Page 38

THIRTY-SEVEN

ELLA

The morning gong strikes as if a mallet smashes against the top of my head, bringing me back to a form of consciousness I’d rather not find.

Luka’s unfinished word and cry of pain plays in my head like an echo.

Everything in my body tells me the worst has happened.

By late morning, the sound of the repetitive scratches from pens against paper and the clinks and clanks from the typewriters are like nails being driven into my head.

The guard’s boots thudding in their methodical pace adds to the relentless pain slicing through me.

I can’t keep my hands steady as I make entries into the report logs.

Out of habit, I glance over my shoulder, finding a new woman sitting in Tatiana’s seat, doing her work.

Anxiety gnaws at me, but Luka—wondering if he’s all right is all I can think about.

I can’t continue like this.

I shove my chair back, the wooden legs scraping against the terse floor, garnering several sharp stares from the other women.

“What are you doing?” one of the typists asks.

“I—I can’t sit here. I can’t be here. I need to do something,” I say, my words running into each other.

“They’ll notice you’re gone,” she continues.

I look down at my desk, lift it up and shimmy a few footsteps to the right, adjusting my seat so it’s directly behind the woman who sits in the row before me and blocks the view of the doorway.

I move the chair next, and gather the paperwork on my desk, before hurrying toward the corridor as my heart throbs against my rib cage.

The guards aren’t in sight, but I know it won’t be long before they return.

I just need to make it past the intersecting corridor to the front door before they return.

My pulse thrums in my ears as I poke my head out into the other corridor, checking for guards.

Two of them are walking away from this direction, one on each side.

I slip my clogs off and tiptoe to the door as quickly as I can.

I open it just enough to squeeze through and hold the handle until it swishes closed.

I drop my clogs, slip them back on and head toward the main gate.

The guard at the gate, his rifle locked in position, watches me as I approach with the stack of papers.

Before he asks me what I’m doing and where I’m going, I say, “I’ve been assigned to deliver these papers to Block 10, it’s urgent, and I’ll be returning just as soon as I hand them off.” Block 10 is often requesting records from us for medical purposes, which doesn’t make much sense to me, but it’s not information I would be privy to.

For whatever reason, everyone shivers when they hear about Block 10, even the guards.

The guard clears his throat and nods.

“Go on.” He drops one hand from his rifle, checking the time on his watch as he turns away from me.

I let out a slow breath of air, trying to regain my strength through the crippling fear rushing through me.

I keep my head down as I continue down between the barracks, moving with purpose to avoid questioning, though knowing I have no true destination.

If I can just lay eyes on Luka and see he’s all right, it will be enough for me, for now.

I pass around the first building, out of sight from the gate, when a clash of music from two violinists and a cellist catches me off guard, shocking me into nearly tripping backward.

Thankfully, I catch myself on the edge of the building.

I wasn’t aware this is where the musicians sometimes played.

I hear them, but didn’t realize it was just beyond the main gates.

They aren’t playing when I go to the administration building or when I’m released at the end of the day.

The musicians might live in one area or block.

The cellist is giving me a look from the corner of his eye, likely wondering why I’m standing here staring at him and holding a stack of papers.

I walk up behind him so I can ask him a question he’ll hear over the music.

“Sorry to bother you, but could you tell me if all musicians live in a certain barrack or area?”

The man’s eyes shift from side to side.

I don’t know if he had trouble hearing me, or if he’s wondering why I could be asking this question.

Possibly both.

“I believe most of us are in block twenty-four,” he says before recentering his focus in front of him rather than peering over at me.

“Thank you.”

It doesn’t take me very long to make my way over to Block 24, since it’s close to where the orchestra was playing.

Two kapos are standing outside the barrack having what appears to be a firm conversation.

A shudder runs through me as I straighten my limbs to avoid looking nervous.

“Pardon me, but I’ve been asked to deliver these papers,” I say, my voice strong and steady despite the panic driving through me.

Both male kapos narrow their eyes and knife me with their stares.

“Who sent you?” the kapo on the right asks.

I can’t swallow against the strangling tightness encasing my neck.

I can hardly breathe.

“The—the SS Administration office,” I say, lying through my teeth.

With sharp inhales through my nose, I try my best to steady my racing heart.

The kapo questioning me peers down at the stack of papers then shoots his glare back up at me.

“No. You’re not allowed in there. Shoo.”

“Please,” I utter, my words sounding more like a cry for help.

“I must get these?—”

“Leave, I said,” the kapo shouts, taking a menacing step toward me.

I jump backward to distance myself from him.

The man is seething, his eyes blaring at me as if he’s a tortured animal.

But I can’t give up.

