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TWENTY-FOUR

LUKA

April 1943

O?wi?cim, Poland

Were we spared or being sent someplace worse?

No one on this train is any more aware than we are.

There’s only darkness, except for a few cracks along the outer walls of this speeding train.

We can’t sit or move without pressing into another person.

We’re pinned together like rolled up socks in an overflowing drawer.

Mother sways slightly forward and backward, only moving along the side of my arm tirelessly with every bump and turn.

Our skin is raw, covered with dirt, smoke, and rubble, scratching and scraping with each touch we can’t avoid.

Her eyes are closed, and I believe she’s being held up by me and whoever is on her other side.

I wonder how much longer this never-ending ride will last. Will it go nowhere until the end of time?

“Mama, you can rest your head on my shoulder.”

She doesn’t respond and I can’t lift my arms to help her.

I’ve been staring into the dark scarfed head in front of me for so long I’m not sure if my eyes have been open or closed, but my body is stale and numb.

My toes and my fingertips are cold as ice, numb to the touch.

The temperature keeps falling even though there’s no air to breathe.

When the train comes to a sharp halt, we all bend and straighten together, a frozen tidal wave.

The door opens and people fall out.

We all lose our balance and tumble forward like dominoes.

I manage to catch Mother with my back then pull her to my side as we prepare to step down from the train onto the platform.

It’s daytime, but the sky is covered with a thick blanket of dark gray clouds, rain expanding within and threatening to pour out on us all at once.

I would drink it. I would take the wet cold in exchange for drinking the rain.

“Line up,” SS officers shout at us as they pull others who didn’t move fast enough off the train.

The crowd of people move in one direction carrying us along with them.

Suitcases crash into my side, and I try to keep my arm around Mother, so she isn’t knocked down.

“I’m all right, son. I’m all right. Thank you for taking care of me,” she says.

“I’ve been worrying about you.”

“No need. We’re here. We’re together.”

Her eyes gloss, as if she doesn’t realize what’s happening here.

She has so many moments of confusion and then she speaks clearer than ever before.

She’s been through so much.

We both have, but she’s fragile now.

“Move! Keep moving!” I’m jabbed again with something else sharp, sent forward into the person in front of me.

We walk past dogs growling and barking, white foam spilling out of the sides of their mouths as if we’re their next meal.

An officer ahead is asking people questions I can’t hear, then sending them away in different directions.

“Can you hear what they’re asking?” I ask Mother.

She shakes her head.

“I’m not sure.”

When we make our way closer to the shouting officer, the question becomes clearer.

“Occupation?”

When it’s our turn for questioning, the SS officer looks pointedly at Mother, stares for a long second and says, “No, off to the left you go.” He points to our left.

“And you, your occupation?”

“Where are you sending her?” I ask, terror racing through me.

“I asked you a question. What is your occupation?” He then shoves mother to the side with all his strength, throwing her right down to the ground.

I lunge for her.

“Are you all right, Mother? All you?—”

“Let her go!” the guard shouts before thrusting his boot into my back, forcing me face first to the ground.

I ignore the thrash of throbbing pain and push myself back up.

“My mother is a seamstress. She has useful skills.”

The officer laughs at me with cynicism.

“Oh, does she now? Fine, then. You go to the left. She can work.”

“I need to stay with her,” I argue.

“Don’t take my son away,” Mother follows, her voice deep and loud.

“Enough,” the officer hollers.

He grabs Mother by the arm and flings her off to the right and holds his arm up, blocking me from moving toward her.

“You want to work, in your condition? You want to do that instead of having your son work? You think that will save his life?”

“We can both work,” Mother cries out.

“Nein,” the officer says, shooing his hand at me.

“You, old lady… You think you can work in place of your son?”

“No, no,” I argue.

“We can both work. Please, let us stay together. We’ll work hard.” Mother can barely stand, but we must stay together and work…

it seems to be the only option.

“You…” the officer shouts in my face, the tip of his finger nearly touching my nose.

“Go to the left!” He points toward a line of mothers and young children.

“And you…” The soldier points his finger at Mother now.

