“It’s been my pleasure. I assure you.”
The moment lingers like a beautiful note, one I wish I could hold on to.
Then a shout in the distance, a reminder of where we are—who we are—brings us back to the dusty attic. “I’ve seen horrors before, but this place…it’s something out of a nightmare. That man, he terrifies me. I don’t know what he’s capable of. Or, I guess, I do, and that’s the worst part.”
I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, cupping her arms in my hands. “You’ve already endured more than most. You’re still here. That strength, it matters.”
“Is this what it’s like there? In Auschwitz?”
I swallow hard, unsure how much truth to give her. “Worse. Much worse. I consider us lucky to be here during the daytime hours.”
She drops her gaze as if ashamed. “I’m sorry—of course it is. I—can’t believe I once thought I had a hard life just because my parents gave me away. I grew up not knowing where I belonged in this world, and I thought that was pain. “I was foolish to think that way.”
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” I say, the words aching from the bottom of my heart. “You didn’t deserve to grow up that way. The pain we speak of…it isn’t comparable.” I have a family I know and love. I don’t have to question where I came from. I’ll always know, no matter how we finally end up.
To not know…That’s very different.
She lifts her eyes, finding mine again, but this time with a sense of affinity as if it isn’t the pain we’re comparing, but instead, the understanding of loneliness.
“I won’t let that man hurt those girls,” she proclaims. “I must find a way to stop Frau Schäfer from harming her baby.”
Terror trickles down my spine at her sentiment. “You can’t fight them. That isn’t how we survive. We have to find a way to squeeze between the rules without leaving a trace. Really, we can only outsmart them if we never step out of line.”
Her eyes grow round with question, almost as if waiting for me to say something more, something different. But there’s no other advice to give.
She turns toward the door but hesitates. “Do you have a family? Are you married?”
“I had a family. I hope I still do. Married? No.”
A small smile curls into her lips. “I haven’t had the chance to live a real life yet. But someday…if we’re set free, I want to live without rules, love who I want, and to have something no one can take from me. That’s what I’m holding on to. Just a dream.”
My chest aches at her words. It aches for her.
“I think that’s worth fighting for,” I tell her.
FIFTEEN
HALINA
The bloodied uniform slips off my shoulders before I even leave the construction space of the attic. I keep my eyes on Gavriel, plodding backward through the construction space. He stands, framed by raw lumber, his arms folded, stance steady. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing corded forearms, each marked with small cuts and smudges of dirt. Sweat beads along his temple, two drops trailing down the curve of his cheek. My heart pounds, almost recklessly. He’s captivating in a way I can’t quite explain. Like ancient architecture, weathered by battle, built to endure.
With each step I take down the stairs to where Frau Schäfer and the girls are waiting for me to return, the heavy fabric shifts like a thick potato sack rather than a smock dress. I’m no better or different than any person wearing one of these uniforms every day. Flora’s cries grow louder by the second. Frau Schäfer might be wondering why her morning bottle hasn’t quieted her down.
“Who was it you were speaking to up there?” Frau Schäfer asks, standing at the bottom of the main stairwell with her arms crossed over her chest.
“I wasn’t speaking to anyone. Perhaps you heard me talking to myself,” I reply. I don’t care what she thinks. I’ve been awakewith Marlene all night, have cleaned up several puddles of vomit, and now must find a way to clean my personal clothes without using anything that belongs to this household.
“That uniform is filthy,” she says.
“So are my clothes,” I reply.
“Come, Halina,” Frau Schäfer says, turning on her heels away from the stairwell. Too many responses percolate on my tongue, words she should hear. Instead, I obediently follow her into the kitchen, spotting the girls at the far end in their small play area, Flora crying from her cradle, her hands gripped along the sides, trying to pull herself up to see what everyone else is doing, and the kitchen prisoner standing guard over the three.
A knot forms in my stomach and my breaths constrict as she reaches for the tincture of chamomile. “Do you know what this is used for?”
“There was no comment with reason in the rule booklet for why I should add chamomile to Flora’s bottle. So, no.”
“Don’t be wise,” she retorts.
