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TWENTY-TWO

ELLA

March 1942

O?wi?cim, Poland

For five months, I’ve been holding on to my memories of the life I had before Auschwitz—perfect in comparison to what’s around me—as if they will save me.

I can’t find any semblance of warmth here, even with the hundreds of people sharing tight quarters in this barrack.

I’m back-to-back with one woman and holding a thin blanket in front of my face for separation from another woman’s face that’s within a fingertip’s reach.

She breathes so heavily all night; the sound and smell often keeping me awake with my heart racing.

It’s hard to breathe through the blanket, but it blocks out some of the bodily fluid stenches that I’ve yet to grow used to.

Mama used to make my bed for me even after I was far too old for it.

She said she enjoyed adding a touch of love to every room in our apartment.

She would line up the doll, stuffed elephant, and a pink teddy bear, all of which Tata gave me for birthdays as a little girl, in front of my pillow.

The sheets taut and the quilt perfectly folded.

Everything in my small bedroom would be neat and tidy.

She would spray a touch of vanilla in the air and close the door.

Meals were on the table every night, no matter what our days would bring.

She always greeted us with a smile, but she must have been tired from taking care of us.

I never appreciated how much work it was to keep a clean home, food on the table, clothes pressed, bills paid, and errands completed.

A thankless job that I took for granted.

How can I apologize?

I squeeze my eyes closed, pleading for a dream to take me away from where I am.

I picture Luka, the same image every night.

It’s almost as if he’s with me but frozen in my memory, stuck in the same place we were that last night I was with him in the tunnels, promising to help him find herbs for his grandmother.

I was as worried about him as I was about her, with how thin he was becoming.

I don’t want to think of him that way but even when I sleep, my fears sneak in and take over.

That’s why I stick with the one image—a favorite moment in our tree.

The touch of his lips on my fingertips still lingers in my mind.

His melodic murmurs, just out of reach, leave me pleading for the sound of his voice.

The darkness of exhaustion pulls me under…

“Sing for me,” I whisper, searching for him in the dark.

“Tell me you still love me, and everything is all right.”

His fingertips sweep across my cheek and a glow along his face teases me with his beautiful smile as it grows along his lips.

“My heart sings for her…” he murmurs.

“For you, my beautiful.”

“No,” I say through a grave exhale.

“Luka…”

“Even if my voice can’t be heard…” he continues.

“Not that song…”

“Our moments are no more,” he sings.

“We’ll be trapped like a caged bird.”

“I never told you I heard you singing that night from the other side of the wall in Warsaw.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

“I wish things could be different.”

“No, don’t say that. Shh,” I hush, holding my finger up to his lips.

They’re ice-cold.

A deep echoing hum thuds through my ears.

I gasp for air and bolt upright, crashing my head off a beam of wood.

“Luka, no!” I shout, then immediately slap my hand over my mouth.

“Quiet, you’re going to get us in trouble,” the heavy breathing girl next to me snaps.

I blink, finding darkness with a faint light, and a pain swelling through my forehead.

My moments with Luka were alive in my head, but even there, he’s taken from me.

Is it because he’s truly gone?

The thought of the vivid dream quakes through my chest. It was just in my head.

It wasn’t real.

A chill zips down my spine, followed by another, and another—the next one always looming.

Yet, sweat glosses my skin, beads trickling down my torso and back adding to the raw coldness.

I roll onto my side, scraping my brittle hands and jagged fingernails beneath my chapped cheeks as I will myself back to sleep.

But it’s too late…

The first morning gong bellows between the walls, screaming at us to move faster.

I drag my hands out from beneath my cheek as the lights flicker from the ceiling.

I squint against the tired ache and wait for my vision to clear.

The sharp pointy bones along my wrist are what I notice first every morning.

If they become any thinner, they might snap.

I try to push myself up to slide off the bottom edge of the bunk, panting from exhaustion with such little movement.

My breath lingers in a ghostly fog, drifting away until disappearing.

I skim down the side of the wooden frames, flinching from each splinter I scrape against. Other women are moving in every direction as if blind and disoriented, each bumping into one other, into me, their warmth almost inviting in an unnatural way.

We’re surviving off a few hours of sleep each night and worked to the bone before starting the horrific cycle all over again.

A quick visit to the latrines to use the toilets and wash whatever body parts time allows.

Then, it’s disbursement of watered-down, cold coffee, and a slice of stale bread.

I eat so fast, my jaw aches and my stomach muscles tense.

Before the last bite of bread falls to the pit of my stomach, the second gong rings, causing another atrocious headache.

Now, it’s roll call…

again.

As the general direction of movement leans to one side, I slink along in the middle, taking in various stenches as I walk.

A combination of unbathed skin, sweat, and fermented sickness assaults my nose and wrings around my stomach.

I swallow against an acidic burn and continue making my way toward the arctic blast outside.

With my arm over my eyes as a shield from the flood lights striking us from both directions, I imagine the glow being from the sun instead, and rather than the frost bitten air, the breeze could be warm, a scent of wildflowers in a meadow, Mama calling my name to return home after picking ripe herbs.

My dress would twist and bloom around me and I would run with the wind’s hands pushing me forward like a swing in motion.

“Aufstehen!” A shout tears me from my hallucination.

All of us move in a line, shoved forward with impatience.

We fall into rows, for roll call.

Eyes graze over us, up and down, staring with a telescoping glare to find something out of place—someone where they don’t belong, doing what they shouldn’t be doing, breathing the wrong way.

