If there’s a way to save Stefan, I won’t stand back and let fear win.
Not again.
THIRTY-SIX
STEFAN
AUSCHWITZ I
Present Day: January 15, 1945
The barred windows above my head are covered with long thorns of dangling icicles, altering the little light that can leak into this brick pen of gridlocked bed planks. The glass itself is foggy with a glaze crusted frost encasing grime no one ever cleans. When the wind picks up, the ice creaks like fragile bones.
Sloshing stomps of muddy boots, wet coughs, and creaking floorboards fill the silence between explosive rumbles in the distance—sounds with unknown reason. Others lying dormant in the bunks around me have said they heard the Nazis are trying to burn and destroy all evidence within Auschwitz. All the people in these barracksareevidence.
This place is becoming emptier by the day. Between selections, bodies moved to the underground morgue, and simple unexplained disappearances, no one knows what’s happening inside or outside these electrified fences. The barracks aren’t even as crowded as they were a few months ago.
“Today’s the day. Mark my word,” Piotr grumbles, his voice rusty.
I twist my head to the side, feeling the usual ache and pull of unused muscles. Some days I wonder if I’ll become one with this lifeless straw flattened mattress. Two bed planks to my right, Piotr lies with his hands folded on his chest, staring up at the ceiling. He’s in his forties, a former bread baker, father, and husband. Now, he’s just a pin cushion for experimental labs.
Most recently, a doctor diseased him with typhus to watch how his blood type would react to the virus versus other tested blood types. Piotr’s still recovering. We’re all still recovering from something.
“You think we’ll be marked ‘fit’ today?” I ask, keeping my words in a low hush.
Piotr shakes his bald head, his skin so thin, a map of veins knit across his scalp like a hat. “We would have had roll call by now. The second day in a row they’ve left us here. I don’t think anyone cares if we look alive. Which is why today is the day.”
Piotr has been saying today is the day for a couple of weeks. Every time I ask him what that means, he closes his eyes, shuts me out and ends the conversation.
“Whether roll call happens or not, I’m doing what I can to look alive,” I say, trying to encourage Piotr to do the same. If I look anything like he does, skeletal, loose skin, protruding bones, I’m sure I look like I died weeks ago too. It’s the only way to describe the way I feel.
I press my hand to my side where my rib stabs like shards of broken glass with each breath. An induced seizure left me thrashing while pinned to the table. Then I was struck by a blunt object multiple times until something inside of me snapped. It hasn’t healed. Every inhale is a reminder and punishment. And the migraines accompany every tremor along with auras or bursting colors disturbing my vision so greatly, I sometimes can’t tell the difference between a wall and open space.
“You’re going back to beg more, aren’t you?” Piotr groans.
“We’ve made it this far. I have things I need to do when I get out of here.”
Piotr chuckles. A sarcastic titter. “Not me. I can’t imagine a day where we get out of here.”
“Well, that’s the only option for me. I made a promise to a dying man and his daughter. I won’t let either of them down.” Any more than I already have.
“Auschwitz made you check all your promises at the gate.”
“What if your kids and wife are safe somewhere, waiting for you?” I don’t know the odds or the likelihood, but there’s a chance.
Piotr shakes his head again. “They’re not.”
“How can you be so sure?” I shouldn’t argue. Everyone reasons with themselves in a way that is most survivable.
Piotr presses his hands to the sides of his head, squeezing, gritting his teeth. “Because.” His nose crinkles and lips sneer. “I—I watched the—the three of them. I watched them walk to those damn ‘showers.’ That’s—that’s why.”
A pain sears through my chest, as if we share grief. I imagine the sight of Mama, Father, Eloise, and Benjamin pushed toward those showers. They could have been, and I wouldn’t know. I don’t know if they’re alive. I don’t even know if Rosalie is still alive. I could be the last one left. Somehow. Piotr never spoke about his family like they had already taken their last breaths. I assumed he didn’t know where they were like me with my family.
“I’m sorry?—”
“Don’t do that,” Piotr says. “You didn’t do anything. You aren’t a killer. And I hope you do make it out of here. If you’re still holding on to even a thread of hope, keep going.”
Guilt tenses the muscles in my shoulders, knowing I’m leaving him behind. I need to respect his choice just as he’s respecting mine. I was given the chance to scrub floors a fewweeks ago, did the best I could with the sustained weakness, tremors, and auras. Got through most of it until I stepped outside in the cold to dump a bucket of dirty water. My muscles all seized, my legs gave out, my head became heavier than any other bone in my body as the world around me went dark. Yet, they didn’t kill me for it. Again. Why? I’ll never know.
