The paper crinkles in my fist as I grip it against my chest, stepping backward until I hit the door frame. He’s offering me hope as bait before casting me into a sea full of piranhas. I’m sure that’s what this is. Someone will be waiting for me outside the building. At a checkpoint. At the mouth of the forest. They’ll let me think I’ve gotten close to finding Stefan, dead or alive, then they’ll end me.
There’s no other way than to try.
Outside, the wind whistles and whines, flurries of snow torpedo through the sunless sky and it’s all bare. All I see. No guards. No officers. No one standing at the gate or near the rail tracks. I take out the map and trace my finger along the marked route. I know this could be leading me in the opposite direction to where Stefan was sent, but I believe in my heart Weyman would want me to find him dead.
Despite what may come, I’ll go forth with what remains of my strength and hope, knowing, at the very least, I’m no longer Weyman’s possession.
Through nearby villages on the outskirts of Auschwitz, between tall brick buildings, factories, and barren farmland, I continue toward the woods. The map flutters like a small bird’s wings. My coat acts as a sail, pushing against my every step.
They left hours ago. I’m only one person. Traveling without food or water or warmth.
“Stefan, hold on,” I whisper into the wind, praying it takes my words to him.
Night falls, fast and hard, carrying a deadly bite of cold I might not survive. This map might lead me to my death, but I would rather die searching for him than let time slip away without him.
FORTY
STEFAN
Present Day: January 19, 1945
Crunch after crunch alongside grunts of various volumes, tones, and strength act as a broken metronome—repetitive, but out of sync, balance, and rhythm.
It’s the sound of suffering.
Above the layer of sweat, blood, and tears, there’s fresh air—cold enough to freeze the hairs inside my nostrils, but there are hints of pine, moss, and damp earth. My eye twitches, a warning. My stomach is raw, shriveling up within me. I try to imagine the taste of Mama’s pastries—the ones I would take with me to the factory—how heavenly they would smell during our lunch break. The buttery taste mixed with almond and vanilla…
“Schneller!” It’s all they shout, telling us to move faster as if we aren’t doing everything humanly possible to stay on our feet.
Shades of gray pilfer the sky, morphing from whiter hues scaling toward black until night steals any remaining light. Every step is one second, and sixty steps is one minute, but that means nothing since we don’t know where we’re going or how long it will take to get there.
What I do know is that a coat, clogs, and a wool blanket aren’t enough to protect any of us from the brutal winds, freezing temperatures, pain, weakness, and starvation…This isn’t just a course of travel between one location and another. We’re on a death march.
And we’re walled in by guards. One on each side, front-right, front-left, middle-right, middle-left, back-right, back-left.
Not an hour passes without the SS shooting another man for moving too slow or tripping. They even shoot the men who fall to their deaths to make sure they’re dead and not dying.
The wooden clogs have no soles to grip the icy terrain, making every step more dangerous and painful.
The guards had us stop last night, and the night before too, but I believe it was so they could sit down and rest their legs. They want us to believe this is some sort of evacuation, but we all know the truth. We aren’t heading toward safety, or anywhere with shelter. They want to move us away from the Soviets who will quickly see the truth of what the Reich has been doing to innocent people. I’m sure it will be less obvious to Soviet soldiers when they find just one or a few dead men but hiding all our bodies at once to conceal a scene of mass murder would be far too risky. Instead, the guards will just watch us all die slowly, one at a time—a torturous promise of the end for the rest of us.
Piotr and I were able to reunite. I didn’t know if he was still alive after all the men shot. He was toward the beginning of the lines, and I’ve been at the end. He hasn’t said much, but we used each other’s backs for support to rest last night. I tried to sleep, but I feared being shot if I didn’t wake up at first call.
We’ve been on an incline for hours, the air growing even colder, the trees shorter. Not even my blanket draped over my head is doing much to keep my muscles warm enough to move. My hands tremble and the distinction between cold and seizing nerves are hard to decipher. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve hada full-blown seizure, but they will never stop, which means I will either make it to whatever destination we’re heading to, or I will be shot to death on the way. The more days that pass, my hope of survival runs slimmer.
If I knew how long—how far we’d have to go, I could keep counting seconds. Time would matter.
“Body,” someone mumbles from ahead.
A warning so no one trips over a frozen corpse, partially buried in the snow.
Another Soviet plane is growing closer, hovering atop the tree line. The throat growl and drone of the Soviet engines. They sound different to German aircraft—the Soviet planes rumble like they’re drowning in petrol. German aircraft scream and cut through the air like blades.
This Soviet plane is louder than the previous. Maybe because of the elevation. Despite being closer to their flight path, I know they still won’t see us through the thick pine brush.
Even if they did, they might confuse us for the German soldiers they want dead.
It doesn’t go unnoticed that each of the guards barricading the lines stare up through the trees, waiting for the plane to pass. Their eyes wide, chests out—almost as if they’re holding their breath.
