The door to the barrack swings open before we reach it. Two kapos step out, dragging a body by its a lifeless pale wrist as if it’s nothing but a wet sack of sand.
I don’t look. I can’t.
But the sound—bones scraping over dirt and stone paints the image anyway.
I’ve seen too many people like him. I’m afraid I’ll recognize him. Afraid I’ll start guessing how he died? Was he in his mid-twenties like me? Tortured? Sick with something we’ll all catch next? Maybe he just gave out. Maybe his body stopped fighting. Then it hits me, someone could be the thinking the same thing about Pa or my brothers at this very moment. And I can’t let myself go there.
Stepping inside the barrack, the familiar odor of death lingers in the air, a sour stench of a person who has been lying dead, unnoticed for too long in the sweltering heat of this enclosure today.
“Another one gone,” Adam says as he closes the door behind us. “What do you think he did?”
Adam thinks people are only killed here if they break rules or try to escape. He thinks the infirmary helps prisoners and convinces himself they’ve been sent to a different barrack after they’re well again.
There’s no blood.
He was sick.
“I don’t think he did anything wrong,” I respond, letting Adam piece the rest together how he sees fit.
Coughs and groans smother the silence, but the piercing wail of a baby is the only sound swimming through my head, and the look in Halina’s eyes, raw with desperation, as she sinks deeper into the cruel reality of the life’s she’s been forced into.
EIGHT
HALINA
July 19, 1943
A train in the distance cries out for help as I retreat from my duties of the fourth day in this house after finally getting Flora to sleep. All I can say is I’ve at least figured out which of the attic stairs distort beneath my feet, threatening to snap with a growling moan. Every third step, I skip. So long as the train doesn’t wake the baby, she’ll stay asleep.
The moment I shut myself into the—my—dim moonlit attic bedroom, I slide down against the back of the door, still defeated and overwhelmed. “It hasn’t even been a week,” I utter, trying to reassure myself that I’ll get used to this trapped new life. I’m not sure any amount of convincing will work.
Frau Schäfer insisted on making Flora’s bottles ever since I prepared one my first day here. That changed this afternoon because she was too distracted. She regretted it quickly. I forgot to add the three drops of so-called-chamomile. Maybe it isn’t my place to question how they raise their children. I’m here to follow orders.
I’m also here to do what I can to keep these children from becoming the next generation of cruelty. No good comes from poisoning a baby. I won’t be a part of that. If they can lace their infant’s milk without guilt, what hope is left for any of them? They deserve more. A chance to be good.
Despite that, Frau Schäfer hasn’t even mentioned what she suspects might be wrong with Flora. I wonder how long they’ve been giving this poor thing bourbon in her bottle? She could be dependent on it now. Maybe that’s why she’s been crying so hard. Which came first? The issue with her nerves causing pain and tears, or the bourbon? I’ve seen enough cruelty to children in the orphanage throughout my life, but for a woman carrying her fourth child, she doesn’t appear fit to have the first three.
With the door closed, the heat swells quickly and I pull myself up to see if I can crack the window above my bed. The hinges are rusty, but I manage to shove it open enough for the air to move. I fold the quilt back, and slouch into the lumpy bed. The branches scrape against the windowpane, the hum of a conversation carries through the floorboards, and a dog is barking down the street. I’ve yet to notice a bird chirp or even a buzzing bee, and never a gentle breeze. Even nature hates it here.
I curl up on my side, my face pressing against the thin pillow, taking in a potent odor of oil and sweat. A scamper of tiny claws grasps my attention—a gray mouse makes its way from one hole along the floor to another. I would be hiding too if I could.
My unblinking stare catches on my small suitcase and I take it back to the bed with me. The clasps clack as I lift the top. The scent of lavender from a dry flower left in the pocket comforts me as I pull out my stuffed bear and folktale book.
The book has always been a mystery to me. I’ve lain awake through many long nights wondering about its intendedpurpose. Why leave me with that? To read for joy, or find a meaning?
On the other hand, the stuffed bear has brought me unconditional comfort. I slept with it pinched beneath my arm every night until I was twelve. But after I failed to find any information about my parents, I decided I didn’t need the bear’s comfort anymore. It joined the folktale book in my lone suitcase beneath my bed, banished along with the childish fantasies that I would someday find my parents again.
“It’s time,” I whisper to Lulek, my trusty stuffed bear. I snatch my folktale book from beneath my mattress and roll off the bed, careful not to make a sound. The other girls in the eleven-to-twelve-year-old room will wake up and ask questions. None of us manage to keep many of our thoughts to ourselves here, but I didn’t want anyone to know about my plan.
I tiptoe around each creaking board as I make my way down the narrow stairwell and around the side of the building toward the main door we go in and out of. A lantern flickers against the chalkboard, still showing Monday’s routine even though it’s Wednesday. Next to the chalkboard are a line of coat hooks, each with name tags pinned above. I’ve always had the third hook from the right. I take my coat and scarf and quickly drape them over my shoulders. The door is in sight, and so is my chance to slip outside.
The lock grinds unless I lift the panel just right…something I’ve nearly perfected. Outside, the air is bitter. Winter still has a grip on us. It might never let us go.
My feet crunch against the icy snow, the crackle booming between the trees. This is why my attempts never work. Something always gives me away.
Still, I make it into the woods and begin counting my steps so I don’t get lost. I should make it to the library by morning.
My body shivers, the cold eating right through my coat and scarf, making it hard to move my legs. I have to keep going. It’s the only way I might learn something about my parents, or where they might be. The dream is within reach. I’ll never give up trying to find something.
