16. Dalia
SIXTEEN
DALIA
AUGUST 14TH, 1943 – O?WI?CIM, POLAND
The two-week period of quarantining is over with only question marks on the horizon. We scatter to find our new assigned blocks, dry dirt kicking up into our faces as we shuffle along in our wooden shoes. No one knows what comes next. I expect only hard labor, exhaustion, and hunger. This place isn’t for survival…it’s a place where death awaits us all.
The new block assignment—Block 13—isn’t far from the quarantine block. Upon arriving here, I’ve found my welcome as non-existent as it was when I arrived in the last block. Similarly, there’s no space for additional people here, and many of us have been newly assigned as of today. Block elder 13 shouts rules, ones I’ve already heard during quarantine.
“You will use the latrine when told. No one is to leave the block after the lights go out or before the morning gong rings. Those of you assigned labor duty in the main Auschwitz camp will need to wake an hour prior to the rest. By four a.m., you will be washed and ready to report for duty. You will receive your assignment location by the transport kapo.” This block elder seems more pleasant than the last, but first impressions aren’t everything here. “The following numbers, report to me at once for your assignment…”
My number is called as part of the list she rattles off. This morning, after roll call, those of us in quarantine were split into three different blocks, but it seems at least twenty of us have been sent here to Block 13.
I haven’t even found a narrow spot on the wooden bunk platforms yet, and I’m still holding my armful of belongings, but I step forward toward the block elder, waiting for my assignment.
It’s hard not to watch her face as her gaze darts around, searching for the other women she’s called over. This block elder has a yellow Jewish star badge sewn to her uniform despite her semi-privileged role. She’s a Jewish block elder working for the SS. I wonder if they’re given extra food or privileges. This woman is younger than I first suspected, possibly only Jordanna’s age, and by the way she pinches her lips together, I sense a hint of nervousness about her. Her knuckles are white as she grips the pencil in her hand. I also wonder what her story is, who she was before arriving here, why she was selected to be in charge of her own kind, and what’s at stake if she doesn’t adhere to orders from above.
Her voice grows louder while repeating several of the numbers as not everyone has made their way over yet. A few women stumble away from the wooden bunks and rush in our direction, their clogs clunking heavily. The block elder takes a moment to inspect each of the numbered patches on our chests, narrowing her eyes before staring down at the papers attached to her clipboard.
She points at me with the flat edge of her pencil. “You, Block twenty.” She points to another woman two steps behind me. “You, Block twenty-one.” Then she adds a mark to her paper, muttering the word “missing.” Her eyes refocus on our group, then she cranes her neck from side to side. “And you, Block twenty as well.” She points her pencil at the woman to my right. “You will be working at the main camp and will be ready to leave no later than twenty minutes past four in the morning. You are to meet the transport kapo between Blocks three and four.”
“What will our duties be, if you don’t mind me asking?” the woman behind me questions. My throat tightens, fearing the block elder’s response. We aren’t entitled to additional information. I think we’ve all learned that by now.
“The infirmary. You’ll be assigned nursing duties.”
“Thank you, thank you,” the woman behind me cries out. She can’t possibly be new enough not to know when to keep quiet. The duration of quarantine is long enough to learn how to attempt surviving, against what seems to be a lack of odds.
“You speak fluent German and have experience in nursing, no?” the block elder asks her.
“Yes, yes, I do.”
“Be thankful for that. As for the rest of you who have just arrived, you’ll be dispersed in the morning for individual duties.”
Each spoken word appears to be a struggle for this young block elder. It would be easy to assume she’s never been in charge of anything before. Though someone must have seen something in her that conveyed she would support the Nazis in this capacity.
With nothing left to say, she spins on her heels and exits the block, leaving us new arrivals in a huddled group, and also, the center of everyone else’s attention.
“Lucky you,” someone says bitterly as we pass by between the columns of tiered bunks.
Without much thought, I stop walking, turn to the woman who called out and approach her at the wooden bunk.
“Where are you from?” I ask her.
“Why do you care?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask.
“No one cares about anyone here. Is it not clear to you yet?”
She looks to be between eighteen and twenty, young. “I care about everyone who doesn’t deserve to be here. I care about every innocent human being who is being deprived of simple freedoms.” I care about finding my family, getting out of here and staying alive all while knowing it seems more unlikely every minute longer that I’m here.
She snickers at me. “You just haven’t been here long enough.”
