“Yes,” I reply in the same way.
“You’re gifted, and I’m sorry you’re in so much pain.”
I won’t rest until I find her.
“Aren’t we all in pain?” I ask him.
“Only if you can still feel it,” Franc says, pointing to his ear with a sweeping gesture.
Blood drips down the side of my head, falling onto my earlobe. No pain. It’s the agony in my chest I’m afraid will never go away. I run my hand over my head, pulling it away and finding it covered in blood.
“Let’s go—the two of you. You’re nauseating the crowd. Get yourself cleaned up and in one piece before tomorrow night,” the SS officer snaps before grabbing the two of us by our arms and yanking us toward the back door. He’s the one who threw the glass at my head. What did he think would happen? Everyone witnessed the behavior and not a person flinched at the scene.It was as common as throwing a rolled-up napkin at someone. The anger rages inside of me bringing words to my tongue, but then I remember the look on Apollo’s face after he spoke his final thoughts out loud, the shocked look in his eyes before he was released from this torture.
Maybe that’s all it takes. A few justified words to this mongrel and I’ll be set free like all those whose insides were painted along the execution wall today. But I can’t do that to Mother. I can’t lose her. I must know she’s okay.
THIRTY
ELLA
By some measure of luck, I went unnoticed last night while hiding in the administration office on the first floor of the barrack. At least, I don’t think I was spotted. Though it’s possible that with my eyes closed in the face of fear, the man lurking around could have taken mercy on me and left to clear the rest of the floor. The thought just seems extremely unlikely, given I’ve yet to meet one guard to consider letting anyone get away with anything here.
Once my heart settled into a steady rhythm a long hour after I made it back to the tiers of bunks, I began to wonder why I could have heard Luka’s voice coming from the Commandant’s villa of all places. After those brief seconds of clear sound, I couldn’t be more sure that it’s him. By why, how—could he be there?
This block isn’t very far away, but with the barrier between those buildings and these, I can only depend on what I hear. I’m afraid to ask anyone else in the block if they hear him, too. They might tell me I’m hearing voices. That’s a sign of mental incompetence here and if our block-elder, Francine, or any kapo hear about any of us losing the bearings of our minds, we’ll immediately be sent elsewhere—likely to Block 10 where peopleare tortured through medical experiments, some even dissected while still alive. The rumors have circulated and though unfathomable, nothing should be questioned here in Auschwitz.
So many women are coughing, sniffling, and groaning tonight, suffering from an array of illnesses sweeping through the barracks like the plague. It’s a warning for those of us who haven’t gotten sick. It’s only a matter of time until we catch something. As hot and humid as it is within these walls, I often cover my face with the wool blanket while I sleep, convincing myself it will keep the germs out.
Tonight, I stare through the dark blanket, the prickly fibers scratching along my cheek as I imagine Luka’s voice, praying to capture just a hint to give me a sense of peace before I fall asleep. Though my eyelids are heavy, my heart pounds too hard and fast to rest. Most of the others have found a position they’re comfortable enough to fall asleep in, eliminating some of the surrounding static noise.
“Does anyone hear that?” someone whispers from several rows down. I clutch the blanket tighter, pressing it against my chest.
“What? What do you hear?” another person whispers.
A creak from the window startles me as someone attempts to crack it open—something we haven’t done since last summer.
“Oh, that,” another voice adds. “That’s the new singer the SS have enslaved as their nightly entertainment.”
“Who’s speaking?” Even though there is a dividing wall between the rows of bunks and her closet-size space to sleep, Keely has the hearing of one of those German shepherds. She’s the privileged kapo in our block who answers to Francine with behavioral logs each morning before roll call.
No one responds, as usual. Keely isn’t as brutal as Francine, or she simply doesn’t have the strength to investigate every single sound throughout the night.
“If I hear another word, I will find you, and you will be reported,” she says. I can’t see her, but I can almost hear her nose pointing into the air. When I can see her, her arms are folded over her chest, she sucks her cheeks in to highlight her cheekbones that don’t need highlighting as prominent as they are in all of us from the hunger we endure. It’s become apparent that people don’t change, despite our equalizing circumstances. If they saw themselves as being above others before being imprisoned here, they still do now. The SS seek out those people like Keely and give her privileges above everyone else, knowing she cares more about herself than anyone else around her. Maybe all kapos aren’t like her. Some are worse, as I’ve seen, but most wouldn’t remain in their position without giving the SS what they want.
The silence after she returns to her small private space invites a melodic breeze in through the cracked window. My ears tingle though I can’t make out the words of this song, but the familiar sound of his voice, the highs and lows—the smooth notes that carry for longer than a common breath—embrace me. My eyes slide shut as I think back to stolen moments in the nook of the tunnel. The glow from the flame blocked out the surroundings, allowing me to imagine we were anywhere but there, but really—I was with him, and that’s all that mattered. The way the fine hairs of his cheek tickled mine whenever he would nuzzle his face into the crook of my neck, and the way his arms would wrap all the way around me and hold me so tightly, convinced nothing could ever tear us apart. And our conversations, our talks about our future when the war ends and we’re free to be who we are, and together. One of the last nights we were together, we planned out what forever would look like for us.
“Where will we live?” I ask as Luka strokes his knuckles gently down my arm.
“Anywhere but here, in a tunnel or a sewer,” he says with a silent chuckle, as he tugs me tighter into his chest, nuzzling himself into the corner of this dark nook we hide in every night.
“I want to live on a farm, have a wooden swing outside the front door where we can rock back and forth all night and stare up at the stars. You can sing your heart out and have nature be your orchestra.”
“And you, Miss Ella, what will you do with all your freedom and happiness?”
“I’ll tend to the farm, make sure no one ever goes hungry again.” Food brings people happiness and after watching so many suffer from going without it, I wouldn’t want to do anything else. I didn’t understand why Tata held on to the family store with everything he has left within him until I realized how much he’s given to others, how much those others rely on him. He fights and struggles daily to bring food into the store, gathering it from places he never talks about. All that matters is that he gives to those who need it most after they’ve been sent away empty-handed. I want to do the same.
“Sounds like a beautiful life to me,” Luka says, placing a kiss on my neck.
“Dream of it tonight, and I will, too,” I tell him.
