“Help me find her. Help me. Please,” I beg.
“I’ve been looking,” Bea responds. “Daily for the last two weeks you’ve been here. Or is it ten days?” She shakes her head. “No matter—we’re still at war.”
Two weeks.Impossible.
Unless this is what keeps happening, over and over. Living through flashes of dreams between blinks. Hearing Rosalie speak through them.Is that possible?
Rudolf’s dog tags catch a reflection of dull golden light.
“You’re a soldier?” I ask, the words thick in my throat.
“Was. The Great War.” His response, stilted. “Too old for this one, and those sick bastards.”
“Rudy—” Bea snaps.
“What? They are bastards.”
“What about the others?” I plead. “The Jewish people. I’m Jewish. My family. They want us all dead. Don’t they?—”
Rudolf’s jaw tenses. “The Germans of the Reich, yes. The Soviets are pushing through now, but they could be worse. You understand?”
I don’t understand anything. The room sways. His chains clink. Rosalie’s whisper trickles between my ears.
“But they want to push the Germans out, don’t they?”
“Yes. That is true but they are not our allies.”
“I—I’ll take my chances. I’m grateful for you—uh—taking me in here, but I?—”
“It isn’t safe,” Bea presses. “And we need to find you a doctor.” Her tone is stern, commanding…as if I don’t have a choice. Like with that doctor.
Maybe she wants to help. Or maybe she means more experiments.
“I don’t want to…” I argue.
Bea’s voice softens, the words warping into Rosalie’s. “You have nothing to hide, Stefan.”
FORTY-FOUR
ROSALIE
SANOK, POLAND
Present Day: June 1, 1945
The cottage I grew up in along the wooded outskirts of Sanok was abandoned. I don’t know when. I don’t know what else these walls have seen, but they experienced the beginning and end of life both at the same time alongside me. And they look just as I remember.Outside, ivy has grown around the structure like a protective glove, camouflaging a home against the earth.
My journey home from Maja’s village took weeks. Weeks of doubt. Weeks of hope. Weeks of exhaustion, desperation, and fear of the unknown.
Maja pressed a loaf of bread into my hands and kissed my forehead. “The roads are not safe, not by any measure. Stay by the edge of the woods when possible. If you face a soldier, don’t say a word.” She yanked the reins of her horse and circled around me to return to where she came. I knew it was the last time I’d see her.
Along the road, I passed strangers in torn clothing with hope-starved eyes and concave stomachs, some clutching bundles of fabric, others with their hands hanging heavily by their side. Inthe days following Germany’s defeat, soldiers passed by, acting as though they were being pulled somewhere by rope.
I hid in a barn, praying the farmer wouldn’t find me in the morning. I bartered away my scarf for some crumbs of bread. By foot and by stowaway on cargo trains, I traveled through dozens of villages, fields of untouched pasture, between mountains and above valleys, across rivers, and alongside streams.
I questioned if I could make it back to Sanok. Then I remembered I questioned if I would survive living along the outskirts of Auschwitz. I risked my life too many times to still be alive, which leaves me in a constant state of wonder—a need to understand my purpose in life.
Is it to live alone for my eternity?
