The whites of her eyes are sharp against storms of dark blue pools of warmth—brighter than the snow. Ice dusts her fiery auburn hair, her perfect nose and lips too pale, and her pink cheeks awash with a bruise that boils my blood. She’s holding a clipboard, and some form of authority. But how? All I know isshe’s here because of me. She must be. God, what have I done?
I still don’t understand how we ended up here.
My stare lingers too long as I watch an officer spew orders at her. The man peers in my direction, catching the horrified expression on my face.I whip my head around to face forward like it isn’t too late—like the guard didn’t catch me looking at Rosalie. My vision blurs against the hunched man in front of me as my heart thunders.
What are they doing to her? What do they plan to do with her? Why bring her here at all?
Too many thoughts burn through my mind as chills leak down my spine.
Words I should shout at them prickle on my tongue. I want them to leave her alone and let her go.
I clench my jaw, my mind and heart battling what could be her fate and mine. I’ve already seen enough here to know if I open my mouth, we’ll both end up dead.
But she shouldn’t be here.
She’s not Jewish.
That’smypunishment to bear.
A hand slams into my back between my shoulder blades, punching the wind out of me as I stumble forward. “Pay attention. Move,” a man shouts.
They’ve turned us against each other. The line jerks forward, and I stumble with it. I question if hate is something that spreads like mold, darker, consuming, and more poisonous the longer it festers. I smell the mold. Everywhere, but I don’t see it. It must be growing from within me.
Several buildings sprawl out before us, some bricks, others cement, many unfinished. Other prisoners pass by, carrying materials, or pulling wagons through the snow. I don’t know what work the SS will assign me, whether inside or outside, but I’m grateful not to be a stranger to factory labor. This will be different, though. Much.
I slink my left wrist up into my sleeve, clenching my fingers into a fist, then relax, repeatedly, hoping the tremor doesn’t grow beyond my hand. I’ve been trying to convince myself that I’m merely shivering from the cold, but I know that’s not the case.
The twitch in my eye, metallic taste in my mouth, the phantom mold stench, and the tremor in my hand—the warnings I’ve known my entire life. It’s the aura before a seizure. Epilepsy. A secret I have tried hard to keep hidden in here, but it will be impossible to hide forever. When the SS notice what’s wrong with me, they’ll send me right to my death.
I know what warnings come next and how I can try to prevent it, but not here. I’m not privy to a proper diet or hydration, sufficient rest, or breaks to alleviate pressure. Father would have already had a rolled-up cloth ready to slide between my teeth, so I didn’t bite my tongue. Mama would have had me situated on my back to prevent a fall, and Eloise—she couldn’t always do much, but she’d sit by my side counting breaths with me until she was counting alone. Even when I refused their help—when I begged them to let me be—they were still always there.
Until they weren’t.
Until the SS took them away.
I wasn’t there to fight with them or stand by their sides. They might need me, but I’m not with them. I can only pray that wherever they are isn’t as bad as it is here, and that there is still a chance we’ll find each other. Somehow…once I figure out how to get Rosalie and myself out of here. They all need me. Which means I can’t break.
Rosalie might have seen. She likely did, knowing her. She can spot a heart’s skipped beat in a person without checking a pulse. If she knows, she’ll throw all caution to the wind to help me. I can’t let her do that.
We’re escorted into a brick building, smoke chugging out from the stove pipe chimneys above. The inside glows orange and yellow, no windows. Just machinery. It’s as cold inside as it was outside. A kapo prisoner carries a pile of shovels down the line, handing each of us one. He shoves us in two directions, one side leading me to a pile of limestone. Mine carts await in rows, and another kapo steps up from behind. “You’re to shovel the limestone into the mine carts and deliver them to ramp A6. When one cart is full, deliver it to A6. When?—”
A buzz fills my ears. The machinery fades. Mouths move. No sound.
My left eye twitches and my throat swells.
Breathe, I remind myself. Slowly in. Slowly out. Slowly in. Slowly out.
The kapo leaves and the world tilts sideways. Light, sound, pain—then everything stalls. Engines roar back to life. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re going to get us all into trouble. Move it.”
“I’m—I’m—” The one man standing in front of me shakes his head and drives his shovel into the pile of rock. The clanging of rock to metal strikes a blow to my ears. The heaviness of the shovel pulls at my wrists. I need to be digging. Before someone sees me not digging.
“Is there a problem over here?” someone shouts.
Me. I’m the problem.
SIX
STEFAN
