The Family Behind the Walls

10. Dalia

TEN

DALIA

JULY 29TH, 1943 – O?WI?CIM, POLAND

The endless train journey from Berlin is taking me farther and farther away from my babies and Leo. We’ve stopped so many times along the way, I’ve lost count, and I’m not sure we’re still in Germany. Each time the doors open, I hope we’ll be let out, but only more people are shoved into the cattle car. There’s no more space. We’re beyond bodily capacity.

My stomach twists in on itself, aching from emptiness. My mouth is dry and my tongue feels rougher than sandpaper, scraping against the back of my teeth. I fear, when we move, I might collapse, being held up only by the press of wedged bodies against me.

Sonia’s head still rests against my stomach, her breath warm, dampening my skin through the thin fabric of my nightgown. I run my hand over her back and peer down at her, staring at the outline of her delicate silhouette. “Lilli?” I gasp and curl over her to get a closer look. “Lilli, is that you?” I blink several times, needing more clarity. What’s happening? I whip my head from side to side searching around me. “Jordanna? Max?” My words are muffled against a damp linen covered shoulder—the man crunched against my side. Movement against my stomach pulls me back to…Lilli…no, the glossy eyes collecting fragments of light from the seams of the cattle car’s panels do not belong to my daughter. Sonia’s awoken from her hazy sleep, waiting for me to say something.

“Are you calling for someone?” Sonia asks.

“Oh, uh—” I take a few short breaths. “No one. It’s just—the doors might open again. We need to be ready,” I say, forcing sound against my raw throat.

She nods, her movements sluggish. A metallic squeal splits the air, the train doors groaning open with a final, deafening clink. The noise reverberates, bouncing off the walls of the car like a hollow drum.

Shouts fill the air, sharp and urgent: “Raus! Raise Schnell!” The words yank us forward, all of us stumbling from stiff unsteady limbs. It’s as if we’re caught within the grip of a claw, giving us no say but to comply with the demands.

“I’m going first,” I say, speaking directly into her ear above the chaos. “Stay close and I’ll help you down.”

Moving closer to the exit, I watch as others are slung onto the platform. My knees buckle and I force them straight, pleading with my legs to obey. One step down, that’s all it is. Just one step.

A pair of hands grabs my waist from below the step, lifting me off the train. The stranger—a man wearing a yellow Jude Star pinned to his shirt—confirms he’s another one of us, a Jew. His eyes are cloudy with something that resembles fear and resignation. We’re strangers, yet all bound by the same unspoken dread of what lies ahead.

“Thank you,” I utter, though I doubt he heard me. I turn back for Sonia, her slight figure pale and ghostly against the mass of moving bodies. “Come on, I’ve got you.” I take her into my hands. Her weight feels like lead against my weak muscles, but I get her to the ground safely.

She clings to me, her eyes darting through the chaos of shuffling bodies. “I want to find Mama. She might be in the next car,” Sonia insists, her voice weak and trembling.

“We’ll try to go look,” I say, though I’m not certain what we’re allowed to do. All that’s obvious is that we aren’t allowed to stand still.

The sun hangs high overhead, casting everything in a harsh, unforgiving spotlight. And then I spot it—a location marker—a sign, plain and unassuming with black letters that cut through the light.

I read it over and again, tasting the word in my mouth:

AUSCHWITZ

The name might be meaningless, but the thick air of ragged breaths bleeding into the train’s exhaust curls around us with ghostly fingers. Violent barks from angry dogs, guards whipping commands, and whistles zing between my ears—making it clear that Auschwitz is anything but just a name on a sign. It’s a warning.

The daunting sight of a wide brick structure with an arched opening in the center, topped with a protruding tower, looms in the near distance.

The crowd moves as a rushing tidal wave, as it did before we stepped onto the train. “Let’s go there,” cries Sonia, pointing in the opposite direction we’re pushed.

“If she’s there, she’ll be coming this way too. Keep your eyes open for her.”

Sonia doesn’t respond. I’m sure she’s upset that I didn’t uphold my promise of going to look for her mother, but there’s no possibility of moving against this crowd. SS officers line the cement platform we’re being ushered along, each with a gun in hand and hounds by many of their sides. My insides tighten as if shriveling up and tugging at all my nerves. Air breezes my face, but fear consumes me as we walk.

Commanding voices shout, directing men left and women and children right.

I watch as the flock ahead diverges, but not without cries and pleas between family members being separated without warning. If I were still with my family, enduring separation would be inevitable. It’s inevitable and inhumane.

