I drop the tin scoop into the can and lift the card to get a closer look. “It’s a prisoner intake card,” I say, studying it further.
ABRAMOWICZ, BETTINA.
Born 03.01.1919 – Katowice, Poland
Polish | Widowed | Mother | Jewish
Accompanied Children:
Flora Abramowicz (Two weeks old on arrival)
Transport RS-239/xx|Arr. Auschwitz: 14.09.1942
Assigned No. 4562—(Bettina)
Infant, Flora: blonde hair, blue eyes — placed in medical quarantine, unnumbered.
Noted: Mother restrained at intake due to distress
[KONZENTRATIONSLAGER AUSCHWITZ]
I place the can down at my side, my eyes blurring over the typed information.
“What is it?” Halina asks. “May I see?”
I pinch my lips together and stare down at Flora, still plucking at the pocket of Halina’s apron. “This is Flora’s mother,” I whisper, pressing the card to my heart. “Bettina Abramowicz. She came with a two-week-old daughter—Flora. Then they were separated. It’s all here in black and white. Flora isn’t the Schäfers’ child, Hali. She was stolen. And Ada kept the proof.” The picture of the woman on the top left—she has Flora’s eyes and heart-shaped lips.
FORTY-TWO
HALINA
“You know, when you’ve lived in this house for as long as I have, you know which stairs creak and which don’t,” Ada says, clomping heavily into the unfinished attic room.
Her appearance in the doorway has grabbed a hold of my heart and is choking me with it. Why am I afraid? Why does she think she has something on me when I’m the one who can ruin her entire life with less than a few words?
“Ada,” I say, keeping my voice calm, unaffected. “What are you doing up here?” She might be looking for Flora, her stolen child. Stolen. This poor baby girl. Her mother might still be alive and she’s without her. She’s been without her all this time. Ada is cold and unloving, or does a good job of appearing that way, and all a baby needs is unconditional love. Maybe that’s why she’s done nothing more than cry, until recently anyway.
“Why do you have my daughter up here with a—” she stares at Gavriel and age lines pucker across her forehead, the sides of her mouth sag as if an uncontrolled reflex. “Good God, what happened to you?”
Her daughter. My God. She’s lost all her marbles if she still thinks I could believe Flora belongs to her.
And then to act as though she’s clueless about what happened to Gavriel…She knows he’s been gone for two weeks. What does she think happened to him?
“Your husband,” Gavriel replies. “He had a hand.”
Ada knows what Heinrich does. A look of surprise won’t do her any good. She spots the empty can of food next to him and panic is still driving through me. I’m playing a dangerous game with her and she could change everything in a matter of seconds in ways I can’t imagine.
“I took that can of food, so if you need to shoot someone, shoot me,” I say, directly, staring her right in the eyes. If there’s anything I’ve learned throughout my life, it’s to make direct eye contact with whoever I’m afraid of. It will take a sliver of their strength away, not much, but enough to make me feel like I have some control.
“Shoot you,” she scoffs. “I don’t handle weapons, dear. That’s my husband’s job.”
“Well, tell him to shoot me then. Either way, my blood will be on your hands.”
“Halina,” Gavriel grumbles.
“I should have figured there was something going on between the two of you—I’m not sure what you see in him, or what you see in—her,” she says glaring at me.
“Ada, let’s stop the games. I need to pick up the girls from school, and while I’m gone, I need you to come up with a definitive escape plan. A real plan. Not a maybe-later plan.”
