up. Upon returning upright, I glance at Tatiana’s desk, then at Tatiana, who’s shooting me a questioning look. “Everything all right?” she mouths to me. She must have noticed I’ve been moving quite slow.
The sharp angled card pokes the inside of my hand. I turn around to face the front, look around to make sure there aren’t any watching guards and unfold the paper to scribble out a quick note:
I heard a man singing last night.
I recognized his voice.
If it is him…It’s my Luka.
Or I might just be going mad.
I fold the note card back up into the triangle and flick it back over to her.
She catches it and unfolds the paper swiftly and reads what I wrote. Tatiana places her hand on her chest then turns the note card over to jot something down. Within seconds, she folds it in half then tosses it back to me.
I catch it, mid-air, open it and read what she’s responded with:
Oh gosh, we’ll search the logbooks!
