The Family Behind the Walls

24. Dalia

TWENTY-FOUR

DALIA

OCTOBER 8TH, 1943 – O?WI?CIM, POLAND

I spend my sleepless night thinking up other natural ingredients that Ina might have access to. Garlic, or ginger. She must know someone working at the SS kitchen. Lemons wouldn’t be in the prisoner kitchen. Garlic or ginger reduce inflammation and can help kill viruses. I shouldn’t dare ask Ina for anything else after what she offered to do for me last night, but my desperation is becoming larger than my ability to keep a sense of gratitude and manners.

I’m the first in line between Blocks 3 and 4, ready for the kapo to escort us into Auschwitz from Birkenau. The others aren’t keeping up today and we’ve already stopped several times.

“Schneller gehen!” the kapo shouts, stomping her boot to the ground. She wants us to move faster but I’m certain some of us aren’t able. “Ich melde dich bei der SS!” I don’t know if everyone in the lines behind me speak German, but I’m sure they can take the hint that this woman has no qualms about reporting people to the SS for not moving fast enough.

Her threats seem to work somehow, and today will be the only day I’m grateful for that. I can’t take a full breath until I see Max, alive, in that bed. My entire body is numb with terror, my nerves tingling with a warning that I’m on the verge of not being able to handle much more.

I keep in step, imagining Max awake in bed. If we were at home, Jordanna would be at his side, checking his forehead, teasing him, then force-feeding him soup. She would drape cool compresses over him then tell him he resembles a drowned rat. He would throw a gentle jabbing tease back at her and the two would bicker with insults until I walked into the room. Of course, only after she had the last word. He let her. That was his love for her, and her care for him, gentle or not, was her love for him.

My feet carry me through the front door of the infirmary and down the hall toward the ward where I’m to report to the kapo in the corridor.

My heart burns in my chest as I wait for the kapo’s nod to allow me into the ward. A cold sweat covers me from head to toe as I turn the corner, finding Max lying awake, peering around the room.

I press my hand to my mouth and race toward him.

“Mama,” he says, greeting me with a smile. “See, I told you.”

“Are you better today, sweetheart?” I ask, trying not to fall to my knees at his side.

“No, but it looks like I am, doesn’t it?” he asks with a soft snicker.

“Max, that’s not funny. Are you better?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Thank God,” I say, releasing a heavy breath as I wrap my arms around him. I rest my cheek on his chest, feeling the warmth of his fever still present, but improved since yesterday. He’s less delirious too. He must be on the mend. “When was Ina here last?”

“Uh—” Max says, taking another look around the room. “An hour or two.”

“She didn’t get in trouble, did she?”

“She said she would be back soon.”

“All right.” I glance around the room, taking in the work ahead of me while also spotting Marie walk in and head for her row of patients. “Have you had water this morning?”

“Yes, I think so,” he says.

I grab Max’s medical log and read the status as stable .

“I need to make a round and check on the others. I’ll be back as quick as I can,” I whisper to him.

“Mama?”

I turn back at Max’s questioning voice, finding a look of defeat in his watery eyes. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“I did everything I could to protect Lilli, Jordanna, and Alfie. I tried—” he says, taking the breath he needs to continue speaking, “to escape the ghetto so I could find them.” My heart cracks, a pain searing through my chest, and I clutch my top, pressing my sharp knuckles against my skin.

“You are the most incredible brother, and those girls love you more than anything.” Those girls. My words sound as if I’m talking about someone else’s children. It’s been so long, can I even call them mine still?

“I—I,” Max says, swallowing against his dry throat. “I wanted to rescue them—if it was the last thing I did. But I was caught trying to escape.”

“That’s how you ended up here?” I ask.

Max nods faintly, his head seeming too heavy to move, already weaker than when I walked in a moment ago.

“I love them—my little sisters. I really wanted to—” his voice croaks and tears fill his tired eyes. “I was supposed to save them.”

“None of us are allowed to even save ourselves, sweetheart,” I whisper to him. “You are your father’s son, no doubt about that.”

