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THIRTY-EIGHT

ELLA

October 1943

It’s been weeks since I’ve heard Luka’s voice, and I refuse to believe I never will again.

The hole in my heart grows wider every day and the silence is unbearable, but I can’t let it break me.

I must believe he’s still here somewhere, fighting for his survival.

I’m not foolish enough to ignore that the SS use people until they become useless, then kill them.

But Luka isn’t useless, and neither am I.

Each night I’m forced to fall asleep in the oppressive silence, I remind myself why I can’t give in.

I’ve made a promise to myself that I will see this through and continue holding on to whatever sliver of hope I can grab onto.

If I stop fighting, stop searching, the SS will win.

Through the rain, I walk behind the others toward roll-call square, my back aching, my legs heavy with exhaustion.

The rain soaks through my skin, turning my muscles into stone, but I grit my teeth and press forward.

I can’t concede to weakness.

Not now, not after how far I’ve come.

Francine shields the roster under her coat, reading off numbers as thick raindrops putter over us.

An SS officer steps up to her side, whispering something that makes her stiffen.

“What about me?” she asks, no concern for discretion.

She’s always acted as if she’s untouchable but it’s clear she doesn’t truly think that way.

The officer places a piece of paper over her list then strides off, an umbrella gripped in his hand, unaffected as if whatever he just handed her was no big deal.

“Block 2,” Francine shouts, her voice hoarse.

“Some of you are being transferred to Birkenau with new assignments, some—elsewhere. A small selection will remain here, but the majority of Block 2 will now be utilized for other needs.”

Elsewhere.

The selection of women step forward away from the sedentary rows, trying to analyze if they have anything in common with one another.

It’s becoming harder to spot who is sick and who is just weak to the core from hunger and endless hours of work.

However, the numbers she’s calling—the women all have more meat on their bones, a sturdier step, and a sixth digit in their number.

They are all newer arrivals.

I inhale sharply and hold it in as Francine moves to the next group.

Then she calls numbers I recognize.

My pulse whomps between my ears.

The administrative workers—like me.

This must be the group staying here.

It must be.

The rain turns to hard pellets, sleet, weighing on my shoulders.

Francine continues calling out number after number, and I wait.

I wait and wait.

My number never comes.

I’m not meant to stay.

I look around at the other women grouped with me, remaining in the original line.

We’re all emaciated, pale, hunched forward and shaking at the knees, but so are the group of administrative workers she pulled away.

I will not be marched to my death without a fight.

This isn’t about fate—a higher power determining what comes next for me.

I will decide when my time is up.

“Excuse me,” I call out to Francine, the rain drowning out the sound of my voice.

She turns toward me, her expression sharp with a sense of evil darkening her eyes.

She doesn’t respond.

Just walks toward me as if she might walk right through me.

Keep still, stare back at her, and stay upright , I tell myself.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, stepping in closer.

Her hot breath assaults me, but I don’t flinch.

“I’ve followed your every order since I arrived at this—place. Now, you’re—what? Transferring me?” I lift my chin and take in a sharp inhale.

“You’ve taken an oath to support the SS, but you’re still Polish, like me. You know what’s happening here. You’ve sold yourself for extra bread, for a larger space to sleep. And for what? Power?” I take another breath, my heart pounding like a fist against my ribs.

“You don’t have to tell me where I’m going. I already know. But why don’t you look me in the eyes and tell me…tell me you’re sending me to my death.”

She watches me, her lips sneering into a hateful smile.

But she doesn’t know I see something beneath it—a hint of who she used to be, and the realization of the choice she still has.

“You’ve worked so hard and no one has done anything to repay you for your efforts,” she scoffs.

“You poor thing. Let me see if I can fix that for you.”