Page 21

TWENTY

ELLA

October 1941

O?wi?cim, Poland

The cold floor stings against my back, stealing the little warmth left in my body.

The cell is dark, the only form of light comes from a window with bars at the top of the wall where the ceiling joins.

I’ve lost track of time, the hours and days spilling into the next since I arrived here.

The interrogations are less frequent now, but the silence is never ending.

I think they’re waiting for me to break.

They must think I have more information than I do.

I’m not worth their time otherwise.

Though it doesn’t explain why they haven’t killed me like they did with half of the others.

I witnessed each instance, was covered in their blood, then sent into this cage of metal bars—where I’ve slept night after night.

There’s more movement down here today, but it’s hard to tell where the sound is coming from until my cell door opens.

An unfamiliar soldier grabs me by the arm and drags me out the door and out to the courtyard, dropping me like a sack of potatoes onto my knees in front of a running truck.

A dozen others are on either side of me, all of us bruised, lined with purple and red welts, swollen, and deformed.

The bumpy drive jolts us in every direction, forcing us to endure more pain against the contusions we’re already suffering with.

However, at the next stop, we’re tossed from the truck at the foot of a steaming train.

Without long to wonder where we’re going, we’re herded into one of the overcrowded cattle cars and sealed into darkness.

Fingers poking into every wound—the grinding, squeezing, and pulsating, relentless.

People are falling on top of me and at first, I think they’re trying to torture me, but then I realize their eyes are closed, unconscious.

For mindless and endless hours, the people within this car sway in only four directions, front, back, side, or side, and as one unit together.

It’s as if the air has been sucked out of the train, holding us in a stale space.

I squeeze my eyes closed as the thought of what I’ve caused everyone I love flashes before me like a horror film reel.

I wanted to help. Luka’s grandmother—she’s probably gone now, and he might think the worst of me.

Mama and Tata, they tried so hard to keep me sheltered and I wouldn’t allow it.

I couldn’t sit back and let the world fall apart.

Now, they’re the ones enduring the consequence for my actions.

And Miko, we’ve bickered and poked at each other for as long as I remember, but he was trying to keep me safe.

Always trying to protect me despite me never wanting that protection.

A screech rips through the car as the pile of us lean sharply to the left, then quickly to the right, before using one another to try and push ourselves upright.

Screams and shouts bellow from outside the train, coming from every direction.

The people closest to the door try to lift the latch, but it’s locked.

My body is as weak as a rag doll and I doubt I’ll make it off the train to wherever we are now.

The sound of people walking back and forth past our closed car door as if they don’t realize anyone is alive in here goes on and on.

Then the door slides open with a crash of metal against metal, a gust of cold wind blasts us before the shouts and screams grow louder, echoing between the walls we’re still stuck between.

It takes minutes before people find a way out.

My knees won’t lock, and I can’t hold myself up no matter what I grab onto.

Hands wrench around my body and toss me off the train, dropping me against stone rubble.

A woman around my age pulls me up to my feet.

“You poor thing.” She weaves her arm around mine and holds up more of my weight than I’m holding myself.

“I think we’re at Auschwitz. You must look healthy and alive. A distant uncle of mine heard from a reliable source all about the makings of this place. You either work or die. There is no in-between. He scared us all terribly, but I suppose I’d rather know how to act competent than not.” I’m taking in everything this woman is saying but struggling to comprehend it all.

“Work or die?” I repeat.

“Yes. That’s right. So, pull yourself together before the SS spot you look like you’re about to collapse right here.”

Why does she care enough to help me?

If I’ve learned anything since my arrest, no one has much compassion left to help anyone when they can barely help themselves.

We’re all fighting for our own survival now.

“Are you here alone?” I ask, my throat constricting.

“My sister and mother were put on another train. So, for now, yes. What about you?” She tries to press a smile onto her lips, but her chin trembles instead.

My shoulders slump forward from the reminder of defeat.

“Yes, very much alone.”

We’re walking across a concrete platform past the train, still expelling billows of hot steam that silence the world as we move closer to SS officers with snarling dogs by their sides.

“You’re a typist or an administrative clerk if they ask,” she says.

“Why is that?”

“My uncle said the healthy women will likely end up working in administration if they have the skill set.”

“Your uncle sure knows a lot about this place,” I utter, wondering how.

Out from a crowd of people, an SS officer steps in front of the two of us, demanding our names, birthdate, country of origin, and occupation.

The questions aren’t challenging, but the way he’s staring at us could make me forget my name.

“El-Ella Bo-Bosko.” I answer the next questions a little quicker, but stall when thinking about my occupation.

If I’m trying to survive, I can’t give up now.

The thought of telling Luka I’m stronger than people give me credit for is nearly laughable now.

But maybe I should believe my words.

“I’m a typing clerk and a bookkeeper for a business.”

The woman still holding on to my arm with a display of causality goes on to answer her questions.

“Tatiana Malinka, 4-10-1918, Poland, and my occupation is a record-keeping managerial clerk.” Her pale blue eyes hardly blink as she speaks, staring directly at the officer as if she doesn’t fear him.

