The pages of the prayer book butterfly as the rabbi bows his head. Philip, Miriam, Stefan, and Eloise bow theirs too. So I follow, feeling the final words honoring Papa wave around my heart like a silk ribbon.
Once the service concludes, I take a moment to kneel by the coffin and place my hand on the smooth wooden surface. I close my eyes. “For all the time you gave me, I promise to never waste a second. I love you, Papa. I love you—so much.”
My chest heaves with pain as I press my hands into the soil to stand. Stefan helps me up to my feet, holding me in his arms as if proving his promise to both Papa and me. The smell of grass, dirt, and wildflowers whirls around me. Birds sing. Insectstrill, and leaves flicker. Just like nature intended, I’m left with a beautiful last memory of the remarkable man who gave me life.
TWENTY-ONE
STEFAN
BIRKENAU (AUSCHWITZ II)
Present Day: March 18, 1944
Wet, rotting wood, iodine, and disinfectant mask only a single layer of sweat, blood, and human waste. The dark corridor is narrow, and I can only hear the crunch of gravel beneath the boots of the guard walking in front of me before entering the large open space, lined with three-tiered bunks, like the barracks I’ve already been held in. Except this isn’t an ordinary barrack. Metal poles with IV bags are stationed between each cubed section. Most of the straw-covered sleeping spaces are occupied. I shouldn’t be surprised seeing as this must be a barrack for people with medical conditions.
The short interview with my dearest Rosalie—who looked sickened to see me here—made the purpose of my presence clear. If I could convince myself that Rosalie is a hallucination so I wouldn’t have to think of her in this place, I would. Why is she here, in this God-awful medical unit now? In the same place as me again? I’ve been a prisoner in Auschwitz long enough to know there is no such thing as a coincidence. I thought we’d been lucky, but luck doesn’t exist here…
The guard continues to lead me down the narrow row between the bunks, past a roped off section that’s less occupied than the rest of the barrack, and finally to smaller section of bunks that end before a corner partition.
“Here. This is your assigned space,” the guard says, pointing at the bottom bunk, third to the last column before the partition.
“What should I be—” I try to ask what I should be doing so I’m not caught doing nothing.
“Wait,” he says before walking back toward the front of the barrack.
I clamber into the cubby-like hole, scooting in backward to keep my head at the opening. A young boy lies beside me, and another one beside him. They look alike, maybe the same age as Eloise.
“Hello,” I say, wondering what these poor children must be doing in here, or how they’re surviving this hell.
“Hello,” they say in unison, their voices small and dry.
“Are you brothers?” I ask.
“Twins,” the one nearest to me says. “That’s why we’re here.”
They’re here because they’re twins? I know I’ll regret asking what that means. Maybe they don’t even know anything more. Might be best.
“Why are you here?” the nearest one asks.
A seizure. The death sentence I was born with. There’s no purpose in hiding my truth but keeping my epilepsy a secret has been a way of life for me. “Maybe they think I’m too old to work. Thankfully that isn’t something you need to worry about though, is it?” I force a small smile to alleviate the nerves that lace their voices.
“You’re here because you’re old?” one asks. They aren’t buying my lie. They’re too smart for that. “You’re not old at all. That can’t be why.”
“All right, then…How about I guessyourage,” I say, turning the attention back to them. “Are you…twelve?”
Their eyes grow wide at the same moment. “How did you know?”
The thought of Eloise brings a small smile to my lips. “The last time I saw my sister, she was the same age.”
“Is she here somewhere with the other girls and women?” one of the boys asks.
I shake my head. “No, but I’m hoping she’s somewhere safe.”
“That’s what we hope about our parents and older brother, too.” Their eyes droop and shoulders slouch.
“I’m sure they are,” I tell them, hearing the lie, and tasting the bitterness of it on my tongue.
The door to the partition whips open, and a nurse barges out, pale-faced, clutching her chest. The bellow of a man in pain spills out into the open space between the bunks. Curiosity pulls my attention toward the open door, where I catch a grim glance of a man, strapped down to a table, blood spurting in every direction from what is unmistakably a castration.
