“Papa…” My neck burns forcing me to pull my hair to my shoulder for air.
“He loves you,” he whispers. “I can see it.” Papa’s eyes fill with a sheen of tears. “He looks at you the way I used to look at your mama.” His words are like hands grappling around my heart. “She could make time feel like it was still.”
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” I ask him. I know something’s wrong. I can feel it through every limb of my body.
“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. It makes my heart happy to see you happy, even if you don’t want to admit the truth.”
“I should take you to a doctor,” I tell him, my voice catching in my throat.
“All the good ones are gone. And I don’t need a doctor.”
Stefan brings over a plate for Papa. Just one plate. I used my ration card while shopping with Miriam this week. Stefan and I have both eaten today. There are no extras for anyone.
“That sure smells good,” Papa says. “Where are your plates?”
“Don’t worry about us. We’ll eat,” Stefan says.
“The rations,” he says, shaking his head. “The damn rations. How long do you plan on taking care of my sweetheart, here?” Papa asks. His question steals my breath. The direct question without any hidden meaning—it shocks me. I haven’t blinked and can’t as my eyes remain wide open, staring at Stefan, wondering what the two of them were talking about at the stove.
“For as long as she’ll let me, sir.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes,” Stefan says without batting a lash.
“Stefan…” I utter.
A blush blossoms across Stefan’s cheeks. A confession. One I wasn’t expecting. One that makes my heart swell. I take his hand in mine and circle the pad of my thumb over his knuckles to ease his nerves or embarrassment. He won’t look at me. His eyes are glued to the ground between his feet.
“Just as I thought,” Papa says.
SEVENTEEN
STEFAN
MONOWITZ (AUSCHWITZ III)
Present Day: March 18, 1944
The man sleeping beside me tries, again, to roll over, unaware that there isn’t enough space for the width of anyone’s shoulders to fit within the frames of our shared bunk. His damp, crusty skin scrapes against mine, leaving some of the moisture behind as if I don’t have enough of my own. It’s not even warm outside, but with the body heat, it’s like an oven in any barrack—even though the bodies are made up of skin and bone, nothing of any real insulation.
I want to break through the sealed door of this isolation barrack—a prison within a prison. For two weeks, all of us who remain here have waited to see whether we’d contract typhus. I don’t know how any of us have escaped what felt inevitable while suffocating in stale rot and waste. The air is so thick in here, I can taste it—the breath of every other person squeezed in beside me. Yet, I’ve remained typhus-free.
Today is day fourteen. Therefore, if the SS speak any form of truth, they should release us today. How lucky am I? Not lucky enough to have avoided a full-blown seizure a week ago.I couldn’t mask it, couldn’t fight against it. I was on display, beneath the sun’s spotlight in the field. Helpless.
I came to, cold and on the ground, bleeding from where I’d bitten my tongue and cheek. Not bleeding because I’d been shot, as I expected. I still don’t understand why a guard didn’t take the chance to kill me while I lay in the dirt. I’ve yet to see a one of them hesitate before blasting a bullet through a man’s head.
A man ten to twenty years my senior, another prisoner, was standing over me when my vision cleared. He helped me to my feet and back to the barrack. I memorized his features, determined not to forget the face of the man who saved me. But since that day, he’s avoided me. He turns away whenever I call out to him. Why would he risk his life to keep helping me, after all?
I wasn’t just saved once that day. Hours later, we faced another inspection to remove the sick and those too weak to move. Rosalie. She saved my life again. I thought I was hallucinating like I had before, but I wasn’t that time. She was there in the isolation barracks. How many times can the same beautiful girl save me before the dream ends? Or worse, before she gets caught…
It seems unlikely we’ll all go back to the factory jobs we held before the outbreak. They’ve surely replaced us by now. That makes us spare parts. Unneeded. Every day here is a gamble on life or death. For me, it’s on a minute-to-minute basis, never knowing when my body will deceive me once again. It’s hard to imagine I could be saved a fourth time.
“Why are you breathing so hard?” the man beside me, the one with the wide shoulders, asks with a tired groan.
“I’m not.” And if I am…you woke me up.
“You’re not about to seize again, are you?” he presses, annoyed, rather than sympathetic.
