“Move, move! Out!”
The shouts continue rolling in from every direction, and no one is clear on what to do aside from forming five lines. The other blocks, just footsteps from us, are enduring the same chaos.
“The Soviets are coming,” someone utters.
“They’re getting rid of the evidence.”
“Another camp?”
The questions swirl overheard like whispers of the wind, making it hard to decipher which are my thoughts and which are others. Toward the main gates, we’re shoved along, walking on each other’s heels. Clogs crunch through the snow. Grunts of pain and fatigue, buckling steps, gun shots. A cycle that doesn’t end.
“Block 21,” another German guard or officer shouts as we approach the gates. I peer to my right, toward the guttural voice.
I’m close enough to feel the pain of his angular voice stabbing through my ears. Close enough to watch a woman hand an officer a booklet of papers as she turns to face the five lines of Block 21. Her eyes are glossy, light-flecked auburn strands slipping from her black scarf. Her knees shake as she hugs a stack of papers to her chest.
She’s looking at me. I’m looking at her.
She’s the one handing over the Block 21 ledger.
She saw my number.
She’s must have marked me G, “fit” to march. And she probably changed the others, knowing mine would stand out. She’s brilliant. Of course she would think her plan through.
My Rosalie.
I see something in her eyes, or maybe something is missing. The fear she once carried—of not being able to save someone’s life, or watching another person slip away—is gone. She stares without blinking, without a plea or surrender…as if she’s learned how to win a fight.
We see each other. We’re so close, I could touch her if I stepped out of line—if I was to temp my life for a single chance to feel her warmth. I take a breath, the pain in my rib becoming insignificant compared to the ache in my heart.
I was sure she was gone, sent somewhere else. I told myself she was safe wherever she might be. But she’s not. Never has been. She’s here, and I’m—I’m leaving.
I’m not allowed to stop moving. If I do, the others will trample me. But I watch her for as long as I can, craning my neck, dodging bodies pushing past, until a brief opening breathes between us. Tears streak down her cheeks, her chin trembling as she mouths, “I love you…so much.”
I form my lips to mouth my love in return, but the officer’s glare cuts through, a sneer curling into his lips. He charges toward the lines, shouting, “Go! Move out! March!” From the back of the line, we’re shoved, all of us tripping forward.
Does she know where we’re going? Will she be going there too?
We walk through villages at sunrise, guards herding us like hostile cattle. People in the villages don’t hold back their stares as we pass. They don’t speak out against the torture or the fact that we all look like we’re minutes from collapsing to our deaths.
Gravel has slipped into my clogs, scraping up my feet, gouging marks between my toes. I grip the wool blanket against my chest, wishing it would bring even a thread of warmth. I look over my shoulder every few minutes, wondering if I might spot Rosalie in another line behind us. There are only a few other lines behind us through and she’s not with the male prisoners.
“Halt!” the front guard shouts. He signals something to the group of lines behind us, another guard.
A man falls somewhere between me and the front. I can only hear the thud of a body against snowy gravel. The line jerks backward. A rifle fires. Boots grind into loose rocks and a man’sbody scrapes against the coarse ground, just to the side. Just far enough away for us to continue walking without interference.
“Go!” Another command my body just follows.
I walk past the fallen body, staring at the man’s face. I’ve seen him bedridden in this block but never saw him awake long enough to speak. Yet, he was sent to march.
How many people did Rosalie give one last chance of hope to? Shewasthe one holding the list. I’m certain she was the one to give us one last chance.
With each heavy step along the icy path, hunger gnaws at my stomach, forcing me to realize how much the scraps of bread have done for me in the mornings. Going without is complete depletion. My head throbs like a hammer thrashing against my brain, relentless and debilitating.
Ahead of us, the road dips toward the forest—tall, thick black trunks puncturing the clouds like prison bars that will swallow us up and never release us.
The closer we come, the hazier my stare grows, colors bleeding through the brown and gray. For a blink, I imagine the blue of Rosalie’s eyes glowing from between the trees…then with my next breath, the color dissolves.
Just a beautiful aura.