As I turn away from him, tears threaten to roll down my cheeks, but I take a forceful deep breath and trudge toward the beginning of my row to check on bed 1.

Just as I mark off no new updates for this unconscious young woman, a hand clamps around my arm, pulling me out of sight from the open doorway. I whip my head around, finding Ina, pale, her face covered with discernible concern. “Thank you so much for everything—I owe you?—”

“Stop,” she whispers. “I found more aspirin last night. His fever spiked again, high. It was too high,” she says.

I press my finger against my lips and shake my head. “Thank you, Ina. I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough?—”

“The lemons are gone, and I’ve lost access to the SS kitchen—the infirmary too.”

“Were you caught?” I ask, my breath catching on each word.

“No, but there was a lot of activity in front of the SS infirmary this morning and the overnight workers were being interrogated.”

“I’m so so?—”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, placing her hand on my shoulder, her eyes unblinking. “I gave him the last dose of aspirin at midnight.”

“It seems he’s turned a corner now. He’s better,” I tell her.

A weak smile forms on her lips. “Good. I have to—” she points to her row of patients.

“Of course. Thank you again. I will repay you, somehow. I will.”

She holds on to her tight lipped-smile, nods and turns for her row.

There’s no more aspirin or lemons. There’s no chance of finding garlic or ginger.

I move to bed 2, focusing on only Ina’s few words—words that didn’t hold any sound of hope. I mindlessly check the woman’s vitals, then her wound, search for a tube of ointment, finding very little left. No one is replenishing our supplies. I hardly have enough dressing to rewrap the wound.

Between each bed, I glance over at Max, watching him try to find a comfortable position. He can’t seem to be still, yanking at the sheet, tugging it off his feet. Max has never been one to be in one spot for long. He needs to be busy like Leo. Sitting for too long makes them both restless. That must be what’s wrong.

I go through the motions of checking on the patient in bed 3, listening to the patient’s rambling and incoherence before I can move on to the next.

Again, I peek down the row toward Max’s bed. He has the sheet gripped within his fists, his face red, and his teeth gritted together. He’s folding himself in half, groaning. I drop the medical log in my hand and race toward him.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? What’s happened?”

“My stomach—head—legs. Make it stop, Mama.”

I touch my hand to his forehead, his fever returning, but not to the level it was at yesterday. This must be the aspirin wearing off. Maybe he’s had too much aspirin and lemon. “It’s from the lemon and aspirin. I’ll get you some water.”

I spin around until I find a tin cup and pitcher, splashing water as I try to pour it into the cup with a steady hand.

“No, no,” he says. “No more.”

I take his hand, feeling his grip move from the sheet to my fingers. He relaxes his body and falls back into his pillow, gasping for a big breath. His chest moves up and down as if he’s just run around the room.

“Shhh, it’s fine. Try to take another slow breath.” He struggles to take in air but does. “What’s happening right now?” I shouldn’t be asking him. He doesn’t know. I should know, and I don’t.

He twists his head on the pillow to look at me, his eyes studying me as if he wants me to read his silent thoughts.

“Mama,” he says, the word covered in phlegm.

“What is it, sweetheart? You’re all right.”

He’s not well. My son is not all right and there isn’t anything in this entire godforsaken infirmary that could help him.

“I tried to be a warrior.”

My face burns as tears fill my eyes. I fall to my knees. Scooping my arm beneath Max, I pull him against my chest, holding his face with my other hand.

“You are a warrior, Max. You always have been and always will be. You have your papa’s blood running through your veins. You will make it through this.”

“You’re a warrior too, Mama.”

I remember gazing into his beautiful eyes the moment the doctor placed him into my arms after he was born. I knew he couldn’t see much at just a few minutes old, but he stared right back at me as if he knew me already. My little love. I had never felt so much in my heart at once, joy, fear, pride, and incomprehensible love before that moment. I would give him my last breath. I would do anything to protect him. He would forever be my world—the beginning, middle, and end.