There must be a way I can find him.

I’ve already been away from the administration building too long, but I continue around the row of barracks, weaving between them, the latrines and workshops while scanning every face I pass.

My efforts are useless, in vain and dangerous, and I’m forced to return to my desk.

I’m not sure if anyone noticed I wasn’t there today, but if it was noticed, I’ll find out, I’m sure.

I retreat to my barrack for the night, tears threatening to spill out of my dry eyes.

Despite living with three times the number of women who should fit within this space, I’ve never endured more alone than I do now.

I’ve risked everything to find him, and even though I managed to that once in the Commandant’s villa, the only thing I gained from that was the memory of watching him be beaten by an officer.

And now I don’t know what’s happened to him…

I lie awake long after I should have fallen asleep, waiting for a hint of Luka’s voice, but it never comes.

Not tonight. Not after the last broken word.

Where are you, Luka?

While straightening the blanket out over my slim section of space along the bunk to roll onto my side, a hand brushes against my arm.

It isn’t uncommon, given the little space we have in which to move, but this passing touch consists of a sharp scratch against my skin.

I untangle myself to reach for whatever it is that’s scratched me.

With little light available, I brush my fingertips across its edges, determining it’s a folded piece of thick notepaper.

I whip my head to the other side in search of whoever just left it here and recognize the back of Magda as she walks toward her bunk.

She’s a short, stocky woman.

Her body shape is different from those of us completely wasting away.

She’s lucky.

My heart races as I fidget with the note, trying to unfold it and straighten it out, twisting myself in every direction to steal a stream of light from the spotlight shining into the window down the row.

When I manage to catch a hint of light, my eyes settle on the handwritten note, heart pounding faster.

17 th of July 1943

My Dearest Ella,

My chest tightens, stealing my breath as hope ignites…

Then, I notice the letter was written two months ago.

This letter doesn’t mean he’s safe—not after what I heard last night.

But it’s something…

It is me.

It’s Luka, and yes, I’m here in Auschwitz, too.

My heart aches, knowing you, of all people, not Jewish, a person fighting against the Germans, ended up here in this hell.

I imagine you were caught trying to help me and that’s something I’ve been trying to process without success.

I’m ashamed of myself, Ella.

I shouldn’t have let you continue to visit me in a place where neither of us should have been.

I could have stopped everything that has happened before it was too late.

To you, that is. I take full responsibility for your imprisonment here.

It’s not something I will ever forgive myself for.

Like you, I’m sure, I’m given little opportunity to do much else besides revisit old memories, rethink past decisions, and try desperately to find a meaning in all this.

When I saw you that one day in passing between the barracks I questioned if I had imagined you.

Then I received your note.

It’s given me a ledge to hold on to here.

I read it every chance I have.

I spend my days, as mentioned, watching so-called criminals, who I believe to be innocent, murdered with one bullet at the execution wall.

Then, I spend my nights entertaining comrades of the Commandant, singing until my throat tightens and sound no longer forms. I see people enjoying themselves, dressed in formal attire, drinking champagne, laughing, and smiling.

Then I return to my barrack, finding grown men crying in soiled clothes, sitting in their own sickness, barely breathing, and I ask myself why?

Did we do something so wrong to deserve this torture?

Are the Germans so right to deserve this victory?

Ella, my heart is torn into shreds.

I don’t know how to find you, but I have tried.

Every step out of line is considered a crime.

But I love you and will love you until I become the man with my nose pressed against the execution wall.

I know my words are morbid and you would tell me to stop thinking the way I am, and you would remind me of the words I used to say—if I’m breathing and there is a sun in the sky, I’m still alive.

But, Ella, I’m not sure I even know who I am at this point.

I’m not sure if I have a family.

I’m not sure if I trust the woman I handed this note to to deliver it to you.

Worst of all, I’m not sure I’ll wake up tomorrow.

I’m so sorry I’ve let you down.

I’m weak and falling to pieces.

I’m not sure we can save each other.

Or even ourselves. I know this isn’t the response you were hoping for, and if I could see you—touch you—maybe…

I don’t know what I’m saying.

That’s my truth.

I’m dying.

Every bone in my body says so.

Remember, what happens here doesn’t define us.

I’m sorry for us. I’m sorry for what could have been and will likely…

never…be.

With love,

Luka

Next to his name is a stained streak of darkened paper.

A remnant of a tear.

Now, my own tears flood down my cheeks, one falling to splash on his note before I shove it beneath my blanket.

I convulse with silent sobs, wondering what the SS have done to him.

This note was from two months ago and Luka’s words were already hollow and hopeless then.

What’s happened to him now… ?