His name isn’t here either.
Block 2 is standing at the door, ready with the ledger. Same with Block 14 and 3.
Still no Stefan.
Blocks 4 through 18 continue with a similar pattern to the first few, taking more time than anyone has.
Each of my searches result in smeared ink and no name.
With four blocks remaining, I move on to the next ledger, flipping the pages open to the SILs and drag my finger down the column. My legs shake from the cold, eyes struggle to stay open, and dread weighs heavily on every bone in my body.
Halfway down the page, a beam of light centers over me, blinds me. My stomach tightens and I close the ledgeras sloshing footsteps grow with the size of the light. “Herr Obersturmführer said you should be through by now,” he says with heavy breaths. “Looking for someone on that list, are you?” Now within reach, I recognize the man as the guard who walked me to the brothel.
My knees threaten to give out but I flex every muscle, holding myself still while quick puffs of white fog sputter from my mouth. “No, herr. I was making sure I didn’t miss?—”
“Hurry it up,” he grunts, urging me forward. He stays behind me this time, which means I continue checking for Stefan’s name. Part of me has already accepted what was probably inevitable. He isn’t here. He hasn’t been here in months, possibly. The four blocks are prepared with their ledgers, telling me they’re complete upon handing them over.
The stack of almost thirty ledgers weighs as much as a dozen textbooks, the corners pinching my arms, leaving bruises as my muscles strain and tremble. The guard doesn’t offer to take even one, just follows me on the return to the administration office.
As directed, I stop outside the Schreibstube—the registry office—and push the door open, finding nothing but more chaos, too many clerks, and guards shouting to move faster as prisoners flip through each ledger to tally up numbers. A guard grabs the stack from my arms, but I hold a firm grip around the bottom four, knowing I haven’t had the chance to search the list of names. My mind won’t rest unless I do. The guard doesn’t notice he didn’t take the full stack, or he just doesn’t care. I squeeze in toward the end of the table, between papers shuffling, numbers being marked, ink splattering. No one looks up from what they’re doing. Everyone is desperate to finish before dawn.
Frantically, I begin flipping through pages just as the rest of them are, only slowing down when I reach the S’s.
Block 9. Nothing.
Block 10. Nothing.
Block 19. Nothing.
Block 20. Nothing.
Block 21.
My finger stops in the middle of the page toward the end of the ledger, but my hand shakes. My vision blurs, inked letters sinking and rising on their lines.
Stefan Silberg | 170501X | KB
KB. Sick. Stay behind.
If he’s marked KB, they’ll leave him here as they empty the camp. Leave him with no guards or food. No heat. The Soviets could find him. Or he could be left to die.
If he’s marked G, they’ll march him into the snow to evacuate with the others. Starving and barely standing. Either option could kill him.
I pick up the pen. My hand shakes as I drag the ink through the KB, carving it into a thick, black G…“Fit” to march.
THIRTY-EIGHT
STEFAN
AUSCHWITZ I
Present Day: January 17, 1945
A thundering clatter, like metal against wood, ricochets through all the walls, slicing through me as I gasp for air. I lift my head from my folded arms, finding nothing but the familiar darkness I find more often than a speck of light. With each sharp inhale, my surroundings become familiar. The infirmary block, where I’ve been for weeks. I know the smell—the sour rot, disease, blood, and the sparing use of disinfectant.
Mutters and grunts, groans, and wooden creaks from within the rows of bunks. It’s the same as all the other blocks, but different somehow. Each one has a distinct smell and sound, ones I’ll never forget. My head is too heavy to lift any higher, but the thuds and shuffles of wooden clog soles tell me people are scattering. Not everyone here can walk, or even move. Some likely died in their sleep, as I’ve found most mornings. Except it’s not morning yet. It’s too dark out, even for the early hours in January.
“The following numbers, report to roll call immediately. Take only what you can carry. The rest of you, remain whereyou are.” Must be one of the kapos yelling—his Polish accent unmistakable.
