Page 45

FORTY-FOUR

ELLA

February 1944

When I think it can’t possibly get any colder outside, I’m proven wrong.

Despite how many of us work within this warehouse, Kanada, there’s no additional warmth inside than there is outside, but I’m thankful to avoid the wind and frostbite.

Each time the door to the warehouse opens, I brace myself for the sting of cold to follow.

A kapo has been holding the door open for minutes now.

It will never warm up in here.

A hazy melody floats in with a gust of wind, carrying notes into my ear.

There’s a place for you

Warm, inviting, bright, and true.

A dreamland waiting to be found,

Where peace and beauty both astound

My jaw falls and I choke on air.

Galina peers over at me with a look of confusion in her eyes.

“I did hear that—the singing,” she says.

“I’ve never heard anyone singing outside this building.”

I stand up without thinking of the repercussions.

I keep my hands gripped around a handbag.

“Luka!” a woman calls out at the top of her lungs.

Luka.

My stomach folds in on itself as I run for the door, holding my hand over my mouth as if I’m about to throw up.

I might.

The cold wind pushes against me as I step outside.

“Aufhoren!” an officer shouts, but not at me.

The music that was playing just a second ago comes to an abrupt stop.

A woman in the long winding line around the warehouse steps out and trudges forward with her arms outstretched.

I take another few steps forward toward the barbed-wired fence.

I recognize her…

“Hor auf, sagte ich,” the officer shouts again, warning the woman to stop moving.

No.

No, no, no. It’s Luka’s mother, Chana.

The closer I step in toward the gate, the wider my view grows, finding a violinist, cellist, and—is it…

A metallic, sharp and scratchy “clink-clink” bellows from a rifle’s chamber round.

“No!” a man shouts. “Don’t shoot!”

It’s him.

I can see him. It’s Luka.

He’s alive.

Luka .

I come close to grappling the barbed-wire fence before the buzz of electricity reminds me I’ll be killed if I touch the metal.

Don’t shoot. Don’t hurt her , I plead silently, my heart exploding within my chest.

The rifle swings in Luka’s direction, pointing directly at his head.

“You fool. Sing

or—”

“My mother. Please—don’t—” Luka begs.