Page 52

FIFTY-ONE

ELLA

January 1945

The cold air bites through my skin, whittling my brittle bones.

I’ve forgotten the sensation of warmth.

Yet, somehow, I’m still alive.

Then again, being alive means living , and I’m not sure I can call this life .

For Luka, my spirit struggles on, but my body…

it’s starting to fail me.

I don’t know how long I can keep going for him.

The whipping I took as punishment, almost a year ago, for trying to keep Luka alive, nearly took my life.

The deep slashes carved into my back and legs remained raw and open for weeks, the wounds weeping blood and pus through my uniform daily.

I fought to keep them clean, but battling infection was nearly impossible.

A fever plagued me with bouts of delirium as I trembled on the barrack floor, too weak to move.

I should have died then.

Perhaps, it would have been better if I had.

Instead, the SS reassigned me to brutal, physical labor.

I hadn’t appreciated the shelter I had while working in the Kanada warehouses.

That work had been its own kind of torment, but this…

this will kill me.

Another change is upon us, and I’ve given up trying to predict what will come next.

All I know is that for the past week, the gongs have fallen silent—no demands for roll call in the morning or at night.

The first day the gongs didn’t ring, the kapos stormed into the barrack, shouting as they forced us outside.

We were separated into different groups, though I had no idea where anyone was being taken.

Many of the other women I lived with were sent elsewhere, while I was pulled from a line and ordered back to my worksite—the ash pit outside Crematorium number five, where I’ve spent my days digging trenches to bury human ash.

“Dig!” the kapos keep shouting at us.

I don’t understand what they expect from any of us assigned to this job.

The shovels aren’t making much of a dent in the frozen ash-ridden soil.

My wrists bend and strain against every attempt to break through however many layers of frozen earth they want us to get through.

The scabbed cuts along my knuckles stretch, threatening to reopen.

The open cuts along my fingers, between my thumb and forefinger begin to bleed again, as they do daily.

It’s no surprise Tatiana was sent to continue shoveling, too, after we were caught.

Neither of us ever make much progress, but they don’t spare us either by death or another ruthless task.

Burying ash is our only option even as we watch most of the other prisoners walk through the gates, holding what looks to be their belongings as they leave the premises.

No one has ever been allowed outside, and yet, we are watching it happen before our very eyes.

Are they going on to live?

To have freedom?

If they’re being released, why aren’t we?

Our punishment for switching roles the one time has been ongoing since March, trapping us in a barrack farthest away from where we work each day.

Rather than imagine what I must look like to anyone else, I’ve watched the decline of Tatiana’s health, her body becoming a dying, frail tree within the icy grips of winter.

One strong gust of wind will take her down.

She is me.

She is Luka.

If he’s still here…still alive…

Does he look like us, too?

Has his body shriveled into nothing but thin bones like ours?

We continue making very little progress throughout the day, but any guard left behind is breaking down buildings and throwing furniture into burn pits.

“The Soviets. They must be almost here,” Tatiana says.

She’s hardly spoken a word all day.

All week, really. I’m not sure when she’s said more than a few words.

Neither of us talks much at all.

It takes too much energy we don’t have.

“Do you think they’ll save us?” I whisper to her.

I don’t see any guards in near sight, but they’re always everywhere.

Tatiana shrugs, her shoulder bones protruding against the fabric of her smock.

“We’re getting rid of the evidence—that’s what we’re doing…” I say, coming to realize what is happening around us.

“I know,” she says.

“Tatiana…” My voice cracks as I stare down at my brittle body, skin white as the snow with blue veins swelling across my limbs.

“We…are also…evidence.”

Tatiana stares at me, her shovel shaking within her hold.

She scans the area around us just as I’ve already done, noticing how few of us there are left.

“They still need us. Until they don’t, there’s nothing more we can do.”

We won’t know when they will be through with us.

They won’t give us a warning.

“Yes, there is,” I say, my breath escaping me.

Her forlorn eyes stare back at me, and I can see she doesn’t have any fight left in her.

I never wondered how much the human body could endure, how much damage it could take, the amount of deprivation we can withstand.

It seems impossible to still be alive after over three years of fighting to survive in this inhumane prison.

Tatiana doesn’t ask any further questions about what I plan to do to prevent us from being tossed into a fire—our existence leaving no trace behind.

The longer I stir over potential plans to keep us safe, the more challenges seep into my head, making me rethink my statement of telling her there is something we can do.

I’m not sure there actually is.

But if there’s a chance Luka is still alive, I must persevere.

I promised myself I would never give up—not if there’s still a chance.

