The Family Behind the Walls

22. Dalia

TWENTY-TWO

DALIA

OCTOBER 7TH, 1943 – O?WI?CIM, POLAND

I’ve had to continue making my rounds within this ward, knowing if I’m caught being stationary too long, I’ll be reported to a guard. My bedside manner isn’t what it’s been. I’ve been moving as quickly as possible to make it back to Max’s side so I’m not away from him for long.

The aspirin seems to have brought his fever down a bit and he’s asleep now. I don’t want to wake him, but I’m terrified of losing minutes of his life too.

God, let him pull through this. He’s too young to die. He has his whole life ahead of him.

I close my eyes as the tears spill out.

“Mama, don’t cry,” he says, his words gruff and scratchy.

I take his hand and hold it up to my cheek, still praying and pleading with God. Ina comes up behind me and presses the side of her body to mine. “Take the tin from my hand and pour it into his mouth,” she whispers.

“What is it?” I respond in the same hush.

“I stole a few lemons. It’s lemon water. I’ve seen it help others.”

I haven’t seen a lemon anywhere in the confines of Auschwitz. I don’t know where she got it, but it may help.

“Max, sweetie, you need to drink this down as fast as you can,” Ina tells him, keeping her voice as quiet as possible.

I reach over him, cupping my hand beneath his chin and pour the contents into his mouth. His lips pucker, and he sucks in his cheeks, highlighting the prominent, skeletal bone structure of his face, edges I should never have to bear witness to.

Tears dribble from his clenched eyes but he takes down the contents of the can, slowly, but entirely.

Ina grabs the can and rushes away.

“That will help you. It will,” I tell him. He nods his head with slight movements.

“All right.”

I can’t leave him here tonight, but the guards won’t let me stay and if I don’t return to roll call, I won’t stand a chance of seeing another day anyway. I don’t even know who watches over the patients at night. It isn’t information I’m entitled to.

A retching sound croaks from a bed on the opposite side of the row, and I know I need to move. Max takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes again. “Try to sleep some more, baby. Sleep will help too.”

He doesn’t respond but he’s still breathing.

He’s still breathing.

The retching sound ceases before I make it back to the other end of the row. Vomit covers the man’s chest, his head tilted back. “No, no, no, no. You need to be on your side,” I remind him again. I use the sheet to clean off his face and grab his left shoulder to pull him back to his side, but his body is stiff and doesn’t comply with my effort. I slide my fingers up to his neck, pressing against his artery, finding stillness.

I can’t help anyone, even my own son. Why am I here, being called a nurse? All I’m doing is watching people die. I take the man’s medical log and mark down his date of death, and the cause being malaria. I push his bed forward and roll him out into the hall where another laborer takes the bed and moves him along. No explanation necessary. We know what it means to be rolled into the hall—a transaction between prisoners.

The clock on the wall taunts me, the hour hand moving faster than it has any other day I’ve worked here. Ina has sneaked two more tins full of lemon juice to Max and he’s remained otherwise asleep.

“Listen,” Ina says, pulling me aside. “My barrack is just a row away from the infirmary, and I know who works the night shift. I’ll switch with them after evening roll call. I’ll stay with Max tonight. I’ll make sure he’s fine. I know you don’t have that choice.”

My eyes are wide with shock, trying to process everything Ina just offered me. She’s offering to risk her life for Max and me. “I can’t ask you to put your life on the line,” I tell her, my whisper shuddering in my throat.

“He’s your child. You would do it for my little girls if-if?—”

“I would,” I say, gasping for air.

“I know what I’m doing,” she says.

I glance over at Max, noticing a bit more color in his cheeks. Maybe it’s just the light against the sun setting, changing the colors of everything on this side of the window, but I want to believe it’s more color in his cheeks. I touch the back of my hand to his forehead, finding heat, but less. His fever is going down, but it could return at any moment.

“Mama,” he says, forcing his lips into a quirk of smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep fighting. My head doesn’t hurt as much and I’m not so cold now.” It’s the most he’s said to me since I found him here this morning.

“I don’t want to leave you for the night, sweetheart. I don’t want to.”

“You have to,” he says, opening his eyes—his beautiful soulful eyes. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

I run my knuckles along his cheek and kiss his forehead. “You’re going to make it through this,” I tell him. He is a fighter.

“I’m sure he’ll be even better in the morning,” Ina says.

“See?” Max agrees with her.

A strangling sensation tightens around my neck, and I cross my arms over my chest, squeezing my arms so tightly circulation stops. “You don’t have a choice,” Ina says, reminding me, as if I’m considering a decision.

“Who knows, you might have to send me to the recovery ward tomorrow so I can go back to work soon,” Max says.

I don’t want to think about that either. I won’t see him anymore.

“You’re going to be late,” Ina says.

I lean down and give Max another kiss on the forehead. “Please—” I didn’t mean to beg out loud.

“Mama, I’ll be here. I promise. I love you.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”