What’s long enough? My heart bleeds today just as it did two weeks ago when I saw my babies and Leo last, and the torment will continue until I find them.
“Perhaps you’re right. That must be it—not enough time.”
I place my hand on her wrist and sweep my thumb over her dry skin. I close my eyes and picture Jordanna, forcing a small smile. It’s a mere gesture of warmth—the only form I can give this young woman. I would want someone to do the same for Jordanna if she was the one speaking her mind.
A tear falls down her cheek. “I miss my parents and sister. They have me collecting the hair from every newly shaved prisoner, bagging it and bringing it to a warehouse every single day for eleven hours straight. This is what happens when you stay here too long.”
When Jordanna would spill her truths, I would search for something positive, a bit of hope, even if it was hard to believe. That’s what mothers do: we make everything better in whatever capacity that might be, even if it’s just a tale of hope.
“Well, the SS must have seen some form of strength within you,” I tell her, swallowing the sick feeling in my stomach, imagining such a horrific job.
“That’s it?” she utters, gritting her teeth.
“And I believe you’re lucky too,” I tell her, feeding the same words she gave me. I realize now, it wasn’t an insult, just the truth.
“I’m from Lublin—so, not very lucky apparently,” she utters.
“I recognize your accent. I grew up on the outskirts of Warsaw. I’m Dalia. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Whoever you meet here will be gone soon,” she says. “But since you think you’re different and I’m lucky, I’m Brygid. Just another name you’ll forget.”
She rests her head back down on her folded arms and wipes away her tears.
I find a small opening above Brygid two spaces to the left. I slide my blanket wrapped eating utensils into the space, shoving it as far back as I can reach into the second-tier bunk. The woman on the bunk to the right of my newly claimed spot flips her head in my direction. Her eyes are closed, unaware that I’m about to climb up beside her and crowd her space even more. Her skin has a yellow hue, her lips are tinted blue, her eyelids red. My gaze rests on her hand poking out from beneath her cheek, fingernails gnawed down to the skin, bones prominently punctuating at joints.
“She’s ill,” the woman above me says, hanging her head over the ledge.
“With what?”
Her shoulders shrug, or at least, I think they do. It’s hard to see much body movement when no one can move far. “Could be anything.”
I press my hand on the sick woman’s head, her skin far hotter than an average body temperature. “How long has she been ill?”
“A week,” the woman a row down responds. “Maybe a little less than a week.”
“Has she gone to the infirmary?”
“I don’t want to die,” the ill woman rasps. “Don’t take me to the infirmary. That’s where people go to die.”
And it’s where I’m being sent to work tomorrow…
“What symptoms do you have other than a fever?” I ask the poor girl.
“I can’t keep food down, or inside of me.”
It could be dysentery or malaria. I’m sure both are more than common here in these abhorrent living conditions. “Are you able to keep water down?” She doesn’t respond. I touch my hand to her face. “Are you still awake?”
“Her name is Magda,” Brygid speaks up.
“Magda, can you hear me?”
She doesn’t respond, but she’s still breathing. I press my fingers to the artery in her neck, and though it’s a slow beat, it isn’t down to a deadly level. If I’m going to be at the infirmary tomorrow, maybe there’s something I can find to help her. Of course, I’m sure I’ll have eyes on me for every move I make, even if it is the place where people go to die .
The guilt I feel over my reluctance to crawl into the hole beside her gnaws at my stomach. I’ve always been a helper rather than a hider, but we all need to protect ourselves here somehow. After all, what if she’s contagious? But with a quick glance down the rest of the row, it’s clear my options are limited to this one space and if I don’t take it, I will likely end up on the ground.
I climb up to the bunk base and arrange my blanket then set my utensils by the wooden wall. With every effort to make myself comfortable on my side, facing the opposite direction to Magda, I still pull my smock up above my nose to try and protect myself from contracting her illness. I close my eyes and begin my silent evening prayer: Please God, protect Max, Jordanna, Lilli, and Alfie. Keep my Leo safe, his anger and hatred for Germany concealed, his efforts of finding us less than the risk of losing his life. Bring my family back together. Let this war end so peace can shine over us like an enlightenment from above. Bless us with a new beginning.
Magda’s body convulses against mine and I turn over, finding her seizing, foam spilling out of her mouth, her eyes rolling back into her head. I take her hand. “It’ll pass,” I tell her. “I’m here.”
One way or another, it will all pass.