While in the segregated line, I struggle to absorb the overwhelming surroundings. A Gestapo catches my eye, points, and waves me over. Others are plucked from the crowd and separated; no explanation given.

I hold Sonia’s hand and lead her toward the Gestapo with a line in front of him. People are shouting, drowning out the officer’s words.

“Your daughter?” is the officer’s first question to me.

“No, she’s not, but we’re searching for her mother. They got separated on the way here.”

The sound of a whistle has become the point of a blade stabbing the inside of my ear. “Child separated from mother,” the Gestapo shouts, pointing at Sonia.

“They’ll help you find her,” I say, releasing my hand from hers. My words are likely a lie, knowing they probably won’t help her, but it could be her only hope. The other officer takes Sonia by the arm and pulls her away. I catch her stare, grasping for me as if I’m her lifeline, and I just let her down. My chest aches, the pain fiercer than the hunger eating me from the inside.

My grief is heavy, and I consider chasing after her, but know not to move from an officer asking me questions. I should have said something else. I shouldn’t have told him she was looking for her mother.

“Name?” the Gestapo says, commanding an answer from me.

“Dalia Bergmann,” I say, just not loud enough to hear my voice in the chaos.

“Age?” he presses.

“Forty-two.”

“Profession?”

“I was a nurse, but more importantly, a mother, and I need to find my children. We’ve been separated.”

The officer lifts his left hand, a worn slip of paper cupped in his palm. He scribbles out a note and hands it to me before pushing me toward another line made up of rows of women. I lift my fingers just enough to read the writing on the paper that says: “NURSE.”

Now I’m left wondering what good this note is without my name attached, or if it will define me in some way here.

We aren’t still for long before someone shouts at us to walkan endless walk, it seems. We’re guided toward the arched entrance as we watch most of the others being shoved in a different direction around the perimeter and beyond our view.

Upon entering the compound, they take the other women and me to the left. There’s no road or marked walkway, just thick, sticky mud outlining rows of shallow buildings with a row of divided windows.

People stand in front of their windows inside the buildings. Each one of them is pale with shaven heads, making it impossible to decipher their gender. Their faces are devoid of expression and all I can do is wonder what they’re doing inside, what they’ve gone through, and if that’s what’s ahead for me.

On our organized walk along the rows of buildings, I spot a sign notating, “Bla,” with no other sign of what the three letters mean. Then another building comes into view. This one resembles a horse stable. Women wearing dark-blue striped dresses with a white armband labeled “KAPO” trade places with the Nazi guards who have led us to this point. The uniformed women jump toward us as if we’re pests, shouting profanities, shoving some of us and essentially herding us forward until we reach a long line winding around the stable-like building.

“Strip down and remove all your clothing.” The demand leaves us momentarily shocked and uncertain. The individuals ahead and behind me in line exchange long, unsure looks, wondering if we all received the same strange order. “We can move you somewhere else if this is a problem,” another woman with a KAPO armband shouts.

I do as I’m told, fearful of the repercussions if I don’t comply. It’s easier for me to remove my clothing than most others, as I’ve only worn my nightgown and a thin robe since the night of the fire. Others have layers despite the heat. They dressed in many layers of clothing to keep their belongings. They must have received notice, similar to the Feinsteins. Is this where Alfie’s parents ended up, and unheard from since?

Laughter from the male guards passing by is all we can hear while disrobing. Mortification is their aim. At once, we all slip out of our clothes and undergarments, bearing our naked bodies to the world. The sun scorns us, branding us with intense heat, a reminder of the burns inflicted by the fires. I was lucky, but it’s hard to believe anyone escaped unharmed, even with minor burns.

Of everything I’ve seen these last few days, the humiliation I feel now doesn’t compare. If someone wants to stare at my naked body, I don’t care. The Nazis have already taken everything from me. Dignity means nothing.

The other women don’t all seem to feel the same as they wring their hands, contorting in any way possible to cover themselves. We’re the same. The Nazis still don’t seem to understand this. My naked body looks the same as this brute female officer’s. We’re people. We’re women.

The line hardly moves the space of one person, and when it does, it feels as though a half hour has passed since the last time we moved. Guards walk up and down the line, counting us as if we’re part of an inventory, worried they have the wrong number and must recount to double and triple check.

