My heart is pounding by the time we make it to the path through the woods and all I can do is look over my shoulderevery few seconds. I’m not sure who I’m looking for, but I know I want to avoid anyone residing in this area.
The minutes of quiet in the woods settle my pulse enough to slow my pace and refocus on the letter.
Thank God Stefan understood my attempt at cipher code. I was terrified I made it too confusing. I was even more terrified that my letters were never reaching him.
Send all your love here…
It sounds like he’s found a place to hide. It must be somewhere in the factory if he was able to obtain the letters I sent there.
What I do know is that I must tell him he can’t come after me. And I already know that will be the reason he does.
He needs to understand the risk involved. I’m not worth his life.
THIRTY-THREE
ROSALIE
AUSCHWITZ I
Present Day: December 14, 1944
No two days are the same here, yet people continue to die. Not die, but fall, lifeless, to the feet of their murderers.
First, I was useful for my midwifery skills, then for my handwriting, and then simply for staying upright long enough to fetch logs from the infirmary barracks. Now, those well-kept logs—proof of life, death, and everything in between—have become a risk to the Reich. The Soviets might uncover the truth if the truth is allowed to survive.
I’ve been inside every barrack, corridor, courtyard, and infirmary. Some blocks use more disinfectant than others, but nothing can conceal the putrid stench of human remains, disease, and waste.
I’ve checked pulses, finding none more often than even a slow beat. I’ve pulled bodies out of corners so they aren’t missed when a lorry comes around to cart the dead away. Through every barrack and among every bed I’ve passed, I haven’t found Stefan.
Upon returning to Weyman’s office for more papers, he greets me with a stack of ledgers he’s pulled from a filing cabinet. “Burn these next,” he says shoving them into my chest. “Now.” His grunts and demands have become more belligerent, aggressive—something more like a fury of alarm bells constantly ringing with no reason. I prefer his anger over amusement.
I spin around to walk out of his office, but he clasps a hand on my shoulder, his thumb tracing a circle along my neck. “Every paper becomes ash. Leave nothing behind.”
“Understood,” I say, my voice pinched.
I hurry through the administration building, scratching my shoulder against my neck, wishing to scrape away the sensation of his touch.
Out in the front courtyard where fire-lit metal rubbish bins belch gusts of dry ash, there are SS huddling in small groups conversing, paying no attention to the act of burning papers.
Something is coming. A storm of allied forces is all I can assume. The SS know what’s happening but don’t divulge anything in front of anyone. For weeks, all I’ve been doing is burning papers, choking on smoke.
Except for the top ledger on the pile, I drop the rest to the dirt beside my dusty boots. I hold the ledger close to the flames, the ink sweats, glistening before dripping. I flip the top cover over, pressing it behind the alphabetized pages as I thumb through to find “SIL.” As usual, there are dozens of Silberbergs, Silberfelds, Silbers—so close, my eyes flinch at every name that could be his.
A gust of wind snags the page from my fingers, whipping it into a hungry flame. I yank it back as a strip of blackening paper rips free and floats like a feather before landing face up in the dirt between the bin and my feet.
I stare down at the mangled strip, spotting:
25.08.44 | 1705…
The last of the number is charred, a number that might begin with a 0 but might be an ash mark. It’s not a full number, but Stefan’s begins with 17050…
My heart hiccups and my knees give out, the frigid ground unforgiving against my knees as I peel the scrap of paper off the ground and slip it gently into the torn hem of my sleeve before the wind steals it again.
“Pockets!” A guard moves through the smoke in my direction, rage igniting his eyes. I stand up, wondering what he’s seen. He wasn’t within view, or not that I noticed. “Empty them.” I drop the ledger from my hand and pull the lining of my dress pockets out, a bobby-pin and paperclip falling loose. “The rest of them.” His demand growls, spit flying from his mouth.
I don’t have any other pockets. He must have seen me put the strip of paper in the hem of my sleeve. Without breaking eye contact from this wolf of a man, I slip my fingers into the hem and retrieve the scrap, holding it pinched between my fingers. The guard continues to stare, his eyes bulging. I can’t look at the paper as I release it over a flame, the sizzle and crackle destroying the number quicker than a blink.
The number. It proves nothing and denies even more. All I’m left with is the pain in my chest that almost became worse. The guard narrows his eyes and pivots, charging away to find the next indiscretion among all they are trying to hide.