“Go to the right.” He nudges his head toward a line of men.

“You will work in place of your son. Then you will learn not to question authorities.” He’s punishing us, sending us into two directions—neither of us going in a direction it seems we belong.

“I’ll find you. Don’t worry. I promise. I’ll find you,” I shout to Mother as I follow the line to the left, praying she will be able to care for herself with her skills.

She holds her arms around her body as she keeps her eye on me until she’s forced around a corner.

“I’ll find you.” My last promise comes out in just a whisper.

When I arrive at the end of another line, I find myself behind mostly women and young children, wondering why I was sent this way and Mother, the other.

With no direction or instruction other than to remain in line, and for hours on end, none of us can predict what lies ahead.

The mothers are cradling their children within their arms, old and young.

Many are sitting on their suitcases or in the dirt.

I’ve searched in every angle, trying to understand what it is we’re waiting for here, but the SS walk by us as if we’re nothing more than tree stumps.

Yet an orchestra perched on a short hill off to the right, has been performing since we arrived.

Some melodies I recognize, others I don’t.

The music has distracted me, making me believe there’s something better at the end of this line we’re waiting in, but that wouldn’t make much sense after what we’ve already endured.

The mother ahead of me has two young children, both crying their hearts out.

The mother has tried everything to calm them, but without luck.

One of her little girls with chin-length hair and eyes bigger than coins stares at me as tears trickle down her cheeks.

She couldn’t be older than four or five, but she’s looking as if she’s waiting for something.

I kneel, bringing myself down to her height, and begin to sing.

I try to keep my voice quiet, not to disturb anyone.

The sky is dark and gray

but behind the clouds, it’s blue.

Lovely days will come

soon for me and you.

A darkness within my mind takes over, stealing the dream of belonging to this world, the hope that this will all end and bring all people closer together.

Keep me in your dreams,

and I’ll come to you each night.

Hold me in your arms

until the morning light.

“What is it you think you’re doing?” someone interrupts me.

My eyes flash open, finding an SS officer standing before me, the shadow from his cap darkening his complexion.

“Trying to cheer up the folks standing in the path before me,” I say.

“You’re a singer?”

“Yes,” I utter.

My gaze drifts past the SS, finding a crowd of others watching me with handkerchiefs pressed up to their mouths, tears falling from their eyes, stares of concern—a form of worry I should hide behind.

“I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.”

“We could hear you down at the other end of the platform,” the officer says.

“Again, I apologize for disturbing anyone.”

The officer lets out a groan and grabs me by the elbow, pulling me up to my feet and dragging me away from the line.

All I can do is stare at the little girl with short brown hair, watching as I’m pulled away.

She’s no longer crying.

In fact, there’s a small smile poking at her lips as she waves her small hand in goodbye.

The officer doesn’t release me to any other line.

He just continues dragging me along at a speed I can’t keep up with, forcing me to trip over my own feet as we go.

It isn’t until we reach a row of buildings that he throws me to the ground and whispers something to another officer standing guard at a gate.

The other officer stares down at me, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“It’s your head to risk,” the other officer tells the one who dragged me here.

Another exchange of whispers continues before the new officer points his baton at me.

“Stand up.” I push myself up to my feet, trying to hold myself upright, as straight as I can.

“Follow me.”

I follow his orders, walking in his shadow, looking around at thousands of others in every direction, dressed in blue and white striped uniforms, dirty, and sickly.

They are all surveying me as if they’ve never seen a person who looks like me before, but that isn’t the real reason for their stares.

They all have Star of David badges.

They’re all Jews. Is this where they’ve been taking our people?

This muddy encampment that reeks of rotting flesh and manure?

I can’t move my eyes fast enough, searching the entire area for a sign of Mother, unsure whether she’s been taken to the same area or somewhere different.

The air is almost unbreathable, solid and thick with ash and musk.

To my left, I spot a set of gallows with ropes tied into nooses, hanging from each block.

To my other side, I witness someone eating crumbs from a pile of dirt, shoving them into their mouth as if someone might steal them away.

A dry ache burns through my chest. My voice will not save me here.

On the contrary, my voice may become the end of me…