The Family Behind the Walls

20. Dalia

TWENTY

DALIA

OCTOBER 7TH, 1943 – O?WI?CIM, POLAND

If there was no war and I was working in a hospital, I would be treating ill and wounded people every day. I don’t think there was ever a time in my life where I pointedly decided that I wanted to be a nurse, but it felt like the only choice when there was nothing else I could do to help those getting injured. Doctors complimented me on my quick-thinking skills and ability to react under pressure. I never saw myself as doing a better job than any other nurse, but it was nice to hear I was living up to expectations at the very least.

There are no expectations here in Auschwitz, only that we don’t keep patients around to use up resources if they’re going to die anyway. That and the rhetoric of removing Jewish lives from occupied German societies. For the past three weeks I’ve been assigned to this ward, I’ve seen more than a fifty-percent turnover rate from the time I leave at night and when I return early in the morning. I don’t know who works here at night or what really happens. That’s not for me to know.

“Bed four,” a woman shouts from across the ward.

Like myself, none of the other three nurses working in this ward with me spring into action. There’s no use in rushing to bed 4.

“I’ll tend to him,” I say, knowing I’m at least making my way down the line of other patient-filled beds in the direction of bed 4.

I take a man’s frail wrist into my hand to check his pulse. His records say he’s forty, but he looks as if he’s lived three times as long. His mouth hangs open, air flowing freely. His pulse is active, but the damage is done. He’ll have to wait out his time now. I take his record, hanging from the end of the metal bed and update his notes.

Male/31 y.o.

October 6 th , 43’

Progressed Amoebic Dysentery.

Confusion.

Swollen feet.

Headache.

“You’re looking better. How are you feeling, sir?” I ask him. He doesn’t look better. I don’t know if I should be offering hope but why steal whatever hope is left from them?

As usual, he doesn’t respond. I can’t tell if he’s coherent, but he’s still alive. Soon, though, starvation will pull him under, just as it has too many others here in Auschwitz.

In the next bed, a woman with jaundice, a bloated stomach the size of a pregnant woman at full term, and a blue circle around her lips, opens her eyes just enough to spot me. “Mordechai,” she utters. “My Mordechai. You’ve come to rescue me?” Her lips struggle into a shallow curve. “I knew you would be back.”

I press the back of my hand against her head, feeling the heat radiate off her skin. Sweat drips down her cheeks and chest, arms, and legs. I retrieve the compress left in the metal bowl of water behind her bed and drape it over her forehead. The sore on her arm is seeping through the last bandage so I remove the old bandage and replace it with a new one. I keep my words to myself since my unfamiliar voice only seems to bring her pain and more discontent when she realizes I’m not her Mordechai.

I mark down her renewed treatment:

Female/52 y.o.

October 6 th , 43’

Sepsis.

Cooling therapy.

Redressing wounds.

High fever.

She’s not stable so I won’t write those words. But she’s been treated to the best of our ability. Leo would say there’s always something more we can do. He would be right, but only if allowed.

I will always know that Leo would have been safer without me even if it wasn’t for his deputy officer. Despite his devotion to the Jewish faith, he only has two Jewish grandparents and therefore, considered a mixed-race per the Nuremberg Laws—luckier, some might say. Whereas I’m a full-blooded Jewish woman, married to Leo or not, and we have raised our children Jewish. Therefore, our family is less “lucky.” The comprehension of this science has been impossible to understand.

“I’ll never leave your side so there’s nothing to worry about, darling,” Leo would tell me.

Without Leo, I’m just a Jew.

Everything that happens within this infirmary, the entire Block 20, is strictly for record-keeping purposes. Hitler wants the extinction of all Jews. Our death is his final solution, but his final solution cannot be accomplished in a day, so we wait and make it look like it takes longer than a day. We watch others suffer and perish while wondering how death will find us and when.

Being assigned to a ward could have been a death sentence for me if I was sent to care for the patients ill with typhus, dysentery or tuberculosis, but instead I’ve been sent to the terminally ill ward, which contradicts the idea of prioritizing patients as they walk in.

But the records need to show a full spectrum of minor to deadly cases. The SS officers don’t say so, nor would they ever admit such a thing out loud, but the way they handle these medical records, as if each one will be hand-delivered to the Fuhrer himself, makes it very clear their well-being is on the line to whoever they are hiding the truth from.

The next patient has been uncontrollably shaking and gasping for breath since I arrived this morning. There’s a gurgle in her lungs. “I’m going to prop you up a bit to help you breathe better. Tell me if you feel any pain,” I say, speaking softly to the middle-aged woman.

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” she says. “It’s so cold. Isn’t it?”

I shove the stuffing of the mattress toward the center on one side then move around the bed to do the same to the other, elevating her just a bit. Her skin is cold to the touch, so I take the blanket from bed 4 and drape it over her body to warm up her blood. “How’s that?” I ask.

