He’s on the ground, eyes wide open, his limbs splayed in the wrong directions. A mouse trots over his head as if it’s nothing more than a rock in soil. I didn’t ask his name. I stopped asking names. I learn them, then they disappear. They die. That’s why we’re here. To work to death.
That’s also why there haven’t been selections in the last four weeks, or so rumored assumptions go. Some of the other prisoners say another selection is coming soon. The guards want a fresh intake of workers, and to remove the weak, starving ones.
Like me.
Another man, clad in stripes, steps over the fallen body then retrieves the dead man’s shovel, continuing where he left off.
No one comes to take the man’s body away. The guards and officers leave him where he is as if he’s still working.
Father forced the factory workers at Silberg Textiles to take regular breaks. To sit. Drink water. Have something to eat. He would sometimes sit with them and ask about their families.
No one cares about anyone’s family here.
I picture Father sitting at the long oak table in the break room, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, asking about children, grandchildren, spouses, and parents. He knew everyone’s life story, by choice. Mama would send in pastries for us to hand out during lunch or breaks, and before Benjamin was born, she’dsometimes appear herself, carrying something warm and fresh in the middle of the day. Eloise begged to take over for her, to be the one bringing treats. She wanted to be just like Mama, bringing happiness to people.
Hours pass, I think, and darkness looms through the windows that line the edge of the ceiling. As the sun sets, the glare casts orange and red hues on the dead man’s face and hands, highlighting the flies feasting on his flesh.
A whistle blows. Maybe it’s the end of the day. Though it seems earlier than usual since it’s quite dark when we arrive and leave.
I release my grip from the press handle, my fingers stale in the curve they’ve been in all day.
A line forms down the row of identical press machines, and several other deceased bodies are scattered about, left to rot.
When hundreds of workers are piled in together, so tightly no one can move a limb, a guard with a handkerchief pressed to his nose and mouth addresses us through a bullhorn, every German word muffled.
“All workers, report to the isolation barracks. Many cases of typhus have been identified in this factory today. You will be quarantined for two weeks. Upon release, you will report back to your assigned duties.”
My eyes lock on the man’s head in front of me and I imagine lice, little white dots fizzling through his short hair. I scratch my arms, then the back of my neck. We’ve all been exposed. We’re all going to contract typhus while stuck in isolation together. A slow miserable death awaits.
The group of men packed in like sardines, moving in succession toward the exit, the golden rays still streaking the land ahead of us. We’re herded back between the barbed-wire fences toward the roll call square.
“Everyone, strip!” A shout echoes in German then repeats three more times.
It’s winter. We’re already freezing.
I drop my draws then unbutton my top, exposing my flesh to the sub-degree temperatures. It’s hard to breathe. I could fall over right now, and the rest would walk over my body, naked, to isolation.
The lines move slowly. We still move in a mass group, forward again, until the harsh screech of liquid shoots from a powered hose. Disinfectant. We went through this upon arrival too. Why bother trying to save anyone if the Nazis wish for us to all be dead?
The group of men become a single file line the closer I move toward the hosing area.
Then I see her. Rosalie. She’s alive. She’s in one piece. She’s holding the hose as the officer stands guard behind her with sin rimming his hard features. A scarf is tied around her nose and mouth, thank God, tears soaking the blue linen material. Her eyes are matching pools of blue, overflowing with pain. My heart thuds against my ribcage, a visible reaction anyone could see through my thin skin draped over bone.
I’ve lost so much weight in the three months I’ve been in Auschwitz. I’ve felt myself dwindling the most over the past month. To starve here after living off crumbs in the factory, it’s hard to remember what a full stomach even feels like.
I see the way the other men look—like they’re about to die. I imagine I looked terrible when Rosalie saw me just over a month ago, but now—naked, every truth of what’s left of me, exposed—I would never want her to see me this way. She won’t have a choice but to look directly at me. Will she see the man I once was, or just see the skeletal frame of what’s left?
When it’s my turn to be sprayed, I move to the x marked in red paint across the dead patch of grass. I lift my head andour eyes meet. Her gaze widens, her eyes fill with more tears, obvious tears. Puddles of tears the officer will notice. I want to smile at her, to give her a moment of relief, and hope. If I could just leave her in that way, she might hurt less. But he’s staring. He’s enjoying this scene of spraying every naked prisoner down with ice-cold disinfectant in these frigid temperatures.
I close my eyes and expose every part of myself to her—every part, inside and out. I wish I could tell her I’m sorry she’s here. I know it’s because of me. Everything that has happened is because of me. She should be saving babies somewhere far away from here, but she’s not.
The distinct memory of the night I gave her my heart, and she gave me hers, is locked in my soul like a storybook with endless pages.
Until now.
There’s nothing we can do but watch as time passes, and wonder if this is our last second together.
The chilling pressure of disinfectant slices through my chest.