I try to block out the action of standing still for so long by holding my breath in increments of fifteen seconds each, hoping my legs won’t shake.

There’s no escape. Every one of us is out in the open, but restrained, waiting for an inspection.

Francine, the block-elder, a Polish member of the resistance, stands before us, her shoulders as square as her jaw, her eyes narrow with ire.

She holds a clipboard and a pencil as she moves back and forth in front of the rows wearing a man’s overcoat with an armband that denotes her as a block-elder—the person in charge of us.

The person who will rat any one of us out to an SS officer for any small infraction.

She spews hate through every word and all I can do is stare at her day to day, wondering how anyone who referred to themselves as a Polish resistance member could treat others as if we were the Germans she spent her days fighting.

She must have forgotten what she was fighting for or realized she’s the only one worth fighting for.

The resistance was trying to help.

That’s what Tata and Miko spent their days doing.

I wasn’t an official member, but I wanted to help Luka’s family.

Help is all any of us wanted to give.

Even until the last moment as the gestapo police were coming for us.

The air nips at my face with every step I take following the end of our roll call, walking to my designated checkpoint.

I keep my eyes pinned to the ground, focusing on nothing more than the old frozen snow crunching beneath my feet.

Though I can’t see the stares, they weigh on me.

Every day, I sense people watching me just as I watch them when they walk by, wondering what they did to end up here, whether it was because they were just simply Jewish, or standing up for their country.

What innocent purpose could so many people have to be here, living like this with the never-ending fear of being sent away, never to return.

It’s become apparent those people are sent to their death.

The train stops at Auschwitz—or so I’ve heard through murmurs of others.

A gust of wind showers me with freckles of snow, blowing my scarf back along my shaved head.

I yank it back into place, holding it until I come to the guard post.

“Here for clerical duty in administration,” I say, pushing the sleeve of my dress up to show the dried ink of numbers beneath the top layers of skin.

The guard grunts and nods, then releases the gate for me to pass through where other guards line the short walkway between that gate and the administration door.

They all stare at me as if I’m some creature from outer space.

The moment I step inside the building, the intense cold ceases, turning into a more manageable chill.

The air is filled with the scent of cigarette smoke and old coffee, with the sharp zing of paper and ink.

The walls are covered with maps and propaganda posters and my clogs create a hollow thud with each step I take down the corridor.

An SS guard follows behind me, making sure I go to where I’m supposed to.

His eyes burn against my back and he’s walking too closely.

I reach the end of the corridor and enter the open area lined with desks.

I approach the one I report to each day, finding a stack of papers spilling out of a folder.

The guard walks past me, presses his finger to the pile and taps twice.

Each paper is a single prisoner record, all needing to be entered into a catalog along with their numbers and block assignment.

I see so many names every day and have no idea who anyone is, what they look like, or what their fate is.

I can’t afford a mistake.

Consequences await mistakes.

I sit down on the oak wooden chair and pull myself in closer to the desk and take a pen from the lonely tin can.

My hand is still cold and shaking from the walk over, but I need perfect penmanship.

They said that’s why I was chosen in the first place.

No one has ever told me I have perfect anything, especially not my handwriting, but it appears it might be the one thing saving my life now.

“Psst,” a hiss grows from the desk behind me.

I look around, making sure the guards aren’t within sight, and twist around, finding Tatiana cupping her hand around her mouth.

Maybe it was coincidence, luck, or the two of us listing off similar occupations, but it was a relief to find a friendly face here the first time I reported for duty.

“Open your hands.”

She unrolls her sleeve and plucks out a small object from the cuff then tosses it into my hands.

A warm, foil wrapped strawberry candy rests in the center of my palm, calling for an angry stomach growl—a reminder of how little I consume each day.

“Where did you get this?” I ask, keeping my voice to a whisper.

“Many people here know someone who knows someone who can get things most of us can only dream of, and well—I received information. The guards in this building keep a stash of sweets in a narrow, inconspicuous closet behind the door guard’s post. Apparently, they never lock it, and the door guard leaves for twenty minutes at noon every day. It’ll be the most delicious treat you’ve had in months.”

I don’t waste a second before peeling off the wrapper and shoving the tart candy into my mouth.

My cheeks clench and lips pucker.

For a moment, I’m in heaven.

It is the most delicious taste and I had almost forgotten something so sweet existed.

As I crunch through the candy, I realize I don’t have anything to offer Tatiana in return.

I cover my mouth to stop the drool from pooling at the corners of my lips and stare back at her.

“I don’t have anything for you. I’ll find something. I’ll do anything. What can I do?” I ask.

“Stop it. We’re friends. I want to share.”

“Friends. Always,” I tell her.

It hasn’t been long, but anyone who shows empathy to another person here is someone to hold on to for as long as possible—a thought I cling to all day.

For endless hours, I listen to my pen scratching against paper with background drone of boots clomping down the hallways or hushed conversations between guards.

The hanging light above my head flickers all day, causing spots to float in front of my eyes, landing on the papers I’m trying to focus on.

Then the click of the flicker becomes a repetitive silence that makes my heart pound with every inked letter I form.

The sweetness from the candy has worn off my tongue and my stomach has grown a new level of anger and hunger from the delectable tease.

In the final hour of the work day, the dark thoughts always return, reminding me my life has an expiration date—friend or no friend, and this is how I’m spending whatever final days I have—a slave to the Wehrmacht who believe they have a right to whatever they want.