Not if there’s hope…

I’m still breathing and the sun is in the sky.

As the sun slips behind the clouds, a stronger cold front falls over us, bringing along a deeper level of freezing pain that breaks through the dull numbness we burden through every day.

My bones ache from weakness while my muscles tighten beyond my control, making it impossible to shovel even a particle of dirt.

The lights on the watchtowers don’t power on as usual and the quiet around us is eerie.

The others digging along the ash pit have given up and are lying next to their shovels or have gotten up and left.

We didn’t hear anyone stop them.

“Come on, we should go back to the barrack,” I tell Tatiana.

She isn’t moving, just staring ahead, her hands still clenched around the handle of the shovel.

“Follow me,” she whispers.

“Where?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer.

She drops her shovel and stumbles toward the back electrified fence, but then takes a left turn toward a cluster of trees, leading us behind Crematorium number two, one of the three that’s still intact.

Crematorium number four, the one Luka had been performing in front of, was burnt down by a group of resistance members within Auschwitz three months ago.

I considered us lucky to be away from the uprising outside the Kanada warehouses, but then we heard some people were able to escape.

Although, whoever didn’t escape and took part in the act, was killed—or so we heard through other whispers.

Could Luka have been among them?

Did he make it somewhere safe before it was too late?

I try not to think about what might have happened to Luka if he was still performing over there.

I don’t know what happened to him after I was caught last March.

I want to believe he’s still okay somewhere, still alive, maybe even one of the lucky ones who managed to escape.

But once I was moved away from the Kanada warehouses, there was no possibility of hearing him sing.

Sometimes, I hear other orchestras play, their sound traveling only on the wind, but that all stopped a week ago, too, when most everyone here was taken away.

Any hint of music disappeared with the others, leaving us behind in silence.

The quiet is unbearable.

If all the music is gone, Luka must be, too…

Is there even a chance for him now?

I glance up at the dark watchtower, having never been within mere footsteps of one.

I can only assume there isn’t a guard up there because there isn’t a spotlight or any lighting for that matter.

They would have already seen us by now, I suppose, and being directly beneath them is likely safer than being within their view.

There’s another watchtower next to the trees, and it’s hard to see if there’s anyone in there.

Tatiana takes another left, bringing us to the other side of the gas chamber and crematorium.

The trees become less dense the farther we walk, offering visibility to the two-cylinder sewer plants on the other side of another fence.

Tatiana stops to the side of a small wooden warehouse, peers around the darkness as if she could see much of anything more than what’s in front of us, and rattles the door handle.

It’s hard to believe the door might be unlocked, but nothing is as it was ten days ago.

“It’s unlocked because they removed all the cans of Zyklon B,” she says, as if she already knew what I was thinking.

I wasn’t aware this was where they kept the gas, but as a Sonderkommando she had access to more areas than I did when working in Kanada.

She closes us inside the dark building and paces around blindly until I hear her hand bump against something hollow and metal.

A squeal from a hinge echoes around us, sparking my heart into heavier thuds, bringing along a wave of dizziness.

The sound of metal scraping against more metal disturbs our attempt of silence, and I have no idea what she might be doing.

“It isn’t much,” she says.

“What isn’t?”

“The guards kept a stash of food taken from the one of the buildings in Kanada. I’m not sure if any of this is edible since it was taken from personal belongings, but it’s something.”

Tatiana has gone from staring out into a void all day to possibly finding us food in an SS warehouse.

I’m not sure how we’ll manage to bring whatever she’s carrying back to the barracks without being spotted, but she seems confident despite the number of guards still here.

A thud startles me, but it’s followed by a light scratching noise.

“Are you all right?”

“Come down to your hands and knees,” she says.

“Follow my voice.” A panel of wood flooring creaks and shakes the ground.

What is she doing? “Hurry.”

My knees swell upon dropping to the ground—agony throbs through each stretch, scratch and pull while searching by touch for Tatiana in the dark.

Another wooden panel creaks.

“What is this?” I ask.

“A place to hide. Help me lift these floor planks up and to the side.” I scoot around until my hands catch on the wobbling plank she’s tugging away from the floor.

I help her move it and then four more panels to the side.

“That should be good. We can fit now. I’m climbing in.”

I keep my hand on her back as she lowers herself into the opening.

Then, I slip down next, finding the depth to be just the right amount of space for us to sit upright.

There’s concrete below us.

It’s cold, frozen maybe, but it’s not dirt or water.

Water . How long does she think we can hide in here?

Why are we hiding? What are we hoping for?

I want to believe she’s thought this all through, but neither of us are in our right minds.

