“Are you a doctor?” he asks, amused, “or just another formerly rich, well-spoken Jew?”
“I’m not a doctor, but I’m familiar with my well-being.” How can I deny the rest of the accusation?
“Well, seeing as you’re not a doctor, I do believe you might be fascinated to learn about the information we dig up on you,” he says, his statement a period to end this sentencing.
The question of castration is still sitting at the tip of my tongue. What reason would he need to do that to anyone—or everyone?
“Orders?” the nurse requests.
“Over a series of days, we’ll run these diagnostics,” the doctor says, scribbling something on his paper. The scratch against the clipboard echoing between the walls as he mouths the words swirling onto the paper as he writes. “Following the series of treatments, we’ll have an orderly monitor him to keep precise notes.”
“I’ll find one,” the nurse says.
He smiles during a pause of his pen and points it at the wall behind his head. “No, you don’t have to. That one, out front. Understood? Make sure she’s here when we’re through.”
“Yes, doctor,” the nurse agrees.
That one. Rosalie?
TWENTY-TWO
STEFAN
SANOK, POLAND
November 20, 1941
She’s the one.That smile and intense blue eyes lit by the sun steal the breath from my lungs. The wind catches in her golden-brown hair, slinging it against her confident posture—I could lose myself in just the sight if there wasn’t so much more to Rosalie.Her soul outshines most, and each day longer I’ve been fortunate to spend by her side, I’ve become enamored by every part of who she is.
I’ve watched her embrace the grief of losing her father and grow stronger from it somehow. She never wavers with her plans and doesn’t fear what might stop her from accomplishing what she sets her mind to.She’s a wonder.A beautiful wonder who I call mine, even here, in an occupied country where our mixed-faith love is forbidden.Nothing else matters but her.
Together and side-by-side, we walk through the village square as if life is whole, normal, something other than what it is. It’s as if together, we can overcome the grim shadows unfurling over Poland.We’re both utterly broken, and yet, together, somehow whole.
The pastel blocks of shops and buildings engulf us in the Sanok village square, a small place, untouched by the ongoing war. At first glance, I could easily be fooled into thinking there’s no war here.The air is crisp and cool; the sky is a cornflower blue with a feathering of silver clouds that warn of a storm later. The wind has picked up, but just enough to wrap us in the fresh autumn air. Dry leaves, and smoke from firewood have never overpowered the aroma of fresh bread and loose tea from nearby cafes, but one-by-one, the shops have been closing.
Fewer people are walking around, and those who are, have a heavy, quick step, rushing from one destination to another.More than just a storm is brewing.It’s been happening for a while. The Nazis are here, but not nearly as many as in the bigger cities.
We walk down a narrow passageway between blocks in the village square, finding it clear and open between both entry points. The wooden door on the left, halfway down the alley is framed by two large windows, both covered with yellowing newspaper.I knock in a pattern; the pattern I must know to gain access. A minute or two passes before a rusty voice behind the door asks, “Code name?”
“Bitter glass,” I speak through a breath at the seam of the door.
The locks unlatch, one by one, and the door squeaks open just enough for us to step inside.A short candle on a chamberstick wobbles in the darkness as we follow the man down the creaking stairs then push through panels of thick-draped fabric hanging from the low ceiling.Gas lamps illuminate the space that the village pharmacist protects with all his being.
“Stefan,” Mister Banach says. He’s the former village pharmacist, now working with the Polish resistance to help his community. The secretive role he’s now enduring seems to havetaken a toll on him. The man who was always well put-together now stands here with his shirt untucked, buttons mismatched down the center, and his salt and pepper curly hair in a disheveled mess.
“How are you, Mister Banach?” I ask, placing my hand on his shoulder.
“Well—or, not well, I suppose. Stefan, I have your medicine, but my connecting source isn’t delivering as frequently, which might affect future refills,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Of course, you know I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you don’t run out, but you ought to know of the challenges…”
The thought of running out of the medicine that manages my seizures is my worst fear and has been for the last two years of my life when Germany occupied Poland, bringing in the Euthanasia program to empower racial purity by preventing the spread of hereditary disorders and diseases.The program started as a process of sterilization, then became a death sentence for those deemed unworthy of living.I would fall under that category.
According to German newspapers, this program was put to a stop this past August due to public protests, but sources close to the pharmacist say the program is still in effect. Just secretly and hidden from the public’s eye.Since I have no choice but to continue working as a laborer in our family’s factory under Nazi supervision, I must ensure I retain power over my seizures, as much power as possible.
“What does that mean? Is there something I can do?” Rosalie asks, her hand squeezing mine.
“I’m afraid not,” Mister Banach says. “Just like food, medicinal shortages are just as bad. There aren’t any legal imports.”
Shortages.Our village experienced shortages of medicine months ago, before anyone knew they needed to be part of anunderground connection to buy them time. A supervisor in our factory—a man with one leg much shorter than his other—was taken by German soldiers, promised “treatment”, then never returned. The memory leaves me counting pills every morning, knowing exactly how many days I have left until I become visibly imperfect.
