“We should go with them,” I tell Tatiana.
She stares at me with wide eyes, unblinking, unsure. Still, I reach for the soldier’s hand, and he carefully pulls me out of the hole first and places me down against a light post. The other soldier with him helps Tatiana out and sits her by my side. “The Germans ran when we arrived. We’re going to do all we can to help you and the others still here. You can trust us.”
I look into the man’s eyes, telling myself I need to see a hint of trust before I can believe the word.
He stares back at me, and I notice the struggle in his throat as he swallows. He’s human, like me and Tatiana. I can see the pain in his eyes. He’s likely already seen too much today from what he’s walked in on here.
“Will you help me find someone?” My voice squeaks above a whisper. I don’t even know if Luka is still alive, never mind here in Birkenau still, but I must ask. I need to know.
“Of course. We want to help all of you. We have aid to offer and food.”
“Is it over?” Tatiana asks, her voice soft and hesitant.
“Almost. Almost.”
FIFTY-TWO
LUKA
February 1945
Unknown Location
My eyes are heavy and burn against the bright light above me. I try to blink, but the ache makes it hard to fight through. I rest for another minute before trying again. This time, my eyes open enough to make out a blurry image of a wall. With hesitation, I peer down at my legs, finding a sheet over them. The hazy view of my hands resting on my stomach is clearer than the wall and my legs, but unfamiliar all the same. Blurs of motion move between my feet and the walls, and I can’t turn my head to see who or what is passing by.
“Good morning,” a woman says, lifting my arm as if it belongs to her instead of me. “Can you tell me your name?” Her accent is thick and hard to understand. I’ve never seen her before. She has short black hair and a round face. “Your name?” she repeats. I open my mouth to speak, but a film of phlegm prevents sound from forming. Even if I could speak, I wouldn’t know what to say. “It’ll come back to you in a few minutes. It always does.”
The confusion of where I am and who this woman is sucks the wind out of me. “Where am I?” I force out, my words only floating on air. “Who are you?”
“Let’s help you remember whoyouare first,” the woman says. “You’ll remember, don’t worry.”
My stiff neck makes it hard to twist my head in either direction, but I spot a row of beds, which doesn’t help me piece together anything more now. “I don’t?—”
The woman’s unwavering expression relaxes as she pulls a wooden chair away from the wall and up to my side. She touches her hand to my arm, and I don’t like the sensation, which makes me flinch. She moves her hand and nods her head. “You are safe now. That is what’s most important.”
Safe? What does that mean? I continue to look at her as my eyes focus more clearly. I notice lines on the sides of her eyes, curving downward like a frown, but she maintains a tight-lipped smile. My chest muscles tense despite the friendly nature of this woman, but she isn’t making any sense. “Who am I safe from?”
Again, my throat produces very little sound other than a rasp, despite my effort to speak up. A burn radiates down my neck, forcing me to clutch the fabric covering my body. The woman reaches to her side and brings back a metal cup, edging it closer to my face. I don’t move away from the cup, but peer inside as she pushes it close enough to touch with my lips. The cool sensation against my mouth is followed by a gentle swig of water rushing over my tongue, instantly soothing the raw dryness in my mouth and throat. I swallow, but not without effort, which doesn’t feel right—as if I’ve forgotten how.
“Take your time,” the woman says. “Disorientation is common. You’ve been through a lot.”
My mind spins in circles but won’t stop to grasp onto any solid thought or memory. “What have I been through?” Thesequestions come out on their own even though I don’t want to ask her anything.
Her brows knit together as if she’s the one who doesn’t understand what’s happening right now. “We’ll talk about that soon. Let’s focus on getting stronger first.”
Her refusal to give me answers sends frustration shooting through me. I blink a few times, trying to see through the foggy darkness inside of my head, searching for the answers on my own. Flashes of images come and go, but so fast and unsteady that it’s hard to put anything together aside from the shape of faces, or a field of snow, cold air, a tannic smell that gnaws at my stomach.
“Why can’t I remember anything?” I ask, my voice breaking, sound piercing through my panic.
The woman takes in a deep breath then drops her shoulders. “When a person goes through an immense amount of trauma, the mind will find ways to protect itself to allow time for healing.”
Trauma. She keeps saying different words that only scare me more, rather than clarifying anything. The way she says the word “trauma” makes my head heavy, like it’s full of water swishing back and forth. I clench my fists and slide them up higher on my chest, finding red lines across my knuckles and white scars over the top of my hands. These aren’t my hands. They can’t be. I haven’t done anything to injure myself. Or is that why I’m here?
I focus on her face harder now, trying to hold my eyes steady to look at hers. “Tell me the truth. Tell me exactly where I am right now.”
A sigh expels from her throat, and she glances to her side for a moment. “This doesn’t get any easier,” she mutters.
“I don’t understand,” I follow.
