“Thank—” she tries to speak but her knees give out and she keels over, face first into the ground, heavy as a log.
Francine shoves everyone to the side to make her way over, finding the poor woman unconscious in the mud. She blows her whistle and shoots her hand up in the air, signaling for someone to come take her away. For good.
THIRTY-ONE
ELLA
More women have begun clerical duties in the small office ten of us were sharing. Previously, five of us were assigned to cataloging incoming prisoners, and the other five responsible for typing up punishment logs—records of disciplinary actions taken on prisoners who committed violations. Today the additional five women settle into desks with typewriters. I would choose a typewriter over handwriting logs if given the option.
A kapo who meanders around the room off and on throughout the day is spewing out a list of rules and objectives to the new women. The clang of typewriters overtakes the swooshing of papers and scratching of pen tips against paper.
Guards pace by the open door of the office once every few minutes, stopping to dart their sharp stares in every direction, ensuring each of us is on task. As the current guard steps away from the door, I reach down to my sock and retrieve the scrap of paper Magda gave me, studying the name for a moment before replacing the paper. Elizabeth Gacek.
With my pen still full of ink, hovering over a nearly completed page of entries, I gape at the list above, knowing it won’t matter how many pages I personally search through fora name when there are at least five of us alone in this office entering information.
I twist and glance over my shoulder toward Tatiana. “Psst.”
She lifts her head, her eyes wide but red, a sign of a sleepless night. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her gaze flickering toward the door. I know we have at least another moment before the guards return.
“I need help from you and others to search for another name,” I say, leaning closer toward her desk. There’s less space between us today than yesterday, thanks to the newly added desks in the room. “There’s a woman in my barrack. She’s looking for someone. If I find them, she might be able to help me find out where Luka is working.” Despite our efforts, no one has found his name in our logs yet either.
Tatiana’s shoulders fall at just the sound of Luka’s name. “Did you hear him singing again?”
I nod. “It’s his voice. I think he’s truly here.”
Tatiana’s fingers lift to her mouth, her eyes widening in response to finding out that someone I love is a prisoner here, too. I wouldn’t know whether to smile or show my sympathy either. “Sure,” she says. “I’ll pass the request along.” We’ve set up a communication line of whispers between desks, for when the five of us need to share information. “But, Ella, you know how hopeless our searches have been.” Zofia’s name is still unfound, too. Defeat weighs on us for letting Iza down, but also, it means our letters will likely never be sent home. Every attempt seems hopeless.
“I know,” I say, a heavy doubt settling into my chest. “Please, if I can help her and she can help me—I need to know if Luka is here somewhere.”
The hours crawl by in measures of metal plunks and paper swooshes, the second hand of a nearby clock adding an offbeat annoyance as well. My writing hand is red and cramping, theside of my fist is covered in black ink, and my fingertips are as brutal as they are at this hour each day.
A sharp breath interrupts the flow of monotonous sounds. “I found it,” one of the other women whispers. My heart tumbles in my chest and my breath falters, waiting for her to say which name she means.
“Who?” Tatiana asks in a hush.
“Elizabeth Gacek.”
The woman who sits to the other side of Tatiana scribbles out the information on a scrap of logbook paper torn from the back of the book and hands it to Tatiana, who passes it to me.
The name and information blurs within my stare as I’m struck with disbelief. Itispossible to find someone in these lists. I can hold out hope to find Luka’s name, too, but with Elizabeth’s information, maybe Magda can help me, too.
Twisting around in my seat, I turn to offer the woman a silent thank you when the swift clunk of boots returns to the open doorway. I crumple the paper in my hand, scorning myself for not putting it directly in my sock, or watching the time between the guards checking on us. I know better.
“What is this?” the guard shouts.
My stomach turns sour and twists in pain as the guard stares at me with a beady look in his eyes. What is there to say? As if I’ll find the answer in front of me, I search my desk while the guard steps in closer. The memory of what he did to the woman who spilled ink forces an acidic burn to rise through my chest. “I was—I was checking to see if there was extra ink in anyone’s bottles since mine is nearly empty. I didn’t want to open a new bottle at this hour.”
The guard leans over my desk, peering into the ink bottle as if he can see where the ink line ends. With the little amount of light we have here, there is no reflection on the liquid. If he lifts the jar, he’ll end up with ink on his hands. But he picks up thebottle and swishes the liquid around. My throat squeezes in on itself and my chest aches because I’m not sure how much ink I have left.
“Give her some ink,” the guard demands from the woman who found Elizabeth’s name.
She stands from her table and hands her jar to me. She doesn’t have much left either, but I pour a bit from hers into my bottle, my hand shaking viciously as I try my best not to spill a drop.
I place the bottle back on her desk and return to my seat. “All taken care of now,” I tell the guard.
He stares around the room at each of us, glaring as if we’ve all done something to disturb him, but then thankfully leaves, the moment allowing me a breath of sharp relief. It’s best if I don’t talk to anyone else for the remainder of the day now.
Moments before the lights are set to go out, I locate Magda in front of her tier of bunks and retrieve the piece of paper. I take her hand in mine and smile. “It’s the first one we’ve successfully found.”
