Another guard follows from the gate, passing in front of us. “Louder. Play louder!” His demand is sharp and impatient.
I nod and press against my throat to force out more sound at a higher volume. A shard of glass sliding down my windpipe would hurt less.
“Did you see where this came from?” the guard who retrieved the square of fabric asks the one who just shouted at us. He takes the fabric from the other’s hand, inspecting it.
“It must be from one of them with the wagons,” I hear from the guard who’s still moving ahead, following the wagons.
The guard who shouted at us, now holding the piece of fabric, turns in our direction. His eyes scrutinize me as if he knows I’m the culprit, which I will gladly be if it’s between Ella or myself. With the increase of volume in the song, the jar of honey vibrates against the bones in my chest as I arch my shoulders forward to make my shirt hang without a bulge. He’s still looking at me. I force myself to sing even louder than I am, praying my voice doesn’t give out in return. I’m just hoping the volume is to his liking, enough to make him turn back to whatever he was doing a moment ago.
A cough threatens to break the song, and I clamp my hand around my neck, trying to prevent my body from its habitual workings. The guard’s narrowed eyes pierce through me, as if he can smell fear and guilt. A wheeze scrapes the inside of my chest, waiting for him to walk away as thick phlegm and congestion form.
Time remains still until the guard turns his back to me, finally satisfied, or perhaps, bored with mentally torturing me. The piece of fabric still dangles from his gloved fingertips as hestrides toward the wagons, his boots crunching on the frozen dirt. He pauses where Ella had stood moments ago, his stare cast to the ground in search of something that isn’t there.
Air lodges in my throat.He knows. He probably read the guilt branded across my face.
He calls out to the other guards, his voice sharp and demanding but muddled with the music. I didn’t hear what he said.
My knees threaten to give out, but I force myself to keep singing, the music scraping against my throat. My gaze is frozen on the indentations from the wagon’s wheels in the hard snow. The guard walks through the wheel tracks and points ahead of him. “That one,” he shouts.
I want to scream, run, pull their attention back to me and away from her. The honey in my pocket weighs my chest down, a reminder of Ella’s sacrifice. The guard’s focus on the square of fabric hasn’t wavered. I know he’s going to find out where it came from, one way or another. That’s what they do. Anything they find that shouldn’t be here—it tells a story, it rats someone out, it’s the demise of someone’s life regardless of how insignificant the meaning of the item is—even a scrap of fabric that could have simply belonged to someone whose ashes are rising into the sky at this very moment… Except, it didn’t.
FORTY-NINE
ELLA
My heart thumps inside my chest. Luka has the honey he needs. He’s alive. I’m alive. That’s all that matters. Except, the guard behind us is now shouting at me. I haven’t turned around, afraid to catch his eye. What if he saw me drop the jar, or Luka pick it up? It all happened so fast.
Tatiana switched scarves with me since hers has a distinct pattern and mine is plain black. She also let me borrow her Sonderkommando armband, denoting certain prisoners’ access to the gas chambers to remove gold teeth, hair, and prosthetic limbs from the bodies before they’re taken to the crematorium. The thought of this job would normally be enough for me to stay away from switching roles, but my desperation to see Luka and make sure he received the honey is all I care about. I don’t know if the honey will help, but it’s something more than what he has. He was so pale and thin, his body hunched forward as if he’s carrying something heavy on his back. I may look just as bad… But even if it doesn’t help him physically, it could be the boost to his spirits that he needs, and that means everything.
The fabric of my smock scrapes against my back as I’m jerked backward. “You,” a guard seethes in my ear. “Is this yours?”
His spit splatters along my face, but I tell myself it’s mist from the sky, so I don’t budge or blink. He holds a piece of fabric up in front of my face. “Is it?”
It is mine. I must have dropped it when walking away from Luka. My muscles tense and my grip tightens around the wagon’s wooden pull-handle. “What is it?” I ask, nausea rising in my stomach.
“What does it look like?” He holds it closer to my face, nearly pressing it to my nose.
“It’s not mine,” I say, forcing each word out without a change of inflection.
He drops his hand, slapping it against his side. “I see,” he says, clawing his hand around my arm to inspect the Sonderkommando armband that doesn’t belong to me. “Go.” He points to the back door of the gas chamber. “Do your work first.”
He steps away and his words ring through my head over and over, the threat of punishment to follow the cruel labor I’m about to endure—the labor Tatiana endures daily. He didn’t look for my number. He didn’t write it down. Will he remember me by my pale face that looks like every other female I work alongside?
I catch up to the other two wagons, stepping inside the gas chamber for the first time. I wasn’t sure what to expect or what it might look like inside. I’ve been wondering if the other prisoners still think they’re getting a shower once in here, or if they know something else is about to happen once the doors close on them. Or is it not until they fall from the fumes poisoning them that they realize they’ve been sent into a trap?
The two other women with me line their wagons up just outside the door and pull their scarves down over their noses. I do the same.
I turn away from the overwhelming stench that smacks me in the face. Even with a scarf covering most of my face, it’s worsethan the filth I live in. Much worse. A sharp, bittersweet, nutty smell mixed with body fluids, sweat, and rot. You might easily believe they were leaving the deceased bodies in here for weeks with the level of smell, but that isn’t the case. I taste the odor, and it seeps down my throat and shrouds my stomach, forcing my throat to constrict.I can’t allow myself to become sick in here. Someone who does this day in and day out would be numb to their surroundings.
I must get this done with. I force my eyes back open, finding the rectangular chamber sprawled out before me and much larger than it appears from the outside. The walls are white-washed brick, covered with fingernail scratches—the markings outlined with dry blood. There are no windows, only iron caged lights along the ceiling which offer little visibility.
I’m wasting time as I fight against looking down to the ground where the massacre lies. I take in a lungful of potent air and hold it until I become dizzy. The concrete floor is covered with dead bodies, most people having fallen into piles beneath the ceiling vents. They must have thought the water would be coming in that way. There are children’s limbs poking out beneath their naked mothers’ bodies. My breaths are erratic and short. I’m lightheaded and my stomach pinches painfully.
“What are you waiting for?” one of the other girls whispers to me, knowing we’re being watched, though we can’t see from where. I bow my head, taking in another trembling breath. “You get the children. We’ll lift the adults.”
“I thought we were supposed to retrieve hair, teeth, and—” the hushed words stick to my tongue as I struggle to comprehend what we’re doing.
“We bring the bodies to the workroom next to the crematorium first.” The girl’s words come out quickly and while she’s moving around, reaching for arms to pull—a reminder not to be caught standing still in here.
