How much more of this can his body take?
I want to ask him if he’s all right, but he’s not. Even if he’sjustcold.
Naked.
Vulnerable.
I can’t look as though I know him. It could destroy any chance of being able to help him.
Disinfectant is helping him.
If I could at least say I’m sorry…
I keep my grip until my hand gives out, and the sludge-covered nozzle of the hose clacks against the square cobblestones. Ice-cold liquid sputters into the cracks of the ground as I watch the disinfectant mixed with dirt streak down Stefan’s emaciated body.
A guard grabs him by the arm and tosses him into the barracks as if he’s a heap of trash.
Bile burns within my tight throat, saliva choking me. I slap my arm against my cloth-covered mouth and run behind the barrack, finding the metal rubbish bin. I retch until there’s nothing left but.
“Is there a problem?” Weyman shouts through his crumpled handkerchief, which he holds to his face. I don’t respond. Then he storms toward me, his boots thumping against the frozen soil.
He approaches me where I’m hunched over the rubbish bin, gripping the rim to keep me upright. “Stand up straight,” he snaps under his breath, grabbing my arm and jerking me toward him. “That line of men is waiting for you, Fräulein Kaufman. Naked and freezing, do you think any of them care for your pity?”
They’re freezing to death. Because of me.
I would trade places with Stefan, never mind pity. I would take the pain. Endure his disease. Give him the little freedom Ihave left if it meant I wasn’t the one hurting him. If it meant sparing him this torment.
“No, Herr Weyman,” I croak.
I straighten my back, feeling light-headed and empty. Weyman searches my face, his soulless stare flickering with curiosity.
I might retch again.
“You aren’t afraid of me,” he says. “Of all the men out there, most can’t look me in the eye.”
No one wants to look a murderer in the eye.
Rather than respond, I fight to hold my mirroring stare steady, knowing it will mean more than words. He wants me to be afraid, and I can’t give him that.
He lowers the handkerchief from his face, allowing me to see his mouth curving into something that resembles a smile. “You’ve been quite captivating since the day I met you.”
Weyman lifts his free hand toward my face, as if reaching for a loose strand of hair. His gloved fingers hover for a moment before dropping by his side, and he narrows his eyes. My throat tightens, imagining hands clasping my neck. “It would be best to doonlywhat you’re told. We don’t want anyone to notice you’ve…captured my attention.”
His words are a warning I can’t ignore—a warning. People might not know when they’re about to die, but they know when something unimaginable is about to happen.
He steps back and lifts his chin. “Clean yourself up,” he commands, his tone savage again. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
He turns and walks away, hands clasped behind his back, quiet and composed, but pauses for a half-second before disappearing around the barrack corner.
My stomach toils, and tears burn the backs of my eyes as Weyman’s words repeat in my head.
I blot my face with my handkerchief and replace it over my nose and mouth, then return to the line of naked men.
My hands shake as I continue to hold the hose that grows heavier by the minute. I watch the pain in each man’s eyes—each pair of unique eyes, filled with endless variants of emotions, so many, there aren’t enough words to describe them. And it’s not fair to sum their feelings up into cold, fear, starvation, and exhaustion. This nameless look—it’s deep and inhumane—it’s cold fists plunging into throats, stealing a few remaining breaths.
Almost…godless.
What do we pray for when we don’t know who to pray to? Is anyone listening to the silent cries?