She reaches up to slide the floor panels back in place over our heads.

I follow her lead until we’re completely concealed beneath the floor of this small warehouse.

There’s no telling when they’ll burn this structure down.

We’ve been watching them decimate everything around us.

We won’t be able to escape once it’s up in flames.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” I tell her.

“There may not be a warning before this building goes up in flames, too.”

“Let’s just pick through the food first and maybe have a meal before we decide where to go next,” she says, already plundering through loose items into what sounds like a canvas bag.

“Sausage. It’s sausage, Ella,” she cries out.

“And biscuits.” The thought of sausage draws a groan from my stomach.

I hear her tearing at a paper wrapper, struggling through quiet grunts.

“I’ve got it.”

She’s quiet for a minute then slaps her hand against my chest. “He-re,” she says, her mouth full.

I find a thin sausage in her hand and bite down on it gently, wondering how stale it might be.

I haven’t chewed on anything harder than a potato in years.

It’s firm, and a bit tough, and my teeth ache, but I manage to tear off a bite and hold it in my mouth, savoring the mild spices mixed with fat.

Drool pools at the corners of my lips and I chew the bite as many times as I can before swallowing.

It hits the bottom of my hollow stomach and a frenzy of violent hunger ravages through me.

“Here,” I say, handing the sausage back to her, knowing she’s just as hungry.

“We’ll split it, don’t worry. You can open the packet of biscuits. We can share those, too.” The moment I tear open the paper around the biscuits, I question if we should be saving what we can.

There’s no telling how long we’ll be stranded here with whatever is left of the piles of rotting potatoes.

We’ve barely received a full slice of bread in the past week.

But the justification of preserving food is forgotten with each bite I take, reveling in the sweet and smoky spices swelling against my tongue and dancing down my throat.

We finish the sausage and eat most of the biscuits before leaning back against the short cement wall and resting our heads against each other’s.

If we burn inside of this building, at least we got one last taste of flavored food.

I didn’t think we would fall asleep, but the sunlight filtering in between the floorboards yanks me awake.

My neck is stiff from not moving all night and my behind is numb from the cold floor.

Why is light leaking through the wooden floorboards above our heads?

There aren’t any windows in this warehouse.

I shake Tatiana and place my hand over her mouth before whispering in her ear, “Don’t say a word.”

The wooden planks above our head groan, following heavy footsteps.

I’m breathing so hard I might faint.

There’s no telling who is in here or what they’re looking for, but if it’s a guard, they won’t hesitate to bury us with this building.

The metal closet whines and groans as someone swings the doors around.

“It’s empty,” a man says.

“I doubt that,” a second man says, following another set of footsteps above our heads.

“This one is loose.”

The floorboard right above us creaks and more light spills into the crawlspace as the wood begins to lift.

I hold my breath as if it will save me, and wrap my arms around Tatiana.

“Are you Poles?” a man asks, his Russian accent thick and surprising.

“Yes. Yes, we are. What’s happening?” I cry out, shoving my feet against the dirt, pushing away from the men.

The man standing closest to the hole we’re in holds his palms up.

“Let us help you.”

Tatiana grabs my arm and shakes her head.

“No, no. The Germans—they’ll kill us. Don’t tell them we’re under here, please. We beg of you.”

The Russian man crouches and reaches his hand in again.

“They can’t hurt you now.” I look over at Tatiana.

She’s shaking, as am I.

How do we trust anyone in a war?

But what other option do we have now?

With hesitation, I glance up at the man, noticing his Soviet military uniform.

Vehicles are rumbling in the near distance, but I don’t hear gunshots.

I don’t hear combat.

“We should go with them,” I tell Tatiana.

She stares at me with wide eyes, unblinking, unsure.

Still, I reach for the soldier’s hand, and he carefully pulls me out of the hole first and places me down against a light post. The other soldier with him helps Tatiana out and sits her by my side.

“The Germans ran when we arrived. We’re going to do all we can to help you and the others still here. You can trust us.”

I look into the man’s eyes, telling myself I need to see a hint of trust before I can believe the word.

He stares back at me, and I notice the struggle in his throat as he swallows.

He’s human, like me and Tatiana.

I can see the pain in his eyes.

He’s likely already seen too much today from what he’s walked in on here.

“Will you help me find someone?” My voice squeaks above a whisper.

I don’t even know if Luka is still alive, never mind here in Birkenau still, but I must ask.

I need to know.

“Of course. We want to help all of you. We have aid to offer and food.”

“Is it over?” Tatiana asks, her voice soft and hesitant. “Almost. Almost.”