My breathing grows heavier, and I think he’s noticed as he’s glanced over a few times now. The open space tightens quickly as a wooded area unfolds over a shallow hill.
He turns down a narrow side street with old houses, broken fences, shattered cobblestone. More desolation.
Two more streets pass, just as bleak, before we turn onto a well-groomed road with larger, modern houses. Tall oaks for privacy—because we’re minutes from Auschwitz.
The car comes to a slow halt in front of a two-story house. “Wait here,” he says.
THREE
GAVRIEL
July 15, 1943
The relentless rainstorm from late last night flooded the dirt roads between the rows of wooden stables we call barracks. The sky hangs low with heavy cloud cover, and the spotlights are still on—scanning, flickering—highlighting the swarm of trilling insects overhead.
The mud is like tar, sticky like hands clinging to the soles of my warped boots, threatening to drag me under with each step. Guards linger at every intersecting corner, rifles slung low, angry dogs at their sides, watching as we limp from point A to B while hungry, exhausted, and barely alive. There’s no choice but to keep up with the man in front of me. One misstep or being too slow could result in a consequence, depending on who sees it happen.
I begin each morning already sore, muscles as stiff as steel from the previous day’s labor, waiting in one of two short lines at the front entrance of the labor barracks for an SS escort to bring us to our job site.
The path through the woods is worse. Fallen pine needles mask the slickness beneath, each step a hazard. By the time we reach Pelizy Road, I’m already drained. The houses here mock us with their affluence. Two-story whitewashed structures with red-tiled roofs, framed in polished walnut and trimmed emerald hedges.
Six of us prisoners are assigned to these homes. I work at the Schäfer house because Officer Schäfer is the one who took notice of my handiwork when building a crematorium. Adam, my only friend left in this world, tends to the garden and landscape out back, keeping the flowers alive better than we’re being kept alive. Kasia scrubs and cooks inside. And I sweat in the attic, building a storage room for the Frau’s nonsense. An attic for valuables when most of Poland has nothing.
The kapo Oskar is short, shaped like a bulldog and always scowling, and all he does is hover all day. He rotates between houses throughout the day, but when he’s not around, the female kapo acts on his behalf and is just as cruel.
From the skeletal frame of rafters and beams, I hear the sound of crackling rubble and the sputter of Officer Schäfer’s car. Since I’ve been assigned to work here, he hasn’t been home at this hour. I shield my hand over my eyes to block out the sun, watching him step out of his car with haste. His boots clap against the stone pavers, curt, urgent steps. The front door slams, and I wipe the sweat from my brow.
On the street, a boy, maybe nine or ten, studies Schäfer’s dark car. His hair is too light, but his posture and curiosity…He looks like Natan at that age.
My youngest brother and the spark in our family—Ma thought Natan could do no wrong. Pa always kept one eye on him. Mischief was his mission, but no one made us laugh like Natan. Every dinner, we ended up clutching our stomachs, laughing at a story or joke Natan had saved up.
Even the last night in the ghetto, it felt like nothing could touch us.
Until something did.
“I saw a chicken today,” Natan says with a mouthful of bread.
“Where?” Ma asks, smiling.
“It was running wild right through the square like it knew it had ended up in the ghetto. Next thing I know, half the people on the block were chasing it.”
“Oh really, and who won this chase?” Pa asks, an eyebrow raised.
Natan waits a moment, his grin unfurling devilishly. “The hen. It was a real peep show!”
I nearly choke on my bread as laughter bursts out of us all. Jozek claps his hand down against the table, the ceramic mugs clattering against our plates. A ruckus. That’s what we are.
Pa moves to the window and pulls back the lace drapes Ma hung to remind us of home. A darkness pools over Pa’s face as he waves a hand at us. “Quiet down,” he says.
As the aftershock snickers from Natan, Jozek, and me die down, a rumble of marching boots and shouts echoes between the tenement walls. The two families we live with pour into the central room we share, the only space with a small table for meals. I glance at my brothers, both pale with wide eyes.
Natan is shivering with fear.
Marching boots thunder outside. Coming closer by the second. “Grab your suitcase,” Ma whispers.
The knock comes with fury.
“Papers. Have your papers out,” Pa tells everyone, preparing to face the evil lurking behind the thin slab of wood.
