The Family Behind the Walls

12. Dalia

TWELVE

DALIA

JULY 29TH, 1943 – O?WI?CIM, POLAND

Quarantine . That’s what the SS officers want us to do. What are we quarantining from or for? I hear some of the others ask, but there were no answers. All we were told is that we’ll be living in Block 15 for at least two weeks. I scratch the back of my head, feeling spikes of hair sprouting from my scalp. How could I let this happen to me? I can’t stay here for two weeks while my children are alone somewhere. They can’t just leave us here to rot…

It’s late, after dark, when we enter one of the shallow wooden buildings, finding rows of tiered platforms spanning from floor to ceiling, stretching end to end with a column of latrine holes in the center. The stench could take someone out at the knees.

The building is nearly full already, leaving few empty spaces along the wooden tiers it appears we’ll be using as beds, shared beds with several others. With my arms full of assigned belongings, I scuff my clogs along the ground, thinking up a way to make them fit better at two sizes too large for me.

The first open spot I notice is on the bottom tier of wooden planks. I assume everyone is here for the same reason.

“Do you know what we’re quarantining from?” I ask a woman closest to me, also staring in my direction.

“Typhus. Or so we hear,” another responds.

“They plan to leave us here for two weeks with nothing?”

“No, we’ll work and receive a daily ration of food.” The one closest to me speaks the most—the one having trouble with her German.

“Silence!” a woman roars from near the front door.

I turn to find another woman dressed as all the others walking around, but with a white armband depicting “BLOCK 15” in black ink. Her sleeves are shorter and I spot her inked numbers on her left forearm. She’s been trapped here too, yet works for the Nazis. I can’t stop myself from watching her for a long moment, trying to read her eyes as if they’ll offer an explanation. But all I see is a vacant stare where thoughts must have once existed.

I’m focusing so hard on what’s missing that I fail to see her storm toward me with her hand outstretched, wound up and ready to strike me when she’s within reach. The sting of her palm against my cheek radiates with an awful burn through my face and neck, nearly knocking me backward. “I am in charge. Do not disrespect me.”

I climb into the shallow hole between the wooden slabs, finding just enough space to lie on my side. The dull orange lights leave us with a glow among the darkness snaking over the compound like a hungry shadow. I take in more of my surroundings, the number of bald female heads, dirty striped pajamas that feel like paper against irritated skin, and the protruding shoulder bones or ankles dangling over edges.

An object falls to the ground not far from my view. My mind may be playing tricks on me, but I see the heel of bread loaf.

No one has moved to claim it. There must be more here somewhere.

I arch my neck to whisper to the woman beside me. “Is there food and water anywhere?”

“I’ve only just gotten here this morning, but before roll call tonight, I was given bread and a bowl of soup that faintly tasted like potatoes. It isn’t enough to fill us up after a long day.”

“Roll call?” I ask.

“The gong rang. You must have heard it.” That bellowing roar scared the living daylights out of me. I noticed it was the start of everyone rushing around. I could see the action unfold from the line where I was waiting. “You need to be in the line-up before they pass by with the list.”

She’s much more informed than I am if it’s true that we’ve only just arrived within hours of each other.

“Thank you,” I offer before resting back onto my side.

I spot the bread still sitting on the floor beneath a column of bunks.

“Lights out!” the BLOCK 15 labeled woman shouts before turning a corner into what must be a small nook.

I keep my eyes pinned on the bread, holding my stare through the darkness after the lights click off. I shimmy forward, twisting and turning to quietly pull my feet out and lower them to the splintered floor. My feet are raw, burning with blisters as I bear weight on them after a brief break.

I rush past the beds, the smell of vomit and sewerage surrounding me. My throat tightens and stomach twists and turns as I kneel to feel around for the bread, my stomach crying for just a crumb if that’s all it is.

My fingertips brush along the crust and I snatch it up, but someone slaps their hand around my wrist, squeezing tightly.

“Thief,” she says, her accent undoubtedly Polish.

“No, no I’m not. I was going to ask if it belonged to one of you. I saw it fall but knew better than to call out about it.”

“And a liar,” she says. “To live or die isn’t your choice here, but who you are when you leave Auschwitz, will follow you forever.”

Auschwitz . Since arriving here, I’ve spent enough time with my thoughts to realize the German form of the word Auschwitz translates to “sweat out.” I’m afraid to wonder why.

“I’m not a monster. I’ve been starving for days. I was going to check if it belonged to one of you before helping myself. I know who I am. I’m a mother who needs to survive this pit of hell for her children.”

My explanation burns with heaviness, as a brief vision of my sweet children flashes through my mind: Max and his quiet resilience. He always knew how to deal with people better than I. He’d become a friend without flinching somehow. He gets that from Leo. Then the thought of Lilli’s sweet little smile, it makes me feel like a beast inside. If she were here and hungry, nothing would get in my way of feeding her that crumb or anything else I could get my hands on. But Jordanna, my steadfast and stubborn Jordanna—she would have some choice words for this woman, despite how often I’ve taught her the importance of patience and understanding, even for the undeserving. She’s seen too much cruelty, and she won’t let anyone have the chance to hurt someone she loves. Yet, she’s also emotionally sensitive, and I’m terrified just thinking how much she might be suffering now.

The woman laughs with disgust. “Oh, only if your children are still alive, of course…” she utters. “Your hope will fade to black soon.”