“Thank you, nurse. Better. Much better.”

I add my notes, words in vain:

Female/48 y.o.

October 6 th , 43’

Pneumonia.

Moderate fever.

Elevation for lung support.

No fluids due to aspiration.

I finally make it to bed 4, take the medical log and mark down today’s date under the words “Date of Death.” Under “causes,” I write: natural. The end of another story.

I move behind the man’s bed and roll him toward the exit of the ward where other laborers wait for human remains.

A male prisoner lifts the body from the bed and places it down on the top of a growing pile. I turn the bed back around and return it to its position back in the ward.

One more bed in this row before moving on to the next. I grab the chart and review the vitals and updates before even looking over at another poor soul. This one must have come in overnight. I haven’t seen anyone with a post typhus recovery status.

Male/18 y.o.

October 6 th , 43’

Post Typhus – self-treated in barrack.

Possible Relapse.

On and off Delirium.

Signs of Organ Failure.

High Fever .

Just as unpromising as all the others in this ward. I step over to the bed, finding?—

The pounding in my chest makes it hard to breathe, reminding me I’m still alive and not in a nightmare.

I touch his ear, needing to convince myself I’m not imagining things. I trace four small red dots in the shape of a check mark. I’ve done this too many times before. I’ve seen each of my children’s faces in crowds, losing myself to delusions.

But he doesn’t just look like Max … I’m not wrong this time. I can’t be…

I stare at his ear again—I know those markings.

“These tiny little marks on his ear—that’s how we know he’s ours—our perfect baby,” Leo had said as I held Max in my arms just moments after he took his first breath.

My heart pulsates in my throat and my breath catches as I cry out my son’s name, “Max!” I reach for his rosy cheek. “My baby. You’re here. You’re—” He’s here and yet, he’s so sick. He’s too sick. God, don’t let this happen—take me instead.

He struggles to swallow and clenches his eyes. “Mama,” he says through a weak exhale.

I grab his medical log from the end of the bed and scan down the page of short, brief notes. Then cup my hands around his face, feeling for his temperature. It’s high. His back is incredibly hot—a telltale sign of his fever rising. As a baby, I checked his temperature so often, I could guess the degree by touch. He suffered with ear infections for years and they always brought along a fever—fevers that scared the life out of me as a new mother. My baby. I slide my hand under his back, his pajama shirt soaked in sweat, stuck to his blazing skin.

Frenzied and unable to think straight, I spin around, looking for a bowl with a compress. I find one at the empty bed 4 and drape it over Max’s head. I tear off part of the thin sheet covering the mattress and soak it in the water next, draping it over his head, neck, and wrists. I would soak him in a little enamel tub when he was a baby, sponging him with lukewarm water to bring his fever down. It always helped, but I’m not certain how effective the scraps of wet fabric will be on my son, the size of a grown man.

“When did you get here? How long?—”

“Mama?” It feels like a year since someone has called me Mama. My body threatens to collapse as I hover over him, my chest aching with physical and emotional pain and terror.

“I’m here, darling. I’m here. Mama’s here.” I whisper every word, praying no one hears or sees me. The cool water isn’t enough. I need something more.

I reach for the rolling cart behind me and pull it to my side, grasping at everything inside, unsure if there’s anything left to even help him. After a long moment, my hand sweeps over a loose jagged pill. I scoop it up and study it in the cup of my shaking hand. An aspirin. With the pill clenched in one hand, I continue digging through the disorganized contents, removing items and setting them down to make sure I’m not missing a bottle of aspirin or any other loose pills. It isn’t long before I reach the bottom, confirming I have the only aspirin left. I toss the supplies back into the bin and spin around in search of water.

A pair of hands rests on my shoulders. “Is everything all right?” Ina’s voice whispers into my ear.

“My son,” I say, holding my shaking finger out toward him. “He’s here.”

“Dear God. What can I do?” she utters.

“I don’t know. We don’t even have aspirin left.”

There’s nothing for Ina to respond with because we all know there’s nothing left to treat anyone with here. She holds in her breath and covers her hand, watching as I helplessly tend to Max.

I spot a tin can by a rusting pitcher and fill the can, bringing it back to Max’s side. I push the aspirin into his mouth then cup my hand under his chin to help him drink. “Swallow this, sweetheart. Drink the water.”

He’s so weak, I don’t know if he can maneuver his tongue to swallow the tablet. My only hope is it dissolves and seeps down the back of his throat.

I stroke my fingers along his cheek, hoping it relaxes him enough to swallow the pill. His face clenches and his eyes squeeze shut as if he’s trying to push down a bottle cap. He’s so frail and thin, I watch a small lump travel down his throat.

“You’re going to be all right. I’m here now. I’m going to take care of you, sweetheart. Look at me…I’m here, with you, and I won’t leave your side.”