A symphony of uneven breaths, shallow and hard, wavering and weak is all I hear as I approach the rows of men. I’m not dressed like them, but not like the officers either. My black servant dress is too tight, thin, and a poor fit, leaving me cold with splotchy knuckles. Even my twisted knot of hair hangs heavy with frost. I hope they realize I’m not part of the Reich, not here by choice. Even so, they will take their final breaths convinced I chose their deaths.
Down the line, man after man, sunken cheeks, sharp collarbones, gray skin—but they’re all quiet and still, making this a good day with so many men meeting the criteria to continue laboring.
I weave around to the next row, stepping in front of the first man, feeling small, despite their stooped form. My body stiffens when I spot a man from the corner of my eye. He’s swaying, rolling back and forth over the balls of his feet. The movement is subtle, but a clear sign of degradation. I swallow against the burden of marking someone as “unfit.”
The man in front of me is still, eyes wide, quick breaths, and appears distraught. But he’s “fit” to continue. I move down the line to the next man—he’s shorter than most of the others, close to my eye level. He’s young, but old enough to work. His eyes bulge with fear, and I wish I could tell him everything will be all right.
The rattle of a congested lung strikes from the direction I’m moving—the same unsteady man I noticed before. His chest shudders with every inhale. Officer Weyman would mark him “unfit” without hesitation. I just wonder if Weyman has noticedhim—if he’s watching as closely as he usually does. My pencil becomes heavy in my hand. Years of listening to inhales, exhales, and counting ticking pulses has become a skill that will only betray me here.
The next man whispers prayers in Hebrew, unfamiliar words fading into fog. He sniffles, and his brows rise before his eyes meet mine with a plea. He’s “fit” enough.
A muffled cough and wheeze escape the poor man I’ll be inspecting next, though.
Another shift to the side. My eyes lock onto the papers secured to the clipboard. I’d rather not face the man I’m about to condemn, but looking away is spineless. I may not be able to save these men, but I can do them the dignity of looking them in the eye. Perhaps mine will be the last kind gaze they feel, even if they won’t see it that way.
I touch my necklace, hidden under my dress, tracing the shape to calm my quick breaths as I peer up at the man. A twitch flutters beneath his left eye—beautiful pale green, framed by dark lashes. His cheeks are flushed and splotchy.
My heart stalls as blood rushes to my ears. Roaring. Deafening.
No. My eyes drop, denial becoming my only source of protection.
Purple and green veins line his hand, and there’s a tremor—not a shiver from cold or fear. An isolated effect on one side of his body. One I’d know anywhere. Have felt so many times.
I force myself to look back up at him. My chest squeezes.
His cleft chin, faint scar along his jawline, and freckles stand out against his shaved head.His hair is gone.
I’ve memorized these features and traced the markings in my dreams. My mind could never mistake him.
He coughs again, suppressing a wheeze. He’s sick, unsteady, and succumbing to weakness.
I can’t move forward.
My lungs stutter through the breath.
He’s “unfit” by all Nazi standards.
Stefan.
TWO
ROSALIE
SANOK, POLAND
Eleven years ago: November 4, 1932
Papa promised me he’d be back by now.
“Rosy, my darling, come—come here. It’s all right,” Mama calls me, struggling terribly. I think she might scream again as the bed frame rattles. It sounds as if it’s about to break into pieces. “Please, sweetheart. Come to Mama.”
I take another look at the front door of our cottage. Sunlight beams in through the windows and squirrels scurry along the oak tree’s branches outside. But the door is still, and I don’t think Papa’s nearby like he should be. He guards the clock tower for the entire village of Sanok, one of the oldest clock towers in the south of Poland. He calls himself the protector of time. So, he’s never late.
Mama screams like an angry crow, so loud my ears sting. I rush to her side, finding her cheeks redder than ripe apples. But the rest of her face is whiter than bed linen. Sweat drips like tears from her forehead as she holds onto the bed frame as if a storm might blow her away. Then she stops. No more screaming.She drops her hands by her sides as if they’re too heavy for her to bear. Her breaths are hard and short.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Mama, are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, her damp hair slopping around. “The baby is ready to meet you, me, and Papa. You’re going to be a big sister.”
