I wish she were with me, but I pray she never has to be.
THIRTY-NINE
ROSALIE
AUSCHWITZ I
Present Day: January 17, 1945
The prisoners stamped with a G keep moving, one after another, but I still can’t take a full breath. I hold the pile of ledgers against my chest, my fingers pattering against the back cover, waiting to hear the next block number.
Everything inside of me is hollow as I stare through the endless clouds of smoke wafting from scattered burn pits. Every inhale is full of soot and terror. My heels stick to the ice-covered dirt. Sensations of sharp nails shoot through my soles. I can’t remember the last time I’ve taken a step forward or back. Minutes aren’t passing—they’re dangling in the air, refusing to comply.
Then I see the look in Stefan’s eyes again—his plea for me to do something, or not to do anything, in the brief seconds of chaos. More importantly, I hope he knows I’m not choosing to stand here beside an officer, but that I am doing everything in my power to keep him alive. We have nothing but our minds left to fight with.
“Rosy, I need you—I—I need your help,” Mama screams through broken words.
Bloody sheets.
Pain in her eyes.
A plea for me to do something.
Frozen.
Stefan was scared. He was hopeful seeing my face. He needed me.
And I sent him away with only a bit of hope that it was the right thing to do. If it wasn’t…I altered his fate.
I changed his marking from KB to G on the log.
I marked him as “fit to march.”
Because of me, they pulled him out of the infirmary line and pushed him into the evacuation line. If I left him KB, he would have been amid the evidence they’re destroying, ensuring nothing is left behind when the SS flee the Soviets.
Muffled words strike my ears, but I’m not sure what was said. If they were talking to me.
I wobble from side to side, fast then slow. Is it me or the world spinning? My chest won’t constrict, won’t take in air. Won’t let it out. But I’m still alive. Stuck in a moment of warped time, seconds stretching, minutes, out of reach.
A slap zings across my face, reeling all sensations at once: fire and ice. A hand around my arm pulls me, drags me along, forcing me to trip along ditches and through gates. The wind splashes my face like cold water as Weyman yanks me into the administration building where shouts ring out, papers shuffle, typewriters clatter.
Then…slam.
My back hits a wall, my head bounces back and forth.
The pale green walls of Weyman’s office close in around me with a suffocating stench of tobacco and sweat. His beady eyes pierce through mine, puncturing my soul.
“Go ahead and cry now.” Weyman’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. “But don’t stand there like a damn corpse. You’re the one who did this. I told you; you’d be the one to kill him.”
Each word—a dagger plunging into my heart again. My muscles cramp, pinch, shrink, and tighten.
My face burns.
A momentary glance was all there was before I watched the back of Stefan’s shaven head disappear through the dark gates. That image…it keeps flashing through my head with each blink.
“Did you see that look in his eyes. He knew. He knew it was your decision to send him to his death.”
Tears purge. I can’t stop them, but I don’t want him to see me cry. I convulse as the last of my strength wilts from my body. Short breaths are all I can manage.
