My heart hammers, jabbing my ribs as numbers sling through the air like passing bees.
Say it.
Say 170501X…
Say it.
Pauses stretch between the numbers, making it difficult to know if the kapo has read the entire list.
Seconds feel like hours when the numbers return.
210522X
135236X
193524X
A-1107X
The numbers keep coming, in no specific order that would make sense to any of us since they are numbers and not names.
How many people live in this barrack now? I didn’t think there were so many. Maybe that’s a good sign.
Or a bad one.
What am I hoping for?
Do I want them to call my number?
I don’t want to stay here.
I don’t think.
209101X
The bunk rattles, and in the thin light my eyes have adjusted to, I see Piotr moving toward the bunk’s ledge. His number was called. He hasn’t moved in weeks, marked KB daily—until now.
The kapo continues calling prisoner numbers, and I notice others moving about that were marked KB prior to today. Someone must have changed their status to G, but why now? The guards could be too overwhelmed to notice. Or perhaps, records don’t matter anymore.
“Don’t question it,” I tell Piotr. “You don’t want to stay here. So, good luck,” I whisper.
At first, I figure he didn’t hear me through the commotion of people shuffling around, but then he stops and drops his hand on the railing of my bunk. “Follow your heart, Stefan. Wherever that might be, it’ll be the right way.” His words dissolve as he steps into the path of others heading toward the door.
I have no say in where I go next. It doesn’t matter what my heart wants.
“170501X.”
My momentary lapse of resentment toward Piotr turns to shock as my number rings between my ears. Someone has switched my KB to a G too. I imagine the numbers, see them behind my closed eyes, morphing the digits into Rosalie’s name. I refuse to see my number as a curse. It must mean something more. Some of us might be spared.
I gather my things and climb down, finding my clogs and coat.
Outside, we line up, in no order, it seems. Spotlights are motionless overhead, and guards are pacing back and forth.
“Block 21. Complete.” No others from my block are going wherever we’re going.
The succession of numbers begins again, requiring acknowledgment from each of us, this time from a guard rather than a kapo. Their angry dogs encircle the square, nipping at people, jerking their handlers forward. Showing who is in power. They’ve trained those beasts to kill too.
“Form five lines!”
