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PROLOGUE

ELLA

September 1943

Auschwitz, Poland

The winds shift, and the sharp stench of sweat and burned flesh chokes me.

My stomach contracts into a hollow pit but still revolts.

Jarring shouts from block-elders—the submissive servants to the SS officers—echo off the towering grid of red and brown brick buildings enclosing us.

In the center of a long row of sickly, pale prisoners who look just like me, I stand in my tattered, blue-striped uniform, shivering and weak from malnutrition, trying to ignore the bitter taste coating my tongue.

I’m strong enough to remain upright .

I must remain still, though the squelching mud pulls at my feet and the sea of swaying skeletal bodies presses close.

The numbers are endless, one for each of us, called out one by one until they’re all claimed.

My number rings out, followed by the next—muddled syllables.

Names are just a memory, and the countless faces around me blur into one.

I lift my arm at the sound of my number then let it fall like dead weight against my side.

A bruised lump protruding from the shaven head in front of me is my focal point as I block out the sound of other women collapsing nearby, their bony legs buckling beneath them as a surrender to the end.

I can’t watch it happen.

Don’t look. Don’t think.

Keep your eyes forward .

Despite closing my eyes, I see the truth of what I live among.

My ribs sweep against the terse fabric of my prison smock, and my fingers are numb from clenching them into fists for so long.

The last number is called, and we’re dismissed by a piercing whistle that weaves through the air and slices my ears like a knife.

I fall into another line and shuffle forward.

With caution, I take each step, hoping not to trip along one of the muddy divots my clogs often catch on.

Don’t fall. Please.

I pass by two barrack blocks before reaching the one I’ve been assigned.

Those of us on the second floor struggle with the narrow stairwell, each step creaking and bowing beneath our weight.

The corroding wooden walls, sloping ceilings and three-tiered bunks greet me at the top where I search for my sleeping square shared by three women.

There isn’t a space unclaimed.

My listless body clambers into a narrow spot on the second-level tier and squeezes in between two others already lying limply on top of the thin, straw-filled mattress we share.

With my coarse canvas blanket, I wrap myself up tightly, hoping it will protect me from bedbugs and lice.

I can only try to convince myself it’s clean and will keep me safe.

Our assigned block-elder, Francine, a tall, middle-aged woman with masculine shoulders, accentuated by the man’s overcoat she wears as a shawl, prowls around with a permanent sneer that deforms the lower half of her face.

Her heavy footsteps as she walks with a sense of vengeance boom louder than anything else.

“What is this?” Francine growls, tone demanding.

She should have already left for the privileged living quarters within the block-elder’s building, but it’s clear she’s still here looking for someone’s mistake—an oversight she can report.

Every infraction she writes up boosts her appearance of loyalty to the SS.

Her wooden clogs thud with each step, and my muscles tense, terrified of what she’s referring to.

“A black and red floral scarf, left on the ground.” She clucks her tongue and taps her fingers against her coat sleeve.

“This is a cherished item, isn’t it?” she teases with glee.

“Probably just a silly reminder of home, I assume?” I breathe a silent sigh of relief—it isn’t mine—but the tension returns as I await what comes next…

“It’s mine, it belongs to me,” a woman cries out.

“I didn’t mean to?—”

“What a shame,” Francine says, releasing an exaggerated breath before slowly, meticulously, tearing the fabric in half.

I jam my fists against my ears, trying to drown out the sound of her looming punishment.

With my eyes squeezed shut, I will myself to believe I’m somewhere else, not listening to my barrack-mate’s cries of pain.

The floor shudders beneath me as Francine makes her way out the door, signaling that the punishment is over…

for now.

Timely as ever, the second gong rattles the walls, a warning for the lights to go out, bringing me to the moment I fear all day: the darkness between the sweeping spotlights and the long shadows of barbed-wire fences on the chipped, white-washed barrack walls is unlike anything I knew before Auschwitz.

A black canvas sprawls through my head as a flood of memories from the day and all prior days here return in full color, vivid and fresh to loop along an endless reel of film.

The definition of silence here is the moans of prisoners, the creaking wooden bunks, and the steady patter of rain on the old roof—a symphony of suffering.

With a shaky breath, I drop my fists and roll onto my side, clutching the rough canvas sheet to my chin.

Outside, the wind whistles, and then the rain ends, a hum of silent static filling the air.

My heart hammers in my chest as I lie motionless, confined to this one spot for the long hours of the night.

But then—there’s a sound in the silence.

A prisoner, forced to sing.

The song kindles faintly, like the first glimmer of sun cresting over the horizon in pursuit of the endless night—a velvety hum slips through the cracks of the windows, wrapping me in its embrace.

I draw in a breath, straining to catch every note until the song grows clearer, the gentle melody a caress against my fractured heart.

It’s my Luka.

His voice is the one thing I live for now.

He’s close enough to hear, but unreachable with the barbed-wire fences separating us in the pit of Auschwitz.

He’s still alive. That’s what matters.

We’ve made it another night here.

Despite the torture we all face here, Luka’s voice still somehow defies the despair surrounding us, carrying a sense of comfort and hope, even with the growing damage to his singing voice.

It’s as if his life depends on each word…

The sky is dark and gray

but behind the clouds, it’s blue.

Lovely days will come

soon for me and you.

If his voice were a record, I might think it was scratched—the struggle in the lyrics, the gravel lining every other word…

something’s wrong.

Keep me in your dreams,

and I’ll co?—

A blunt crack slices through the air.

The song halts mid-word, choked by Luka’s sudden gut-wrenching howl of pain.

Then there is only silence…

I can’t blink, breathe, or move.

My body stiffens like ice as I wait for what comes next.

Or is this…

The end?