Page 27

TWENTY-SIX

LUKA

The metal clang of a bell sends a spark through my chest as my eyes flash open.

Dim lights glow along the center of the building and men are scrambling to their feet, pulling on their caps and sliding into their clogs.

Another man standing by the front door makes his presence known by shoving and yelling at anyone in his way before shouting, “Outside! Line up for roll call!”

“He’s a kapo. He works for the SS. Do as he says, too. Roll call is twice a day and you must be present,” my middle-aged bunk mate says.

I disjointedly make my way out of the barrack, the cool, damp spring air licking my skin as I step outside.

Prisoners in striped uniforms stand rigidly in rows as SS guards pace back and forth with a grip on their growling dogs.

Roll call drags on and on as SS guards shout prisoner numbers and a series of commands.

I listen intently for my number, unfamiliar despite it being inked on my arm.

The number finally rings through the air, following a direction to join a group off to the left where a shovel is smashed against my chest. “Go,” a prisoner says, one with an armband that depicts him as a kapo, like the man who’d shouted orders at us in the barrack earlier.

We follow him past several rows of buildings until we stop at a trench-like pit.

“Dig.”

I follow the speed and pace of everyone around me, noticing some are slower than others.

I assume being faster must be safer.

Though in less than an hour, the pain from shoveling hard dirt without a break sets in.

Then blisters begin to form on my hands.

The sting and soreness are a stagnant feeling that grows worse by the hour, but I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact with any passing guard.

“ She’s a seamstress. ” Did I save Mother from this type of work by telling the SS of her skill?

The thought of her digging like this all day makes me sick to my stomach.

At least she isn’t in this group, digging alongside me.

I couldn’t watch her go through this.

By the time I return to the barrack, hours after wreaking havoc on every muscle in my body, I’m nearly numb as I lift a measly bowl of soup to my mouth.

The middle-aged man already warned me to only eat half my serving of bread to ensure I have food for the morning.

They plan to starve us here, too.

It’s no surprise.

I drag myself up the wooden rung toward my bunk, ready to black out from exhaustion.

“Wait. You.” Something sharp pokes me in the back and I stop, frozen, wondering who is behind me and what they want with me.

I peer over my shoulder, looking into the eyes of an SS officer.

He grabs my arm just as I step back down to the floor and shoves my sleeve up to inspect my number.

“Yes, come with me,” he demands.

The blood drains from my face as I notice no one else is stepping back out of the building currently.

Just me. We walk the length of the camp once again, exiting the metal gate and taking a different path around the exterior of the camp past three long and narrow buildings on my left and a barbed-wire fence on my right where more brick barrack rows extend into the darkness of the night.

The officer hasn’t said a word about where we’re going or what’s happening and, like everything in the last several hours, I’m supposed to keep walking without asking a question.

I’ve noticed every weapon draped across his body, the baton in his hand, the whip sticking out of his back pocket.

He’s likely eager to use any one of them, or so I can only assume by the behavior of most gestapo police.

We enter a grand foyer, two stories high, outlining the interior opening.

Polished wooden floors beneath my feet and dark wooden beams line the tall ceiling.

Symbolic German Reich statues and gold fixtures decorate the walls along with ornate torches near every floor-to-ceiling pillar.

People are dressed in formal attire, like that from a time I can hardly remember.

There is no war inside this building, just common life for high-class citizens.

No one looks at me or finds my appearance appalling or out of place.

It’s as if I’m a flea that slipped in through a door crack—impossible to notice.

“What songs do you sing?” the officer asks, his voice quiet in comparison to the rumble of cheer surrounding me.

“I—I, uh, write my own, but I’m familiar with many classics.”

“Fine then. The people here need cheerful, uplifting tunes. Nothing melancholy.”

The officer stares me in the eyes, something most avoid.

In the momentary exchange, I watch his Adam’s apple struggle to slide up and down his throat.

I hear him swallow, as if sand is caught in his throat.

By the look of him, he can’t be much older than me.

We’re the same height.

He has dark hair and pale skin like me, at least before my head was shaved bald.

The only visible difference between us are the clothes we’re wearing, the authority given, and most distinctly, the race and ideology flowing through our veins that no one can see.

“I understand,” I reply.

But I understand nothing.

How can anyone expect me to sing for these monsters and with uplifting cheer, too?

Ella always told me I was giving so much to others just with my voice—happiness they desperately needed.

The people in this room don’t deserve happiness in the slightest. They are the thieves and murderers.

“In the back corner, you’ll find a pianist who will accompany you,” the officer says, pointing through a crowd of people.

No one acknowledges me as I move forward, seeking openings between people to avoid brushing up against anyone or asking for their pardon.

My feet squelch and squeak in these clogs from sweat and puddles.

Once I make it to the back of the room, where a row of open windows greet me, I find a dark portrait-like scene unfold: the first row of prisoner barracks is no more than a stone’s throw from here.

Perhaps this location is purposeful, allowing the prisoners to overhear the merriment that’s just out of reach.

Despicable.

I find the pianist sitting behind a grand piano.

He’s a middle-aged gentleman, maybe Father’s age.

He has sprigs of white hair poking out of his scalp, matching the lower half of his face.

The skin beneath his eyes sags like skin-colored prunes and his eyelids are swollen.

I wonder how long he’s been here, how long he’s been playing the piano for these people.

“Hello,” I greet him, keeping my voice down.

