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THIRTY-FIVE

LUKA

August 1943

The Commandant has been hosting dignitaries throughout the last week, and rather than host formal banquets at the headquarters, he’s shifted to the more intimate setting of the gardens outside his personal villa next door to the headquarters.

For me, only the scenery has changed.

The fumes from the crematoriums still fill the air the same as they do inside the prison camp.

Outside amid the Commandant entertaining his guests, I observe them, wondering why they don’t react to the putrid stench.

If you were to take a photograph of just this square of grass and botanicals, no one would know about the thousands dying less than fifty steps away.

Except, these people know, and it seemingly has no effect on them.

I want to shout out to all of them that my mother is somewhere within those gates, possibly dying, and they’re here reveling in laughter.

Then I’d tell them they also stole the woman I love, and they’re torturing her, too.

They should know they took away my father and grandfather and were the reason my grandmother died earlier than she should have.

Not only that, but they’ve stolen most of my voice.

There’s hardly anything left of it now.

They have taken everything away from me and yet, here I am, offering them entertainment while they continue to torture helpless victims just footsteps away.

I wanted to be a musician, entertain people, do the same thing night after night, and that wish came true in the most horrifying way possible.

What’s worse is that every time darkness folds over me during a song, I pray Ella will be standing before me when my eyes reopen.

My mind knows better, but my heart is in denial.

Ella wouldn’t be here in the Commandant’s villa though, nor the Commandant’s Headquarters.

I don’t know where she is and despite searching through every line of people who pass me, I haven’t seen her.

If I didn’t receive a letter from her after, I might still be questioning whether I’d imagined seeing her in the first place.

But I know she’s here and I don’t know if she’s safe or well, and that thought keeps me up at night, my stomach aching, and my chest throbbing.

Those pains are often worse than the relentless burn clawing at my throat and chest.

It’s harder to know she’s here than thinking she gave up on me back in Warsaw.

I would rather live through that heartache over and over again in exchange for knowing she’s being put through the same brutality as me.

I’m trying to live. I’m trying to stay on my feet and upright.

For her and for Mother, if she’s still alive, somehow.

But I’m not sure how long I’ll last. My body is failing me.

I have fevers come and go, and a cough that won’t relent.

I’ve choked up blood and I don’t know if it’s from an illness, or injury.

Regardless, I know a body can only handle so much before it succumbs to the inevitable.

Franc and I are the only two here from our usual quartet tonight.

I don’t know why, and I likely won’t find out the reason.

We act as though nothing is different and no one is missing, and I follow Franc’s lead with the music he’s been given.

While tuning out the grotesque patriotic German folk song, I observe the different servers and functionaries reporting from the prison like us, most of whom I’ve never seen, including a kapo with a stack of papers in her hands.

She’s shorter than the usual kapo who delivers messages.

I keep my focus on the kapo handing one of the Commandant’s men the stack of papers.

She stumbles, almost nervously while taking a few steps back, giving the men their privacy and space.

This new woman could be connected to the other kapo who typically delivers messages, or she may know nothing of her.

I may never find out if Ella ever received my letter.

It’s just a letter .

I need to see her—hold her in my arms.

After two full songs, the papers are handed back to her and she’s gestured at to wait a moment longer as the man who handed her the papers stands from his table, pulls his wife’s chair out for her and takes her by the hand to walk alongside one of the taller gardens.

The messenger glances in our direction, her eyes squarely focusing on me.

My heart stutters.

Her lips part…

My breath shutters .

How—how can it be?

She’s…

so beautiful, with her doll-like gaze.

Ella.

It’s her. She’s here.

In shock, my voice hits an off note, and I clutch my chest, trying to clear the congestion there.

My throat aches relentlessly.

My voice has been changing, weakening, becoming more brittle.

I push through the air in my lungs, straining to sound unaffected.

I wonder what they will do with me if my voice gives out.

I know the answer.

I maintain the tune, but alter some of the lyrics, my eyes transfixed on Ella…

It’s you, in the battle of the night

With stars that sparkle high above

Your eyes, your beauty, such a sight

The moon aglow for my love

How could nothing else feel true

When I dream of soaring through the sky

While sitting here, so close to you

A melody so pure, it’s no lie

Why is she here?

How is she here? What did she do?

Say the words, my dear

You’re all right tonight

Oh, tell me not to fear,

For tomorrow will bring sunlight

Tears fill her eyes, and they sparkle beneath the glow of the moon.

A gesture so subtle, I might be imagining it, but she shakes her head.

I hope she’s telling me she’s all right.

Another one of the Commandant’s men approaches her with a sealed folder and I switch back to the proper lyrics.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

An officer approaches me from the right, tears the microphone out of my hand and grapples the back of my neck.

“What—I don’t understand what you—” I stutter.

“You’re given lyrics for a reason.” The officer narrows his stare at me before saying anything more, and the wait pales me as my breaths become cold.

“Your voice…” The officer steps in closer, now just a nose-length distance from my face.

“It sounds weak…weaker tonight than last night and the night before that.”

I stare back at him, trying to keep my fear masked.

My gaze flickers to Ella.

She’s watching this confrontation; her eyes wide, filled with worry.

I swallow hard and return my focus to the officer breathing down my neck, wondering if he’s waiting for me to respond to his statement or expecting me to simply listen.

“It’s just a chest cold,” I say before clearing the phlegm from my throat, making a show of proving my point.

The officer leans to the side of my face, the hot air from his breath fogging over my ear.

“You know what will happen if you’re no longer useful to us?” he hisses spitefully.

I nod, still unable to swallow against the back of my tongue.

I need water. I might as well be swallowing sand with how dehydrated I am.

“Yes, bu-but?—”

“The stupidity with you people runs strong, doesn’t it? Surely you weren’t going to question me?” The officer winds up his arm and thrashes his fist into my left eye, knocking me backward right off my feet.

My stomach sinks in between my rib cage and sharp pains ache through my head.

I try to open my eyes, but find only black spots floating above me, and a ringing in my ear.

“You better find a way to strengthen your voice before tomorrow night, or you’ll soon run out of nights altogether.”

It isn’t the first time I’ve been beaten for singing the wrong words, whether forgotten, misread, or simply exhaustion getting the best of me.

There isn’t an allowance for mistakes.

A consequence always follows.

I’m not sure how many consequences I can survive, or how many they’ll deliver before I’m sent away for good.

At least tonight, I know my altered lyrics were no mistake.