“I assume Rosalie has already told you about her mother,” Papa says.
I try to look away from Stefan’s long unbreaking stare to reply to Papa, but I find myself studying Stefan’s eyes, the dilation in his pupils.
Then he blinks. “No, sir, she didn’t mention…her mother,” he says, blinking again before shifting his focus to me.
I shove the prongs of my fork into the pie and take a giant chunk to fill my mouth.
“She died, giving birth to my youngest daughter. Rosalie was only eight. I should have been home. Should have. Would have if the clock?—”
“Hadn’t stopped,” Stefan finishes his sentence.
“Exactly.”
My throat tightens around the bite of pie, not going down as smoothly as it should.
“The people in this city should be grateful for all that you do,” Stefan tells Papa.
It’s a thankless job that Papa can’t live without.
“The clock, the time, it isn’t about me. It’s about the people.”
“How so?” Stefan presses.
“Time can stop if no one knows how easy it is to run out of…” Papa takes a forkful of pie and holds it up to his mouth. “That’s why I keep it running—for those fighting for the chance to live.”
NINE
STEFAN
MONOWITZ (AUSCHWITZ III)
Present Day: March 4, 1944
I haven’t seen Rosalie in over a month, since the last time she marked me as “fit” during selections—a label no one else would have rightfully given me. Someone might know that. They could have punished her. For me.
I stare at the man with the shovel, his bony arms, pale gray skin, sunken eyes, red cheeks, and matching uniform. Fumes emit from his body. I clench my fists around the iron bar, waiting for the man with the shovel to dig up the metal scraps and dump them into the funnel. He’s out of rhythm.
He shovels.
I clamp the press.
He shovels.
I clamp the press.
Ten hours could have passed, or maybe a mere two since we walked through the factory doors this morning. Every minute stretches like an eternity. My stomach clenches with pain, groans and cries for food. The little I receive barely keeps meupright. My muscles cramp and my body aches with every thrust of my arms.
He shovels.
I clamp the press.
The burning smell of rubber sticks to the inside of my nostrils and the sides of my tongue. There are always fumes. My lungs must be cloaked in whatever I’m inhaling.
He shov…
I clamp the metal pressout of habit.
He didn’t shovel.
