Present Day: March 12, 1944
If I was a dog, I’d have a collar, a muzzle, and a leash.
Humans aren’t more obedient, we just know too much, and therefore a leash isn’t necessary to keep me tethered to Weyman’s side. I already know if I try to run, I’m surrounded by electrified barbed-wire fences and guards with rifles. There is no escaping Auschwitz. Unless by death.
For the last five minutes, since arriving at his office in the administration building at the main Auschwitz complex, Weyman is pretending to read a paper concealed in a folder, his eyes drifting to me more than the page. This has been a routine we follow daily after group selections in Monowitz. Usually, he’ll give me stacks of papers to file until he’s ready to leave for the day.
A groan rumbles in Weyman’s throat as he throws the folder down to his desk. “We’re going back to Monowitz.”
I follow him through the corridor, down the stairs and out the main door. Like German shepherds, I stay in pace with him, walking without question. The black Mercedes waits outsidethe Administration gate as it always does, its gleaming paint catching the faint ray of light breaking through the thick clouds. The iron gate croaks open, and clanks shut, and I wait for Weyman to reach across the front seat to pop the passenger lock so I can slide in beside him. Always, beside him.
We follow the same road we drive every day, through the fog, past the barren fields of dead grass until the odor of burnt rubber seeps through the car’s vents. The folder with the paper he was reading sits between us, and I wish I could see through the thick card paper. We don’t normally return to Monowitz once we’ve left for the day.
Our footsteps crunch against slush and ice as we approach the gates. A guard’s stare lingers on me like many do. It’s because I don’t belong here. I’m not one of them, nor a prisoner. Weyman notices. He always notices. He clears his throat and cuts the guard a cunning stare—an unspoken threat, forcing the lower rank to drop his stare. “Another typhus outbreak in a factory. The isolation barracks are beyond capacity, and administration wants it cleared out.”
Isolation barracks—where Stefan is and has been for the last week. Maybe with typhus, maybe not. We need to clear them out…
“Clear—”
“There’s nowhere else to put them, so yes. You will identify those who are sick, becoming sick, or won’t be useful come a week from now.” Weyman becomes silent for a long moment. “There’s likely an infestation within those walls by now. The thought of walking inside is sickening.” His face grows pale as he stares up at the grim sky. “God help me.”
God won’t be helping him.
No one will.
Except me.
It’s a chance to find Stefan, make sure he’s all right, and ensure I spare him from being sent “elsewhere.”
“I’ll go into the barrack alone. I’m most likely immune from the disease by now. I will send out the ‘unfit’, so you don’t have to step inside.”
Weyman is silent for a moment, staring at my profile. “I thought I warned you about doing only what you’re told. Someone could notice your eagerness to assist me,” Weyman utters.
I swallow the knot in my throat, knowing the delusion I’m nursing.
“Not if I’m following your orders,” I reply, keeping my voice low.
He inhales sharply through his nose. “Yes. You are to go inside and send out the unfit. A transport will be waiting to take them…elsewhere.” He doesn’t look away when he says this, and there’s an inflection of pride in his voice as if he thinks I’ve begun to see these duties through his eyes rather than ones of a servant.
He couldn’t be more wrong.
Though now that I’ve managed to find a way into the barrack alone, I fear finding out that Stefan isn’t in the isolation barrack. It would mean the SS have already moved him “elsewhere.”
If I do find him, I don’t know what shape he’ll be in. I’m terrified to imagine the level of deterioration he’s gone through in just a few days. Each time I’ve seen him, he’s more skeletal, pale, hollow, and—he’s looked close to the brink of death.
Weyman snaps open a handkerchief and reaches around my neck to secure it. He’s too close. He’s not wearing his gloves, and his knuckles graze my cheek. Nausea strikes. Guilt fills my chest, knowing the person I am would never allow someone to get close to me without my consent. I would shove him away if I wasn’tscared for my life. “You’ll keep this on,” he says, his words more tender than a command. “Keep your scarf on your head, too.”
Every rule here is meant to strip us of control, and Weyman believes I’ve become easy prey, submissive to his lingering stares and subtle touches—because that’s exactly what I want him to think.
As we reach the gray-brown wooden façade, Weyman sweeps a layer of snow from the top lid of a rubbish bin and removes the top before reaching inside. He retrieves a fraying and tattered gray smock. “Cover your clothes. When you’re through, you’ll burn the smock then you will decontaminate any exposed skin.”
The smock hangs limply over my arm, still damp from a wash, but reeks of some sort of sharp boiled soap. I pull it over my head, trying to breathe through my mouth rather than my nose. It may be clean, but I can smell the acidic chemicals through the handkerchief.
I swallow the gag threatening to choke me just as another set of footsteps in the muddy slush join us from behind. “Heil Hitler, Obersturmführer. Here is the list,” the guard says, handing a clipboard to me, keeping his stare directed to Weyman.
“Get it done quickly,” Weyman says. “Call them one by one. Separate them into two lines. ‘Unfit’ to the left. ‘Fit’ to the right. And those who don’t make it to your selection line—mark them as unfit.” His voice lowers into a whisper as if this conversation should be private between us. “Have no pity. No more poor judgments. Someone other than I is bound to notice your kindness.”
It isn’t kindness. It’s a need to save the innocent.
