Luka.
My stomach folds in on itself as I run for the door, holding my hand over my mouth as if I’m about to throw up. I might.
The cold wind pushes against me as I step outside.
“Aufhören!” an officer shouts, but not at me. The music that was playing just a second ago comes to an abrupt stop.
A woman in the long winding line around the warehouse steps out and trudges forward with her arms outstretched. I take another few steps forward toward the barbed-wired fence. I recognize her…
“Hör auf, sagte ich,” the officer shouts again, warning the woman to stop moving.
No.
No, no, no. It’s Luka’s mother, Chana. The closer I step in toward the gate, the wider my view grows, finding a violinist, cellist, and—is it…
A metallic, sharp and scratchy “clink-clink” bellows from a rifle’s chamber round.
“No!” a man shouts. “Don’t shoot!”
It’s him. I can see him. It’s Luka. He’s alive.
Luka. I come close to grappling the barbed-wire fence before the buzz of electricity reminds me I’ll be killed if I touch the metal.Don’t shoot. Don’t hurt her, I plead silently, my heart exploding within my chest.
The rifle swings in Luka’s direction, pointing directly at his head. “You fool. Sing
or—”
“My mother. Please—don’t—” Luka begs.
FORTY-FIVE
LUKA
My plea for the officer not to shoot Mother has brought the world to a stark halt. The world is caving in on me. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. All I can do is stare at the horror consuming Mother’s pale face.
“Aw, you mean you’d rather be the strong heroic son and take the bullet for your dear old mama?” the officer coos, toying with me as he continues to aim his rifle at my head.
My body shakes uncontrollably even though I want to be strong—to show Mother I’m strong so she doesn’t feel the need to be brave and save me. I need to save her. I must. “Please,” I whimper.
“Luka,” she cries out again. The sound brings back a memory of the time I tripped along the edge of a fountain and fell headfirst to the ground. The terror of me getting hurt. That’s what her voice cries out now, but she’s the one meant to be walking toward the gas chamber.
Another guard steps forward and lifts his rifle up in front of my chest, preventing me from moving any closer to Mother. “Please don’t hurt her,” I cry out. Why must they make me beg?
“Schießen,” the guard standing beside me shouts. Shoot.
“No, no!”
A metallic “click” shatters the air before a defining crack and the ground beneath me shudders. My world collapses on top of me and I scream.
I try to run, but the guard keeps the rifle aimed at me. “Unless you want to be shot, too, don’t move. Keep singing,” he says, gritting his teeth.
“No one told you to stop the music!” another guard shouts at the other musicians.
My eyes fill with tears as I absorb every detail of my mother, blood pooling around her head in the fresh snow. My heart won’t beat. My body won’t move.
“Sing!” the guard beside me snaps, shoving the butt of his rifle into my side, forcing me to choke out in pain.
I crumple inward, gasping for the air that was stolen from my lungs. My lips part, but phlegm gums up my mouth. The strings from the violin scrape against their bows, the sound of hesitation. The cellist follows, a beat too slow. Their bows all tremble into a sound of disarray and I force sound out to cover the sound of the others, trying to protect them before I do something to hurt them, too.
