“Straighten up,” the kapo snaps. “Move.”
We follow her toward the main gates where the train station waits beyond. Are we being transported? To another camp? Or to the other side of Auschwitz—Birkenau—the place no one returns from?
What if Luka was sent there? What if he’s still here, sick in an infirmary, and I’m leaving him behind? Could he still be alive?
We walk between the barracks, toward the metal gates. A guard adjusts his rifle, angling it at us while speaking in private with the kapo. If they won’t say where we’re going, it means we already know.
The guard presses his fingers to his bottom lip, zipping out a whistle. With a rigid wave, he calls more guards. They arrive at once, salutingHeil Hitler.
The wind pushes against my weak body. The autumn chill nips at my face. I can’t leave the last place. This is the last place I saw Luka. If I have any chance of finding him, it won’t be outside these gates.
The guards and kapo corral us through, forcing me to leave my heart behind me.
We reach a wide empty road, fields stretching endlessly on either side. There’s nothing to block the wind, as if nature itself is shoving us back toward Auschwitz.
Dirt and rubble whip through the air, blinding me. My clothes billow like a worn flag, fabric pulling away from my skeletal body—leaving me naked.
My legs falter again and again. I’ve nearly tripped twice, but I keep moving.
A woman behind me stumbles and falls. If I turn back to check on her, I’ll be punished.
“Get up, you cow!” a guard shouts, charging toward her.
She cries out, pleading for help.
Pop. Pop.
Two shots.
I flinch, clutching the few belongings pressed against my chest. I don’t shut my eyes. I keep them wide open, letting the wind sting, forcing myself to look—to witness another end.
The first bullet was enough. The second was out of hatred.
Does guilt drown them in their sleep? Do they think about who they have killed? How could they not?
The road stretches on, watchtowers appearing like ghosts in a patch of fog. A train rumbles past, the pressure deafening as it shakes the ground. We stumble out of line as the guards grip their caps and forge ahead.
The train is endless, red and black cattle cars rattling along the tracks. When it finally passes, a wail lingers in the air, haunting and hollow.
Through the fog, a wide shallow building looms ahead. The arched opening over the railroad tracks and a wooden sign confirms we’ve arrived.
Birkenau.
My metal bowl slips from my grip and clunks against the ground. My fingers are frozen. I didn’t realize I’d lost my hold. It rolls to the side, and I scurry to pick it up. We don’t stop walking, no one does.
“What is this?” a guard shouts, charging toward me like a bull with sharp eyes and plumes coming from his nostrils.
I stand frozen within his stare, clutching the bowl back into my belongings.
“Your hands aren’t broken, are they?”
I tilt my head to the side, unsure whether I should speak.
He snatches the bowl and hurls it toward the barbed-wire fence.
“Go get it.”
I force my legs to move, my steps careful as I near the fence. The buzz of electricity hums through the wires and spikes up my spine.
