My stomach knots and pulse spikes as I lift the pen. The ink drips down my hand like a single tear. The image of Stefan being injected with some form of adrenaline, forcing a seizure that could fry his brain, then strapping him down like an animal—I’ve never felt so sick. I’d never blacked out before that. Then he vanished. Only a boot left behind.
The straps, tables, and the stench of chemicals and blood—I know what happens in these testing infirmary blocks. These people aren’t treated. They’re tortured until there’s nothing left of them, then their bodies are taken away—erased. But this record—it doesn’t end the way I would expect. It lists the current location. This man…this former test subject…survived. It has to mean—not everyone is killed during or after experimental testing…
I glance down at the paper again, the words swirling in a small puddle. Not of ink, but my tears.
The prisoner number is incomplete, only five digits instead of six. There’s missing information for this man, Bernhard Privler. I’ve had to deliver incomplete logs to many of the other blocks,but never to an infirmary block—never for a person listed under this category.
Could the same have happened to Stefan? He could still be alive…maybe brought to this same infirmary block three months ago? Surviving three months in Auschwitz is rare as it is, never mind someone who has gone through what I’ve witnessed. But it’s possible.
“Don’t do this. Don’t go in there,” words buzz through my head, so vivid I swear they’re real. Stefan’s voice—I hear it all the time, but it’s so loud and clear now. I haven’t seen his name on these lists, but I know that doesn’t mean much. These are only as accurate as the people reporting the deaths and most are prisoners themselves.
I glance over my shoulder to the clock hanging above the door. Close enough to the end of the day to deliver the handful of incomplete logs to the proper block elders. Weyman is on a phone call, holding up his head with his right hand. I clutch the logs in my arms and make a quick dash for the door but hold the stack up as a gesture to Weyman, silently telling him I’m handling the missing information as I do daily. He swats his hand at me and returns his stare to his desk.
Warm rain pelts in thick drops, soaking through my dress within seconds. They could hide my tears if I was to let them fall now. Reflecting puddles line the dirt path up to the guard who now recognizes me and allows me to pass through without question. Though he stares at me as if he knows what will become of me someday.
I keep my stride measured, never making eye contact with a guard or officer. I’m here to follow directions. My life depends on it. That’s all. The infirmary blocks blur in the distance, along the back row, two buildings in from the fenced corner.
“Don’t go in there,” the voice in my head zings again.
I must.
The orchestra’s music cuts through the air like shrill whistles, as if a mockery of tunes outside the prisoner kitchen should be a distraction rather than another form of torture and confusion. I keep my focus straight ahead, knowing if my eyes wander, I’ll spot newly fallen bodies and pools of blood from shot victims.
While passing the first two barracks in the section, I notice the difference between them and the infirmaries. The windows are shuttered and sealed. Even the brick looks darker than the surrounding barracks.
A guard stands at the main door, beneath the Block 10 sign, a rifle slung across his body. “Log,” he demands, thrusting his hand out.
I hand it over, watching as he flips through the pages, uninterested in anything written inside. Utterly bored with my presence in general. “Inside. Bring it to the office.”
The corridor reeks of rot and a thin veil of disinfectant that still manages to burn my nostrils and fill my mouth. Orderlies in pin-striped uniforms shuffle by in clogs, avoiding eye contact with me, as if I’m someone to fear.
My footsteps echo too loudly—like I don’t belong here. Like the floors are threatening to swallow me up. I try not to walk with confidence, but I’m not dragging a limb or struggling to move. They can all see I’m not one of them. I should just be ashamed. I am. But I didn’t have a choice about being here either.
Peering in each direction as I continue to walk, I contemplate asking an orderly where I’ll find the office. Just ahead, all I see are partitioned rooms, but I hear wheels rolling, and furniture sliding around on the floor above. The wooden ceiling panels creak and moan, lights dangle and flicker.
I search around the first partition opening, finding two rows of lined cots filled with patients, all women. No one is alert. Across the narrow hall, I peek into the next room, finding thesame view. Again and again for the next few spaces. Then I come to an empty enclosure, cots lined up on both sides, but not one body beneath a sheet. Smeared blood stains catch my attention. A handprint. A few splatters. Then…some words. Without a thought of who might be watching me or what type of trouble I could get into by snooping around these partitions, I step in closer to the bloody words. A finger-painted sentence that steals my breath, chokes me, and kicks me behind the knees.
TIME WILL FIND US
Each letter, jagged with despair in dark, dried blood that would turn to dust if touched. I press in close enough to touch the wall he touched, but a metallic taste coats my tongue. I press the back of my hand to my mouth as my body convulses with a sob.
Stefan.
My heart severs, splits in half, shrivels to dust.
The words, written in blood…in his blood. So much blood.
He was here.
Was. But where is he now?
THIRTY-TWO
ROSALIE
SS RESIDENTIAL ZONE, AUSCHWITZ PERIMETER
July 22, 1943