She squares her narrow shoulders and lifts her chin, forcing a strong and rigid appearance along her slender frame.

“To the right,” the officer shouts, spit flying out of his mouth.

“Report to registration.”

A set of wrought-iron gates in the distance come into view, confirming Tatiana’s suspicions of our whereabouts.

Among the chatter I used to hear in the lines in the grocery store, I had often heard mention of a concentration camp named Auschwitz.

The words “concentration camp” eventually morphed into “death camp” over time.

I had told myself it must have been a figure of speech, but the closer we walk toward the gates, the more I feel as though I’m about to step into the mouth of a hungry beast. Work or die.

Or just die…?

The air is heavy with smoke, burning wood, cigarettes, and something sour.

The combination pokes at my empty stomach, causing nausea to rise within me.

I search around, attempting to take in all my surroundings, including what lies beyond the gates.

Barbed-wire fences, watchtowers, identical long brick buildings neatly stationed in rows and columns stare back at me as if they’re about to swallow me up.

People in blue and white striped uniforms slug around.

Some are carrying buckets, others tools.

But they all look the same, lifeless.

The gates, now above my head, encase the words Arbeit Macht Frei.

“Work will set you free,” I utter beneath my breath.

“See,” Tatiana says.

“Just like my uncle mentioned—you either work or die here.”

We’re led into one of the buildings sprawled among the many others within the overwhelming expansive space.

The low ceilings and dim lighting give off a sense of suffocation or strangulation.

The walls are bare, and the floors are cracked and dusty.

A stench of urine and vomit, so potent, hangs in the air.

Guards or officers, whoever they are, holler orders from every direction, dizzying me.

I turned to see if Tatiana might know more than me, but we’ve been separated, and I’m alone again.

The line I’m in moves in slow increments, stirring my nerves and worries for what I’m waiting for next.

When there are only a few people left ahead of me in line, I watch the exchange of personal information for a scrap of fabric with a stamped, inked number.

Once I receive my number, proof of condemnation, I keep moving in the direction I’m shoved until another guard steps ahead of me and shouts, “Strip! Can you not hear me?” His breath cloaks my face, rancid coffee and nicotine adding to the nausea already sloshing through me.

He can’t possibly expect me to remove?—

After another look around, I find everyone in the nearby vicinity stark naked.

My hands shake furiously as I peel off my layers of clothing—avoiding the gawking eyes of nearby guards.

Never have I been more exposed and defenseless, even after all the beatings I’ve endured.

My belongings are torn from my hands and thrown to the side, even my shoes are taken—the ones Mama had dotingly mended for me at least a dozen times over the last few years.

I can hear myself from the past, telling others, “ They have already taken everything from us. What more can they take?” I never should have spoken that way.

I shouldn’t have assumed we had seen the worst. It can always be worse.

Shouts and commands sound muffled as the line I’m in is continuously shoved to the next location, leaving me to fear what lies ahead.

A running swish of water with droplets hitting a drain is what I hear before I’m pushed beneath a stream of freezing water, like icicles scraping down my back.

I squeeze my hand around the scrap of fabric with my assigned number, protecting it from the water—out of fear for what it will be used for.

There are many other women around me, everyone moving in closer to each other, shaking, holding their arms around their bodies, and huddling into the person beside them.

The touch of arms against mine is a gift now.

There is nothing to dry our bodies with except a heap of worn uniforms tossed at as us as we’re shoved away from the streaming spouts of water.

I dress as quickly as I can, my uniform three sizes too large, hanging off my shoulders like a shawl.

Wooden clogs replace my shoes, pinching my feet as I scoot my damp feet into the tight fit.

I try not to think. I don’t look at the others around me.

I focus on wavy stripes on the person’s uniform in front.

Cries and moans filter through the air, warning me of the fears I’m trying to avoid the thought of.

“Hurry. Move. Move. Move!” a guard shouts.

The line moves much faster than anticipated and then when I’m just a few spots away, I get a clear view of a woman slicing numbers into the arm of a woman sitting across from her.

When it’s my turn, I move along to avoid being yelled at.

I sit down and roll up my sleeve, lay my arm out flat and drop my focus to the dirt-covered cement ground.

I picture Luka’s hazel eyes, the way they glow beneath the sun, his smile unfurling into deep dimples, the sound of his voice, calling me his girl.

It’s not fair. We never got the chance to love each other as much as we wanted.

There should have been a future for us—something more.

A cold liquid spills over me and my eyes flash open, finding ink filling the deep scratches engraved into my arm.

The burn searing through my nerves is nothing compared to the understanding that I’ve just been branded.

“Next!”

The sorrow bearing on my soul is inescapable.

Now stripped of everything that makes me human, fear embraces every step, knowing I’m moving forward in complete darkness.

How can I push forward alone without knowing what I’m fighting for?

I want to ask Mama and Tata.

They would have a wise answer, and yet, I can hardly hear their voices in my head now.

I might as well be a world away.

They haven’t a clue where I am or what’s happening to me.