“There were a few in the toolkit in the attic,” I say, sounding as if it shouldn’t come as a surprise even though I came up with this answer earlier in case questioned. Regardless, injuries are common in construction. He doesn’t need to know about the iodine or alcohol.
“It’s a nick from the saw. I’m fine.”
Oskar glares at me for a long moment, not with concern, but with judgment as if he’s filing this acknowledgement away for a later time. “You’ll go to the infirmary when we return. They’ll decide.” The silence that follows his statement can either be deadly or a mere escape from death. I don’t know which of the two.
The walk is a blur. The gates to Auschwitz are darker than night, and just as we cross the threshold into hell, Oskar yanks me out of the line and throws me to the ground, pain radiating through my arm upon impact. The impact against my back knocks the wind out of my lungs and flickers of light flash in front of my eyes.
“Get up!” the scream bellows in German, the echo ringing between my ears.
A flash of Adam’s face with a bullet hole in his head is all I can see. A friend who became as close as a person can get to a brother. Gone without warning. Someone grabs my collar and drags me, nearly strangling the life out of me. The backs of my boots catch on every rock and pit in the gravel. I can’t talk. I can’t ask questions. I don’t know where they’re taking me. I just want air to breathe.
Is someone taking me to the infirmary? Or does this have something to do with Adam? The decision seemed to be pre-planned. They needed someone to help carry Adam’s body back. Now they’re going to get rid of me too. I did take food. I did know Bea was missing, but I didn’t know where she was. I took a weapon too. I know too much.
It doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do. They don’t need a real reason here. They only need fear. And right now, it’s clear they’re fearful of us becoming traitors like the ones of Treblinka. I’ll never know why Adam was the spark that set them off, but by the dark entrance I’m being dragged into, I have a feeling I’m their next example.
A metal door opens. Then another. The temperature rises. The air becomes wet, sticky, and reeks of death. I can’t see anything around me or make out where I am. It’s so dark. Finally, I’m back on my feet for less than a second before two hands shove against my ribcage, pushing me into a group of people. Another metal door slams. This time in my face. I can’t move. There are too many people around me.
“Don’t even try to sit,” someone grumbles. “You’ll be dead within the hour. Welcome to a new form of hell—the prison inside of the prison.”
THIRTY-SIX
HALINA
The tension between Ada and Heinrich has been palpable since he arrived home from his hours at Auschwitz, but as usual she’s ushered her husband to the dinner table, with what appears to be hope that food would resolve his irrational anger.
Despite a mouthful of food, he’s still demanding answers from Ada.
“Have you found the key to my office?” he growls.
“I already told you I hadn’t. We’ll find it, though,” she assures him.
“And your private study, did you find out why that room was unlocked as well?”
“I told you I must have forgotten to lock it the last time I walked out,” she says, trying to keep her voice calm, unafflicted by his growing rage.
“This is nonsense, Ada. You know very well those prisoners are stealing from us. Do you know what will happen if my commandant finds out that I allowed that to happen here in my own home?”
“Heinrich, you’re being irrational. You’re hungry, that’s all. No one is stealing from us, dear,” she argues as if he’s being foolish. They deserve to be stolen from. I don’t see what’s soabsurd about his assumptions, but I find it interesting that she’s evading his accusations.
Heinrich scoffs and smirks then shoves himself away from the kitchen table. “Forget it.” Heinrich drops his fork to his plate, the metal pinging against the hanging light. “I’ll handle this myself, to cover for your indiscretions.”
Handle this…What does he mean?
Heinrich storms out the door, into the yard. Ada’s hand touches her lips, her eyes wide and unblinking. I can read the cues, the signs, the premonition.
There are claws around my neck, nails piercing through my skin, and fire breathing down my spine.
A gunshot.
Gavriel. He just passed through the kitchen.
My breath stops. I can’t move. I can’t even blink.
The house is trembling, the blast still shivering through the walls and my bones.
Who did Heinrich see? Who is he accusing? My mind spins like the blades of a windmill in a storm. I can’t hold onto one solid thought. Except—Please, not Gavriel. Please, not him.
I strain to listen. For anything, a voice, a cry, a call for help. But there’s nothing. Just stark silence as if the world is covered in a heavy blanket. It’s the kind of silence that follows death.
