Under my blouse, the heart-shaped winding key bites into my skin, dangling by a thread against the center of my sternum. A reminder. My anchor.
THIRTY-FOUR
ROSALIE
SS RESIDENTIAL ZONE, AUSCHWITZ PERIMETER
November 27, 1943
Sneaking out of the Weymans’ house at a late hour should be the most frightening part.
I’m more afraid it won’t be.
The air is wet and cold. The skeletal trees in the woods have shed for the winter, concealing less. A chill clings to my skin as I run from the sound of my own footsteps through the sunken wooded path. Branches crack, and leaves scrape. Somewhere, an owl hoots with warning, but my pulse drowns out the surroundings.
Three more letters to and from Stefan, slipped through the Polish resistance and their alternate postal routes. Each one felt like a severing lifeline. He knows where I am. He wrote me his plan. I wrote not to come.
But he’s on his way now.
He had the last word, just three days ago, when I received his last letter that said:
“No amount of words will keep me from coming for you.”
The rest of his note was in cipher with the date, time and place for us to meet—a ribboned tree near the factory wall.
Papa’s watch reads 8:39. I’m early. Too early to know how this will turn out.
My breaths are ragged, as if I’ve run the entire way here. My heart is lodged in my throat.
Something could go wrong.
Or it could go right.
We could leave this place together and I could hide alongside him.
The minutes crawl and my gut twists into knots. I lean into the tree bark until it pokes through my coat.
Not far in the distance, a weapon fires. The wind carries a whispering cry through the trees. It’s just nature, I lie to myself.
Headlights sweep across my face, blinding me before I drop into shadow. A lorry with a tarp wrapped bed groans to a stop, exhaust choking out black smoke.
My face burns, heat sears through my cheeks, tingling before my skin turns cold. Panic. My brain and heart are fighting, one screaming to run toward the truck, the other demanding I hide, and prepare for danger.
A silhouette slips from under the tarp and keeps low, coming closer.
What if it isn’t Stefan?
A wet leaf skids beneath my heel, but I catch myself.
A hand grabs my wrist.
“You’re here,” a whisper breaks the chill, and then I’m folded into his chest that smells of wool, petrol, and—just him. The scruff of his chin grazes my forehead. There’s no question this is real. We’re together.
I break. An overwhelming sob fires through me as my arms tangle around his body, clasping my wrists to hold onto him as tightly as I can. I smother my face in his chest, masking thesound of my cries. The release of everything I’ve been holding in since we were torn apart.
“I’m here. I’ve got you,” he whimpers into my hair. Both of us shaking like the first breath after suffocating.
He cranes his neck down, kissing my cheek then my lips, holding us in a moment I wish could be an eternity. I have dreamt of his lips against mine. His arms around me. His breath on my neck.
