I didn’t understand. Didn’t make what?
“I was—I should have been home from work. The clock was wrong. The timing was off, and it’s all my fault. I wasn’t back in time.” Papa’s words fall into a long, hard cry that growls from the inside of his chest. I feel it. I feel all of it.
Something inside me knows…
Mama and the baby are gone.
THREE
ROSALIE
MONOWITZ (AUSCHWITZ III)
Present Day: December 20, 1943
The world of Auschwitz rushes back—frigid winds blistering my cheeks, the reek of waste, trains howling through the fog, and SS Officer Weyman’s boots crunching against ice.
My gaze fixes on him. Stefan.
Those misty green eyes, unmistakable even among all the other vacant faces awaiting my assessment. “Fit” or “unfit.” Live a little longer, or not at all.
I step in front of Stefan. The top of my head nearly meets his chin. He’s tall, even with his shoulders curling forward. His left hand hangs limp at his side, and his breaths are steep, uneven. A sheen of sweat glistens across the collar of his striped shirt. His gaze falls to mine, those beautiful eyes widening in shock and, I think, horror. His cleft chin remains lifted, but with a noticeable struggle. Parched lips, pink.Not blue. His uniform is too short at the ankles, an invitation for frostbite.
He doesn’t deserve this, and to know he’s here because of me…it’s not something I can live with.
Questions flash behind his eyes, likely wondering why I ended up on this side of the line. Neither German, nor Jewish, yet I’m here, holding a pencil that marks people’s fate. He knows I wouldn’t agree to be here. Doing this.
Don’t look at him like you know him. Like you love him. Don’t look. I could get caught. They would punish both of us.
Too many seconds have passed since I’ve stopped in front of him. My analysis should be complete. I write his identification number down and circle the word: Fit.
My heart cracks, a branch breaking, splitting from its root. I condemn him to continue labor, slaving in a factory where he may be too weak to endure the physical work. But it’s the only way to save him from worse. This isn’t a gift, only more time.
I force myself to move. The next man in line shivers, his knees trembling from the cold, no sickness. I’ve already circled “fit”too many times in a row. The SS scrutinizes statistics. Patterns are worthy of conviction.
God, forgive me.
I circle “unfit” and close my eyes before stepping aside, pointing in the direction he must go.
“Please, no. I’m—I’m all right. Miss, I’m all—all right, can’t you see? There’s nothing wrong with me.”
His words slice through me. His voice is far too loud to go unnoticed. The weight of guards’ boots shifts amid the hard snow, heads turn, weapons clatter.
“Miss, please!”
Pleading is prohibited. Speaking is forbidden. Resisting orders is deadly.
I close my eyes again, not to block out the man’s pleas. To block out what will come next.
One—
Two—
Three—
Boom.
Boom.
