“No, I don’t,” I say with a huff.
Mama shoves a pastry into my mouth. Then she yanks my knapsack off and drops my coat over my shoulders, holding out the sleeves, waiting for me to comply. I slip my arms in quickly to spare myself the argument she will always win. Once she places my knapsack back on my shoulders, she grabs my face from behind and gives me a wet kiss on the cheek. “I love you, my darling.”
“Love you too,” I say, taking back off down the stairs.
It’s a myth. People don’t get sick from the cold. And no one dies if they miss a meal. It’s just something all mothers say because their mothers told them the same. Someone needs to break the news to them at some point.
Mother never said how cold it would have to be for someone to get sick, or how many meals they would need to miss beforestarving to death. Maybe she didn’t know, but I’ve followed a regular pattern and seen which degradation hits first. It’s starvation, then the cold, and now that it’s summertime, people die from the heat, too. I was wrong. Mother was right. To think I once fought her over wearing a coat and eating a warm pastry for breakfast…this may very well be my punishment.
The orchestra and I continue playing through the final execution of the day, playing a romantic tune that contrasts everything happening in front of us. A male prisoner is dragged toward the execution wall. He’s the type who doesn’t fight back. Some do, some don’t. I’m not sure anyone realizes that the ones who fight back get shot quicker. They’re put out of their misery faster than the ones who comply.
The officer with his grip on the man’s wrists shoves his nose up against the wall and mutters something in his ear. They always say something—some last words that I never hear, nor want to.
The blast from the rifle drowns out the music, replacing our notes with a deep, throbbing crack. My eyes fixate on the back of the man’s head as words pipe out of my lungs—words that come out on their own, it seems. I’ve memorized the lyrics and no longer think about what I’m singing. Instead, my eyes are locked on a bullet hole oozing with blood, wondering why I no longer feel a sense of sickness in my stomach when witnessing murder.
Some prisoners fall before the blood oozes. For others, the blood oozes first before they fall. I wonder what causes the different bodily reactions. Would I fall then bleed or bleed then fall?
The violinists speed up their tempo, racing alongside the cellist uphill then downhill into a hush of silent tones that fade into the warm stale air. They drop their instruments by their sides and my shoulders fall lower. We all take a quick look at one another and nod our heads, knowing it’s time to turnback for roll-call square where we’ll be directed to our evening assignments.
We walk past the guards, keeping our heads down, moving in sync with one another through the soggy grass. The shuffle of footsteps bleeds into the distant shouts from various soldiers and their constantly barking dogs. Every step forward takes more effort than the one before. There’s nothing left inside of me, yet I prevail—despite the pain—to breathe, talk, swallow crusty stale bread, and even drink water…never mind the singing. My voice is broken. I’m broken. My head is heavy but empty, and my body threatens to fall forward with each step. My legs are too heavy to lift. These thoughts terrify me, realizing I’m much stronger than Mother. It’s becoming harder to convince myself she’s surviving through this torture. I don’t know how I’m still alive. Can it really be simply because I’m still breathing, and somewhere above the gray clouds, the sun still exists?
A short line of others moves toward us and I force my head upright, lifting my gaze, ready to give a hello with just my eyes—the only form of greeting we’re allowed to share with one another. It’s something human.
This is the first line of women I’ve passed here as they keep us separated between fences, but I suppose they must be moving to wherever their job takes them, leading to the rare crossover. I can tell they’re women from a short distance, but only because they’re forced to wear smock dresses instead of pants and a buttoned shirt. They look as miserable as we do. Shaven heads, hollow cheeks, frailty, we’re all moving closer to the end, whenever that might be.
A figure among the women catches my eye. Though she looks like the women before and after her in the line, there’s something about her that makes my steps falter. A rumble within my ears blocks out all sound from around me as my eyes meet hers.
A moment—surreal, impossible, maybe delusional, continues endlessly, the world closing in on us from each side until it’s just the two of us. My breath catches, and again, I question my sanity. Is this real? Our eyes meet and I find a mirrored disbelief there as time struggles to keep up while moving past one another. Her lips part, mouthing one word that steals the wind from my body.
“Luka?”
No. No, no. Please, no. Not here. It’s her. It is. Her voice, so soft, broken, and painfully familiar. I clutch the fabric over my chest, trying to grab my heart. The lines push us past each other, my body moving on its own as if mechanical. I try to respond, call out her name, but my throat tightens, and I can’t make a sound. All I can do is twist my neck to keep staring at her—to keep her in sight before she disappears.
She lifts her hand in front of her chest, just slightly, trembling before dropping it back by her side. Her bottom lip hangs open with despair as tears spill down her cheeks, leaving streaks among the dirt.
“Ella!” My voice breaks, hoarse and weak. I stumble on the heel of the person I’m behind, righting my direction before I fall or knock someone over, but as soon as I can, I turn back around, searching for her. Where did she go? My breaths quicken. I would stop walking if the person behind me wasn’t about to step on my heels, too. Where is she? I need to know where she went.
A hand shoves me from behind, “Keep moving, songbird,” a guard growls.
No. I need to go back. It’s Ella. It’s her. I know it is. My body continues to move forward, but my heart has left my body. It’s twenty steps back, being trampled all over, covered in dirt, shattered into a million pieces. How can she be here?
THIRTY-THREE
LUKA
Two weeks later, another gathering in the Commandant’s Headquarters means another reason to walk the length of the camp, with an opportunity to spot Ella again. There is no single way for me to locate her otherwise. I’ve looked at every person who has passed by me since I saw her. I know it was her. I’m sure of it. Yet, without a list of those trapped here, and the replacement of peoples’ names for numbers, finding anyone seems impossible.
A violinist and cellist have been assigned to join Franc and me tonight for our evening performance. In any other place, time, and world, it would be an honor to play alongside these gentlemen. But here, it’s an act of disgrace, one I will never forgive myself for. I should have chosen death before entertaining murderers. I could still choose death, but I’m afraid to die. I’m just a coward.
Franc lines up the music for the evening. “Did you get any further with your search since I saw you earlier in the week?” he asks, words forming without him moving his lips.
“No, I don’t know anyone with access to prisoner logs and I haven’t seen her.” Hearing my words out loud makes me question whether I ever saw her at all. I dream of her every night,and exhaustion overwhelms me so greatly that I should be able to slip into a dream even with my eyes open.
“Sorry, my friend,” Franc utters before sharing the lineup of music with us before placing the stack on the stand attached to the piano.
The guests are just arriving, which is our cue to begin. However, a female kapo rushes through the breezeway past us, and into the growing crowd. The way her eyes dart in every direction hints at a time sensitive delivery. I’ve seen this woman here before, never without a paper or envelope in her hand. She seems to be a courier of some sort, delivering messages from officers in one administration building to officers in another. Just another privileged prisoner surviving by proving a form of loyalty to the SS.
There are so many kapos here, I can’t fathom what could make them betray their own people. They’re still hungry and exposed to every terrifying disease that sweeps through the barracks. Maybe there’s something I don’t know—something I could never trade my soul for. They’ve learned to hate their own kind. It’s the same as the Jewish Ghetto Police in Warsaw, like the one who killed Apollo. They’re somehow much worse here—I don’t trust any one of them.
