“At midnight, you’ll collect the prisoner logs from every block. Every single number needs one mark: G or KB.” I know not to ask questions, but there must be confusion written along my face. “G means ‘fit to march.’ They go on evacuation.” Weyman leans forward, his eyes narrowing on me as if waiting for a reaction—as if a reaction would mean something to him. “KB means ‘too sick.’ They stay behind in the infirmary blocks.” His voice falters at the mention of KB, a hesitation, a crack in his vile thoughts—it’s impossible to read the mind of a killer. “If a block elder or kapo hands you a list with missing letters, give it back. Tell them to complete it. At dawn, any block with an incomplete list will be ‘handled.’ Clear?”
Nothing about Auschwitz will ever be clear to me. But I understand one thing…By morning every prisoner will be sorted into two groups: those evacuating, and those being left behind.
Weyman’s words have been echoing within my head for hours, following the memory from a month ago when he held his pistol up to my head and told me “I didn’t kill your Jew. I’ve been saving that for you.”
He knew this was coming. Just not when. The Soviets must be closing in. I want to believe they’ll rescue us from the SS, but a part of me fears they won’t liberate, just take over the occupation. Those who stay here might be saved, or kept as prisoners when the Red Army arrives.
Does Weyman know if Stefan is truly still alive? He hasn’t said anything more about him in the last month. That could mean anything or nothing. I haven’t seen his name. That also means nothing.
It’s midnight when I drag my heavy feet out of the administration building, ushered by a low-ranking guard to the front gates and inside. The guard walks behind me, saying nothing, breathing heavily, groaning with each snowy mud puddle his boot sticks to.
Dogs are barking from every direction, spotlights are searching along every row and column, and the stale smoke of burning paper clings to every patch of fog. Muffled German shouts warble through the air, likely of officers and guards arguing. Even with the prisoners in their bunks within their barracks, the heaviness of panic and dread of what’s coming is like a storm of wind pushing against every step I take.
Block 24 is the first block in the row. The camp brothel. Anytime I’ve been within these gates at night, I’ve seen men stumble out of those doors after earning their so-called reward for high-level labor output. Tonight, the windows are dark, andthe doors locked tight, but the women inside are still awake. I can hear the whispers.
“I’ll collect the log for this block. You aren’t permitted inside,” the guard following behind me speaks up.
He slips in and out quickly, handing me the ledger. Before I can speak, he turns away.
“Where are you go?—”
“I’ll be at the main gate when you’re through.”
He’s leaving? Letting me continue alone? One look at him answers the question—uniform wrinkled, collar undone, cap dangling from his head. He’s half checked out already. This must be why Weyman gave me a signed order slip—proof of unmerited authority.
Block 23 is next, a standard men’s prisoner barrack. I open the door, finding a bare hint of light flickering from a small gas lamp close to the entrance. “Collecting ledgers,” I say quietly. Sounds of snores, moans, creaking wood, and coughing fill the thick putrid air.
“I’m—it’s just about—complete,” the scribe clerk utters, his pen scratching along the paper in quick strokes.
He reaches it over to me, his hand shaking.
“Thank you.” The words are foreign on my tongue. There is no such thing as please or thank you here. Except I’m still human. I still have a heart.
I leave Block 23 and pace toward Block 22, waiting until I’m outside the ring of the watchtower’s spotlights. I peel open the ledger toward the back, searching for the S’s. I pin my finger within the ledger as another spotlight approaches. When the shadow of night returns, I go back to my place, searching down the column for “SIL.”
If he is here, anywhere, I will find him. I have the ledgers with all the names, and I won’t let someone else decide his fate. Not again.
Two more spotlights.
Two more pages.
No Silberg. No Stefan.
Block 22 is quicker than the last but doesn’t release the ledger as I pull it from his hand. “There are some missing, but don’t bother checking. They aren’t here.”
I release the ledger back into his grip. “I can’t take it from you if it’s not complete.”
“Some of the men are gone. I don’t know where they are.”
“Mark them anyhow,” I tell him.
“KB or G?” he whispers.
I swallow hard, knowing there’s only one option. “If they’re not standing here to march, they stay. Mark them as KB.”
The man shakes his head and leans back over his small wooden desk, flickering beneath his lamp. He unfolds his papers, drags his finger down the column and marks the missing with a KB.
Once I leave the block, I search the ledger the same way as before, afraid Stefan’s number might be one that was missing that I told the kapo to mark as KB, to leave behind.