He nods his head and widens his eyes, frightened.

No speaking, I gather.

He lifts a hand from the ivory keys and points to the sheet music in front of him, his finger trembling.

I’ve heard the artist’s name and his music; however, I haven’t sung in German before.

The pianist pulls another sheet out from behind the one I’m looking at, one with German lyrics that he sets beside his sheet music.

The man’s fingers feather across the piano’s keys, as his hands float, and I wait through the introduction, before singing out the first words.

The words crooning from my tired throat are a lie in every possible way.

To sing a song about every person needing a home that can bring them happiness when all the Jewish people have had their homes taken from them is cruelty at its finest. If I could block out the people swaying back and forth around me, I would, but I have to read the lyrics.

The guests of the party begin to sing along with me as if they have no idea what they’re staring at, who they’re watching—no one, a man without a home.

They don’t care. Not one of them.

The next song is a contemporary piece used in a film years ago about a woman yearning for love and happiness.

I know the lyrics and can imagine a world where I could be happy, full of love.

My voice fills the space around me, trembling through me in a way I can hardly remember.

If I could forget I’m here, singing in German, it would be quite magical, but my heart knows nothing but the cold chill I’ve become accustomed to.

As the song comes to a slow end, I open my eyes to see the crowd of high-ranking men and their wives watching me with hands clutched to their chests as if they believe every word I sing to them.

A few applaud but the gesture quickly ends as hushes move through the crowd.

They must have forgotten where they are, too.

Hours of singing and dehydration break my voice into a slur of scratched notes.

I don’t envy the pianist either.

His hands must be sore and aching.

I haven’t slept in so long; the room begins to wobble around me as if I’m dancing along with the others.

I try to take in a sharp breath to shake the dizzying sensation away.

“Almost over,” the pianist utters.

“They’ll kill you if your voice cracks. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’m well,” I say as a cough rattles my chest. I shove my hand against my ribs, holding it back.

“They will leave soon.”

Hunger rakes through my stomach, pinching and burning, reminding me of how little I’ve consumed in the last few days.

Yet, I watch the latest round of food passed around to the guests, still eating, still nibbling, for hours on end, while I would do anything for a mere crumb.

Do they know how hungry we are?

Would they care? And Mother…

has she gotten water?

Has she been fed anything at all?

All I can do is wonder what’s happening to her, and it’s breaking me down.

My breath becomes weak, and the swaying of my body is happening on its own.

I spot the edge of the piano to my right and consider pressing my hand down to hold myself up.

The main doors open and close repeatedly.

They must be leaving.

I continue to stare over at the side of the piano, responding to the cold zing working through my veins.

I’m not well. I watch a woman shrug on a fur-lined coat, her blonde curls bouncing along her shoulders.

Ella’s hair looked that way the times she wore it down, which wasn’t often since she found her hair to be more of a nuisance than anything.

She preferred to have it woven into a long braid.

I loved it any way she wore it.

The woman links her arm with a man in a suit, a cigar nipped between his lips and laughter rumbling between them.

We never had the chance to attend a formal event or a fine dinner.

I dreamed about taking her to a nice place, staring into her eyes all night by candlelight and holding her hand for as long as she would allow me to.

Despite never having the opportunity, I would take back our days in the sewers over all else.

We were together and she brought me warmth and contentment like these people seem to have, as well as their ignorance of the reality of our world existing outside this building.

Bells from a grand clock ring out, calling my attention to the golden minute and hour hands hovering over the twelve.

The last song ends, and the pianist pulls the cover down over the keys.

I peer over at him, wishing I could ask him what we’re supposed to do now.

He nods to a door behind us.

I follow him into a corridor with another door ahead of us.

“This is the door we should come in and out each night, not the way you were escorted in. Now, we return to our block for the evening.”

“What about tomorrow?” I ask.

“You’ll receive a daytime assignment, I’m sure. You might not assume so, but there are several opportunities for Nazi chosen musicians here. However, you won’t find any to be gratifying, I’m afraid.”

“I see.”

“Do as you’re told and you’ll have a chance…”

“A chance?”

He looks back at me as he’s about to open the exiting door.

“To live another day, young man.”

I may not make it another day if I don’t have water and food.

I follow the pianist outside, where an SS guard waits.

He doesn’t speak to us, just follows in our muddy shadows.

I wouldn’t know where to walk if it weren’t for the pianist leading the way, but we weave in between two other long buildings before arriving back at the main gate I entered through earlier today.

The SS guard continues to follow us.

The sound of his footsteps now accompanies a crunch—the man chewing on food.

The thought of food makes my stomach cramp again, forcing me to clutch my arm around my waist.

We arrive at the block I was assigned earlier, realizing the pianist has also been assigned to live in this block.

Before dismissal, the guard tosses something into a nearby muddy puddle.

I spot a piece of biscuit and a slice of sausage floating.

I lunge for the food, scooping it up and shoving it into my mouth, ignoring the foul taste of flinty dirt.

The guard laughs, a high-pitched squeal.

“Damn rat,” he says, trying to catch his breath through the scornful laughter.

He grabs me by the collar and shoves me into the block, face first, sending me skidding across the splintered floor.

I hit the bottom of my chin, and my chest burns as I push myself back up in the pitch darkness of the block where many are either asleep or pretending to be asleep, leaving me to find the slim, empty spot where I left my assigned belongings earlier, before I was taken away to perform.