I clear my throat, trying to ease the tightness choking me from speaking. “It has been determined that you are no longer considered ‘fit’ for labor due to a medical condition. This condition can be recorded in one of two ways: Your word, or a full head-to-toe investigation for a declared illness. Your word will allow the medical staff to proceed with simple confirmatory tests.”
I have yet to memorize this dictated statement I’m forced to recite as each person walks through the door in front of me.
I don’t want to remember the words I’m speaking.
I want to forget them the moment they roll off my tongue.
I’m being used as a puppet, a monstrous puppet sending these people all to the same place in the end, whether the long way or short way.
“Con—condition? I don’t know what you mean, miss. I don’t have a condition. Why do you think I have a condition?”
I can’t tell how old this man is. Only that he’s frail, skin and bone, with his jaw hanging so low I’m not sure he can fully close his mouth. His skin is pale, but not too pale. There are no rashes or inflammations visible along his face or hands. Each of these people have been reported for hiding a condition—reported by peers who have been rewarded for their “brave” acts.
“Remove your shoes,” I say, speaking loud and clear, as directed, before lowering my voice to a whisper to say, “please.”
The man stares at me, his eyes pleading for me to do something other than make him take his shoes off. “No,” he utters. “Fräulein.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, even quieter. I make an obvious show of stretching my focus all the way to my left, a hole in the wall where another person watches and takes notes.
The man tries to close his mouth, proving it’s as impossible as I thought. His skeletal state alone makes the decision. His hanging chin shivers as he works his heels free, one at a time, removing his feet from his shoes. Dirt embeds every crease of his skin, his toenails yellow with fungus, but all this doctor will be interested in is the sixth toe he has on both feet.
“If you’ll proceed to the next room, someone will bring you to where you need to go.”
I want to stop my mind from wandering, imagining what this deranged doctor will want with this man. I’ve seen too much from within this building already. The screams I’ve heard will forever haunt me. The laughter underlining another person’s cries of pain…
The door opens and another man is flung inside toward me. I drag my pencil down to the next row.
“Confirm your number: 17050?—”
Before I finish reading the entire number, the man utters, “Yes.”
His “yes” sends a cold snap through my chest. A weight of agony plunges to the bottom of my stomach.
No, no, no. No.
A guard is watching me through the wall-hole. And I forget how to breathe.
I bite my cheeks so hard the pain sears through my jaw and I lift my head, finding his eyes—those mosaic hazel eyes. The only eyes that have ever taken my breath away. And the ones that have always given me reason to take my next breath. He’s even thinner, as if starved more than usual during isolation. Sharp cheekbones with flesh stretching over each ridge. The whites of his eyes glow against the film of dirt casing his face.Sick.He looks so sick. Another week or two—he’ll become unrecognizable, if even still…here. I’m not sure I’m capable ofimagining the worst of what he’s already been through, and yet, I know what lies ahead, within this very building.
There is no option to send him back to where he came from. There is no option here at all. This isn’t a selection. He’s already been selected to endure medical treatment. It must have been the seizure he had just before I found him bleeding from the mouth…God knows how many he’s suffered here, but a kapo, guard, or officer must have seen it and documented the episode. Whoever spared him his life and then sent him here must know the doctor will be enamored by his condition.
He maintains his composure, but the strain of deep thought pulsates through his stare as he leans forward, pressing his hands to the small table between us. He must know we’re not alone. No one is ever alone in Auschwitz.
“I know why they sent me here,” he whispers. “But I’m all right now. I don’t need to be here.” He’s all right for the moment, but there’s no saying when he’ll bear another seizure.
My hand moves before my mind stops me. One small, fraught touch…my fingertips grazing his split knuckles. “I’m only here for intake. I don’t have a choice—to send you back…”
A cough barks through the wall behind me, a reminder of the eyes boring into my back. The scrape of chair legs follows. I jerk my hand back to my clipboard, blood draining from my face.
Stefan doesn’t move, his gaze holding steady on my eyes.
They’re watching,I want to tell him.
The guard must have seen me touch his hand.
I shouldn’t have.
His hands shouldn’t be on the table.
