Her tears soak through my shirt, the warmth causing me a chill.
“His pulse is too fast. So fast I can hardly feel anything. His heart will just—will just—Papa…”
NINETEEN
ROSALIE
BIRKENAU (AUSCHWITZ II)
Present Day: March 18, 1944
Officer Weyman didn’t punish me with his hands last week.
He didn’t need to.
The consequence he chose came silently, the type that leaves no mark on skin…only on the life that follows.
After the Monowitz isolation barrack was cleared, Weyman informed me that the doctor who oversaw the recent typhus outbreak had requested my assistance at the medical barracks in Birkenau. He made a point of telling me it wasjusta request, not a command, reminding me that my compliance would reflect on him.
He didn’t have a reason for why the doctor asked for me.
Not knowing why is keeping me awake at night.
For the past four mornings, he’s marched me to the yard outside the row of medical barracks, ordering me to stay put and wait until I’m called for—like a dog. Then he joins the doctor in the white lab coat outside the nearest barrack. They speak covertly, rounds of chuckles often break through their serioustones. That’s when I turn away, searching for somewhere else to keep my focus.
To my right is the Romani compound, where mothers struggle to console their starving children. Behind me stand the so-called shower buildings, where lines of people hold on to hope, not knowing those showers have only an entrance. Not an exit. Ahead of me, there are the two rows of medical barracks. In front of the first, Weyman and the doctor converse over a clipboard.
The doctor appears to agree with everything he says then lifts his raven-like eyes, points them at me like daggers and curls a claw-like finger toward his chest—gesturing for me to join him. Weyman leaves me here, offering me up as a borrowed slave to this doctor. But today as he passes by, he smirks and hands me a list of identification numbers, titled:
Unfit male prisoners transported from Monowitz Post, 14 days in isolation following typhus outbreak.
“Enjoy your day, Fräulein Kaufman. I’ll see you tonight.”
His hushed comment dissolves before me as I study the multi-page list in my hands. Monowitz Post—typhus outbreak. My previous location. And Stefan’s.
All I can think about are the very words that the doctor spoke to Weyman fourteen days ago. Even the sinister inflection from his voice is still clear in my memory, as if it happened just a moment ago.
“In two weeks, once quarantine is complete, anyone no longer fit for labor—send them my way, yes? I can certainly make use of them.”
At that time, I didn’t know what“make use of them”meant. I knew it couldn’t mean anything good, but in the four daysI’ve been serving beneath this horrific doctor, I will never see anything or anyone the same way again.
Now, I stare out the window from inside a medical barrack, watching a new day roll in, trying to keep my eyes set on the sky and only the sky. There’s one cloud up there. Though the color blue is nothing more than a memory now. In its place, a palette of ash, steel, and uranium shroud the blue, leaving only a hint of its beauty behind. Even the sun shines dull, diffused by a pale orange glow.
A moment ago, the doctor informed me of the prisoners’ arrival, waiting for me to tell him I was ready for them too. I did. Because I’m more afraid of this doctor than anything else that could kill me.
A single prisoner steps in through the door at time. I confirm his number against my list. Wait. Then search for his face. So far, I’ve been able to breathe a sigh of relief with each new face, but there are pages of identifications numbers, and the SS is watching me so I can’t scan through for a familiar number. For Stefan’s.
If he’s not one of the men, it might mean he didn’t survive the quarantine. Or it could mean he was sent back to work. Has he had another seizure? Or multiple…Did someone finish him off during of a moment of misery? My stomach burns, image after image slips through my imagination like a film reel, picturing the worst—as if I haven’t already experienced the worst in my lifetime.
Whoever I love, dies. So if he is still alive, his fate is already determined.
And he’ll die in front of me too. All because I love him.
I call the next number, and an unfamiliar man gallops inside after being shoved. He barely keeps his balance as he catches himself against the wooden beam beside me.
“Confirm your number: A7002XX.”
“Ye—yes,” he says glancing at his forearm as if needing to double check.