The farther we move along the line, the more forms of assault await. Worse, we watch the others ahead of us endure the torture first. I watch in horror. My heart throbs, a storm inside me as the scene in front of me unfolds—the terror as a laborer shoves another naked woman down onto a metal stool. She stumbles before falling onto the seat then shivers despite the sweltering muggy heat that clings to our skin. Tears stream down her dirt-stained cheeks, her sobs drowned out by the chaos around us. A woman with a black scarf tied around her head, wearing a striped uniform, approaches, razor in hand, and without hesitation begins to strip the woman of her hair. It falls in jagged, uneven clumps, tumbling from her shoulders to the filthy floor, leaving her without one single hair on her head.

I’m next.

My breath catches in my throat as I’m shoved forward, my feet dragging like heavy potato sacks. My scalp buzzes with dread. I’ve kept my hair pinned up for so long, never appreciating it or imagining it could be stolen from me in this way. I sink down onto the metal stool, slick and sticky beneath my thighs, and clench my eyes shut, refusing to watch as the razor moves toward my scalp.

The first scrape of the blade tears into my skin, a sharp sting that sends jolts of pain pounding through my skull. The woman’s grip tightens, her fingers boring into my scalp as if she’s trying to peel me away from myself, layer by layer. I bite my lip, the metallic tang of blood striking my nerves as a cool breeze slips through the patchy remains of hair—a nauseating sensation. I hold back my screams as each tug and pull of the razor nips and bites at my skin. My life—my identity, dignity and everything that made me who I am, is gone. My hair falls in clumps like leaves from a tree in autumn, sticking to my clammy legs as a reminder of what’s gone. It’s just hair, but it’s mine and now it’s not.

I’m yanked from the stool and forced back into the long line with all the other bald and hollow-eyed women. If I caught a glimpse of my reflection, I wouldn’t know what I was looking at or who I am. They might as well have carved out my soul too.

With a clipboard in hand, a Nazi strides toward us, barking orders I can’t fully understand despite speaking fluent German. Words are muddling together. I try to pick up on the orders by watching the others in front of me, but all I can do is tremble and struggle to keep myself upright.

As the line shortens, small tables in a row come into view. The visual takes a long moment to register in my head, trying to understand what I’m seeing, but reality sets in as cries of pain rip through the air. More striped-uniformed women are slicing numbers into the arms of those who stand before me, then pouring black ink over the bloody marks.

My stomach churns as I come closer, my steps heavier and unsteady. The wait feels endless, my nerves taut like an overstretched rubber band. Every second is torture, every breath a struggle against the panic flooding through me.

“This number is your only form of identity now,” the woman says as I take a seat across from her at the small table. Her words are stale, emotionless, and detached, as if she’s dead inside too.

I clench my teeth and close my eyes, bracing myself to endure the searing pain of a needle dragging across my flesh. Blood trickles down my arm, warm and thick, mingling with the ink that burns as it seeps into the fresh wounds. I want to shove the table, flip it over and scream at the top of my lungs, but my body is numb, my heart broken, and my future shattering like a fallen glass vase. I picture my children smiling and chasing each other around our apartment. It’s been a mere few days since I saw them last in the bunker. How could I have let them slip away from me?

A wave of dizziness shakes me, but before I can grasp my bearings, I’m pushed from the stool, knocked down to my hands and knees, staring at the dirt-covered floor. Toes of boots appear beneath my nose and my heart gallops in my chest.

“Get up!” the person shouts.

Someone else pulls me to my feet and swings me around, away from the boots, then shoves their fist into my hand. “You’re a nurse. Your paper—it’s your job assignment. Don’t get it wet.”

I’m unsure who’s talking with everything around me still spinning into a blur.

The stream of water falling from above grasps my attention. A hand shoves me forward toward a gap beneath the showers. I crumple the paper into a smaller ball, clenching my fist around it, praying it stays readable.

The spray of water stings my body, but I open my mouth wide to drink up as much as I can before I begin to choke. Still, I reach up, cupping my hand to scoop more into my mouth. I have to survive. I need more water. “God, don’t let me die,” I cry out in just a breath. I must live for my children, wherever they are.

I’m drenched, shivering and dazed as we’re shoved toward the entrance of a large adjoining hall where I follow a mass of others, running without instruction of where to go like cattle without a herder. Other working prisoners toss piles of dirty uniforms, blankets, clogs, bowls, utensils, and cups at us—items that are too common amid this madness. None of this feels real—it’s a puzzling nightmare that makes no sense.

Another line. Another wait. My legs wobble, and my vision blurs as my body sways from side to side. Hunger gnaws at my insides, and my throat burns each time I swallow despite the mouthfuls of shower water I swallowed.

Are they breaking us down for labor, for death, or for something far worse?

I don’t know. I’m trapped, desperately clinging to my identity, hoping against all odds that I will be reunited with my family.