“It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?” he asks us as if we’re allowed to respond. He waves his hand around in a circle motion. “Oh, come now. You don’t have to be so quiet with me. I’m a doctor. Doctors want to help people. Isn’t that right?”
Not here.
He steps to the side of us and raps his black cane along the door of a block. The door opens, but not enough to see anyone inside.
“Yes, doctor,” a woman replies.
“Good morning to you,” he says, cheer clearly dancing between his words to whatever woman is hiding within the gloom of the door’s shadow. “I have the intake from Monowitz here.”
“Yes, we’re ready,” the woman says.
He waves his can toward the door. “Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. Go on ahead when your number is called. I’m sure the door won’t bite.”
His laugh…
Brittle, sinister, unnatural…
I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the sound.
But one thing I’ve learned…I never know what I’ll find on the other side of a doorway in this place—what change might come about, or what story might end so another can begin.
EIGHTEEN
STEFAN
SANOK, POLAND
August 4, 1941
A subtle glance at my watch doesn’t go unnoticed by the man who keeps time for a living. I catch his soft arched brow, a silent question. “Do you suppose she’s all right?” I ask Rosalie’s father. She’s been in the washroom for almost ten minutes with the water running the entire time.
We’ve been sitting around a small makeshift coffee table while Rosalie’s father pokes and prods at the boiled potato and bits of sausage I cooked up for him. Rather than eating, he’s been quietly chattering about the relativity of life to clock gears and pendulums. His words keep slackening and the volume of his voice is erratic. Between words, he rubs his shoulder and cringes, but only when he thinks I’m not looking.
Rosalie was staring at him, hard, but I figured with interest in the subject of clocks. Then something in her expression changed. She became overly focused and too motionless just before abruptly shoving away from the table to run for what seemed like cover. A feeling of uneasiness came over me when she left. Mister Kaufman continued to talk, but his words continued todeviate and shift, slurring at times as if he had too much food in his mouth. I found myself leaning toward him, ready to reach out and ask if he’s all right or should take a minute to rest.
“No,” Mister Kaufman says, shaking his head. “She’s not all right, but that’s temporary. In time, she will be. She will be.” A sheen of sweat glistens across his forehead. I should tell him I see he’s not all right—ask him what’s wrong…but his tone remains steady now. Am I imagining it?
He rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck to the side, but the movement looks to cause more pain than relief. No, it’s not my imagination.
“Did something happen? I must have missed something…” I’ve been here on the top floor of the clock tower for the past hour with her. I’m not sure how I could have missed anything. “Perhaps I embarrassed her.” I don’t think this has anything to do with me, though.
Mister Kaufman reaches over from his chair, an unsteady hand tapping my knee. “It isn’t you who’s upsetting her.” He knows too. “It’s me.”
“I—I don’t understand. Are you all right? Can I do something—” I ask, peering over my shoulder toward the narrow washroom door in the corner. The faucet water cuts off, leaving the room in dense silence.
“My girl—well, she can put on a good act, but only for so long.” He takes a struggling deep breath and drops his head. One hand moves from his shoulder to his chest. “She might seem like the strongest woman you’ve ever met, but it’s a veil—hiding her feelings is the only way she knows how to protect herself.”
I run my hand across the back of my hot neck, the heat transferring down my arm. “Protect herself…From what?” Rosalie’s father isn’t making any sense.
The next breath he takes comes out scant, like the air has been sucked out of his lungs. He clears his throat and squeezeshis hand around his left shoulder again. His eyes wince then bulge. I stand up from my seat with an unnerving sensation running through my veins. The color drains from his face, his fingers spasm then coil inward. Something is wrong. Rosalie knows this. She sees shifts in patterns before most people. That’s her gift. Or curse, maybe.
The washroom door creaks open and Rosalie’s heels clatter against the stone floor.
“Papa,” she utters. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her words aren’t scolding, but they’re full of heartache.
“Rosy,” he mutters, dropping his face into his hands.
She runs to his side and takes his hand away from his face. “How long has your pulse been racing? How long have you been in pain? Tired, weak, and not eating?”
