Stefan shakes his head. “No. Why would you say something like that? You were eight.”
“Because I sat there and watched them both die. I couldn’t even call for help.”
Stefan wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his chest, cradling my head in the warmth of his hand. “That wasn’t your fault, Rosalie. You can’t choose who lives and dies. Only God can do that. But what you have done…is taken your grief and turned it into a gift. Your mother would be proud of you.”
No matter how many times someone says this to me, the voice in my head will never go away.
THIRTEEN
STEFAN
MONOWITZ (AUSCHWITZ III)
Present Day: March 12, 1944
Still in isolation. Still in isolation.
I say it again in my head, anchoring my mind to the walls.
Iso-lati-on…
My body aches, fever ridden.
My left hand and leg twitch hard.
Maybe I’m lying on top of a factory machine, working overtime.
I don’t know. I’m in the dark.
I’m always in the dark, even with my eyes open.
I stare up at a black ceiling as a hum moves around me.
Could be a hospital—from the foul smell of something I can’t identify.
Might be a log cabin in the mountains—the wooden surface beneath.
I twist my head to the right, finding a swirl of blues and greens. Then to the left—nothing. A black hole.
The structure beneath me vibrates.
I’m not sure what I should be doing.
I do nothing.
I remain still, as still as possible.
…Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…
…Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight…
I can count seconds to determine the minutes.
I wish I knew the time.
The overhead lights clap to life.
The brightness knifes straight into my eyes.
