Everyone deserves a chance to live before they die. Those words…those words—I might never forget.
I press my palm against the stair rail, feeling the cool touch of the polished wood.Breathe.Walk. Breathe. Walk.
And then I forget all the places I’m supposed to go.
SEVEN
ROSALIE
MONOWITZ (AUSCHWITZ III)
Present Day: January 25, 1944
Most days, the selection process blurs into the routine of morning or evening roll call where someone too weak to stand is shot without hesitation—those decisions are not based on an opinion of “fit” or “unfit.” Yet, on days like today, lorry trucks line up outside the barbed wire fence, ready to cart away the mass of “unfit” men.
Weyman approaches, stepping in closer than necessary with a clipboard in hand. He touches it to my chest, making a show of his stare skating between the clipboard to my eyes. “These are the ones you’ll inspect today,” he says.
Rage rises from my stomach, not just at his proximity but knowing there’s another list of prisoners that need to be reinspected, then recategorized intostill“fit”ornow“unfit”for labor.
For the last month, he’s dragged me around in his shadow to various sections of the camp to perform these ungodly inspections. I don’t know why he wants me by his side—to makedecisions for him when he’s clearly capable. Why punish me more than he already has?
The people they need most go through the rigorous selections to ensure they continue to keep only the most qualified people laboring for them. Anyone they deem useless is sent to their death.
“Work has slowed,” a kapo reports to Weyman. “We’re running at two-thirds capacity.”
That means a third of these men need to be marked as “unfit.” Replaceable.
We haven’t been to this corner of Monowitz since I last marked Stefan “fit” over a month ago. I haven’t seen him since then.
A prisoner trips while trudging into the front row.
The thump of bone against the frozen ground captures the guard’s attention as if they sense danger, when truly, they’re the threat to the rest of us. A guard lifts his rifle, one eye squinting, the trigger parallel to his nose. What does he see through his sights? Does he see what I see? An innocent man who has simply tripped.
“Don’t shoot,” Weyman says, his words sharp but indifferent as he shifts his focus toward me.
“He’s down, Herr Obersturmführer, ‘unfit,’” the guard replies.
“That’s forherto decide,” Weyman says, narrowing his eyes at me for a long lingering minute that makes my skin crawl.
The guard lowers his weapon, but my pulse doesn’t slow. I take steps closer to rows of men—closer to the one who knows better than to stand back up from his fall. His head hangs forward. I can just see his lips, parted and blue, breath fogging in the cold air. His sleeve torn at the seam, dry blood crusting along several gashes near his gaunt elbow, and his prisoner number visible on the left of his arm.
My eyes zero in on the tattoo as my heart thuds in my chest.
I memorized that number. The digits float through my head at night.
Not again.Not like this.
It’s Stefan—or what’s left of him.
The month since I last saw him has whittled his already weakened body to skin and bone.
“Evaluate him,” Weyman says, his voice curt with a hint of contempt.
My shadow casts over Stefan’s bowing back and he peers up at me through wet lashes. “Rosalie,” he utters through a breath.
“Don’t speak,” I beg through a whisper. “Please.”
Does he understand why I’m saying this?