He curled his tiny hand around my index finger. I can still remember the pink of his paper-thin fingernails and the dry skin on his knuckles, the silk touch of his skin.

“I love you so much, Max. You know that?” I say now, clutching his hand. “You made me a Mama. You gave me life when I thought I was already living.”

“I love you, Mama. I’m sorry. I thought—” he says, his words floating on a whisper.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” I tell him, silent tears rolling down my cheeks.

“I—” he tries to take a breath, but it’s so weak.

“Don’t-don’t.” I weep. “Don’t give up—” His eyes close as I plead with him to hold on. How can I ask him to fight harder when he’s already fought through the unthinkable? “I’m still here. I’m with you. It’s all right. It’s all right, baby.”

A hand touches my back. I peer through the corner of my tear-filled eyes, finding Ina pinching her lips together so hard they’re white. “I d-don’t know what’s happening,” I cry.

But I do.

I brush my fingertips over Max’s head and press my lips to his cheek. “We’re all going to be together soon, my darling.”

Max’s lips quiver and his eyes open. A tear forms in the corner of his eye. I reach for his other hand that’s draped over his chest and curl it into both of mine. His breaths become slow and shallow, and his body weighs heavier against my left arm. “Max, sweetheart, look at me—” I beg. “Just—” I gasp for air, unable to take enough in. “Baby, please. You just need—Max!”

A guttural sob escapes my throat, uncontrollable and raw, holding on to his hands tighter as if that could keep him alive. My body heaves from the cries bursting through me. “I won’t let go. No. You can’t go. Please, please. Max! Can you hear me?” But I feel him take his last breath. I feel him still in my hands. My cries howl in the quiet room and I don’t care. I don’t care who hears me. “My son—he’s gone. Come back!”

Ina’s voice breaks through hopeless wails. “I’m so sorry, Dalia,” Ina utters. “I’m—I tried—I did—” She squeezes my shoulder, trying to comfort me but her words float over my head. I can’t hear anything but the pounding of my heart, the sound of Max’s final breath still ringing in my ears. “I—I’m going to go cover the hallway, make sure none of those rats come in,” she says. “Marie!” Ina calls for the other nurse. “Cover.”

No mother should have to see their child lying lifeless before them. My hand trembles as I touch his lifeless face, my legs threatening to give out. Every one of my breaths is like a betrayal, each heartbeat, a reminder that I’m here without him. “I love you more than you’ll ever know,” I whisper into his ear.

But he’s gone.

Gone forever.

How long can forever be? I can’t survive this. I can’t survive forever without him.

“A guard is coming,” Marie says. “Shh, shh, dear, shh. I’m so sorry. We can’t hold him off.” She grabs me from behind and lifts me to my feet as I fight to keep a hand on Max. “You have to get up.”

“No, no. I can’t. Let me go. I can’t leave my son. I can’t.”

Marie drags me away, my body limp and unable to fight her off. She leaves me against the back wall, not far from Max, but not close enough that I can touch him. An SS guard marches into the room in search of something. They hardly ever come in here due to the fear of contracting something from a patient. He holds a handkerchief over his nose and marches between the rows, studying each patient for a brief second.

“Is that one dead?” he asks, pointing at Max.

I don’t answer. I can’t. I should, because the guard is looking directly at me. I shake my head, but words don’t come out. He grabs the foot of the bed and rolls him away, shoving him across the room, down the row toward the door.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real. It’s in my head. I can’t even close my eyes or look away.

“Gehen!” he shouts at me to go, to push Max’s bed into the hallway.

Marie steps in and takes the bed—takes my baby—for me. She nods her head at me, directing me to her row, mouthing the words, “Go over there.”

I move along, dragging my heavy feet, my numb body, and my bleeding heart. For all the pain of giving birth, raising a beautiful little boy into a man who has become as brilliant, strong and resilient as his papa, watching him prepare to take the world on and do all the wonderful things we could only dream of for him, and then—his life is taken from him before he really got to live.

My world is shattering into a million pieces. I know I will never be whole again.