I close my eyes and clench my fists. “I don’t—I don’t know who this doctor is, but he seems to have more authority than Weyman. I thought that could have been the reason Weyman agreed—he had no choice.”
Celina takes my shaking hand into hers. “You’re shaking.”
“I…when I saw Weyman and the doctor together outside of the medical barracks, it looked like they were long-lost pals, more than comrades.” A cry burns my throat and strains my words. “I don’t want to believe they’re working together. But the timing…the way they looked at each other.”
Celina presses her fingers to her lips, her stare cold. “So, you think they’re plotting against you? I want to believe they must have far more to worry about than you…”
“Maybe I’m wrong. God, I want to be wrong.” My breath hitches in my throat, my chest tightening. “But if the two of them are helping each other and Weyman suspects I care for Stefan, he would gladly hand him over to the doctor who seeks beings with scientific anomalies to experiment on. Most of them end up dying. They would both get what they want. And Weyman must think if no one is occupying my attention, I’ll see him in a different light.”
“Experiments? The doctor…” Celina’s words jumble, trying to understand what no person should have to. She clutches her hand around her throat, mirroring the way my throat always feels now.
“I’ve seen the most unbearable sights in the infirmary block.”
“Are there a lot of sick?—”
“Dismemberments, amputations, and electrocutions. He uses twins…” Tears purge from my eyes. “Anyone who has uncommon genetics is of interest. And since Stefan was born with epilepsy, I don’t know what this doctor wants with him. It’slikely already done.” My voice breaks, words fall flat into short breaths. “I’ve thought I was going to lose him so many times now, and I have this terrifying thought that if they are keeping him alive…it’s to make me watch the rest of whatever may happen to him.”
“What?” Celina gasps. “Why?”
I shrug. “What other reason is there for me to be in the same place at the same time as Stefan?”
Celina’s pause and furrowing brows confirm my fears. “I know there are a lot of prisoners…” is all she says.
“Weyman told me I’ll be returning to Auschwitz tomorrow. If by any chance Stefan’s still alive, I must do something. I have to fall into Weyman’s trap and pray it’s only a self-sacrifice.”
“Rosalie, if you’re right, and he does have an inclination about the two of you, he’ll destroy both of you without hesitation. I know you believe you are supposed to save Stefan, but it might be impossible. And thatissuch a thing.” Celina lowers her hand to my knee. “I understand what it feels like to give up on all means of common sense for the one you love, but we can’t forget what Officer Schafer next door did to the nannies he brought into his house before Halina arrived. Halina was lucky she managed to get away. If she hadn’t run, she’d be dead by now too. I’m sure of it. These officers all think and operate the same way. If they don’t like you—don’t trust you—they get rid of you, but usually only after they torture you first.”
Her words hit me hard and all I can do is stare off into the short distance toward the children on the swings, listening to the groan and moan of rusty chains.
I mustn’t allow theimpossibleto keep me from doing the only thing it takes to save the person I love.
TWENTY-FOUR
ROSALIE
SANOK, POLAND
March 12, 1942
The kitchen sometimes feels like a train station in the early hours of the morning. Miriam is boiling water for a bottle to feed Benjamin, and tea for the rest of us. I’m stirring a bowl of batter vigorously, hoping to thicken the batter before pouring it into the iron pan. Eloise is squeezing the life out of the one lemon we have left, for a splash of taste to add to the carafe of water. Stefan makes a racket shuffling in through the back door, stomping his boots against the grizzly mat to kick off the snow, then drops a load of firewood into the log basket next to the oven.
“I haven’t seen Mister Silberg this morning. He hasn’t already left, has he?” I ask, wondering how many pancakes to try and stretch from the watery batter.
“No, no. He’s—he just seems a bit more tired than usual today. He should be downstairs momentarily.”
Stefan leans over my shoulder, taking a whiff of the batter. “Mmm,” he hums, the vibration of his voice tickling my ear.
He smells like firewood and brisk winter air. I much prefer that scent over this batter.
The tea kettle whistles, and Stefan reaches over me for it, bare-handed. I swat his arm away. “That’s hot. You’ll burn yourself.”
“He doesn’t learn,” Eloise says with a sing-song sigh. “Boys.”
Miriam doesn’t react as she normally would to Eloise’s quiet jabs at her brother. She’s staring through the dark window, a tired, glazed look.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, setting the wooden spoon to the side of the bowl.
She shakes her head as if breaking free from her stare, and smiles too quickly in response. “Oh, of course. I’m fine. I was just thinking we’ll need more flour and milk before the weekend.” Her voice is laced with unease.
