The Family Behind the Walls

31. Dalia

THIRTY-ONE

DALIA

SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1944 – O?WI?CIM, POLAND

For six months since I was approached in my ward by the Polish nurse to join in their efforts of resistance, I’ve been collaborating to hide supplies of gunpowder in a hidden area of the infectious disease ward. My initial fear of taking part in this deadly mission has become a form of empowerment, knowing I’m contributing to the mere possibility of defeating some of the SS.

There’s no telling whether any of us will make it out of here alive but if this is the end of the road for me, it will feel better to know I went out fighting.

Throughout my morning walk from Birkenau to the main Auschwitz camp, I take in as many surrounding details as I can, not only for my outgoing notes, but to seek an understanding for why we’re all here in this way. Why there’s a talented orchestra flawlessly performing pieces that could make a person believe they’re entering a lavish ball. I can only assume it’s part of the psychological manipulation of confusing us, breaking down our minds to believe whatever we’re told. Either that or it’s for entertainment purposes to the SS.

At first, I couldn’t bear to hear the music when I passed by, but now I’m able to lose myself for a moment, just a moment, and dream with my eyes open wide, telling myself I am walking into a beautiful hall decorated by candlelight and crystal chandeliers with aromas of rich foods and aged wines.

Then static buzz zings through the air and the music stops suddenly as everyone turns their attention toward the prisoner who just took their life by running into the electrified barbed wire fence.

It happens daily now. It’s the last bit of control they have over their lives. Other nurses have delivered injections of phenol to give a dying prisoner their final request—to take them out of their misery. What should be inhumane has become a gift to some. It’s unfathomable even as I live, breathe and witness the occurrences daily.

I check into the recovery station ward for prisoners who will be returning to their labor duties once cleared by medical orderlies. I hoped this ward would bring me a bit of respite knowing these prisoners aren’t in imminent danger. However, despite what most of the patients need to recover from, an illness, injury, or surgery, we can only supply the bare essentials which isn’t enough most of the time. They just have a higher chance of surviving longer than those in the other wards.

It’s hard to understand how anyone can manage a smile for another, but I’ve found several patients in this ward who have an unnatural level of determination. Maybe that’s the key to survival. I must share the same trait even though I feel as if I’m a walking corpse with a beating heart.

“How are you doing this morning?” I ask the first young woman in the bed closest to the door.

She resembles most of the others in this room, her head shaved, bony cheeks, collarbone protruding against her pajamas. Except she’s smiling. Today’s her last day in this ward. She’ll be sent back to work before nightfall.

“I did what you said to do yesterday,” she says with a lighthearted sigh. “Last night, I dreamed of my mama’s blueberry blintzes.” She closes her eyes and continues to talk, her words a humming whisper. “They were the perfect shade of gold, thin and tender, delicately folded around a sweet soft cheese fresh from the farm. Mama always put a drop of vanilla into cheese to balance the hint of tang, and I could smell it all so clearly. Topped with a blueberry sugar syrup and a handful of the ripest blueberries I’ve ever tasted—sweet and tart, flavors that exploded in my mouth. Each bite was warm and rich, reminding me of a cool night by the fireplace. My family was there too, everyone in a fit of laughter over a game of charades. And life was perfect.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “Thank you for reminding me how to dream.”

Her description gnaws at my stomach, but her thin veil of happiness brings a smile to my face. “You’re very welcome,” I tell her, taking her wrist into my hand to check her pulse.

“Is there anything I can do for you in return?”

Her pulse is good. She doesn’t have a fever. I unwrap the dressing on her leg, checking the injury from a loose rotary cutter that bounced off her leg in one of the textile factories. The edges of the wound are still inflamed and pink, but a new layer of skin is beginning to form over the center. The surrounding skin is dry and flaky, which is a good sign. “You should heal just fine as long as you keep the wound covered,” I tell her.

“Thank goodness,” she says. “But what about you? There must be something I can do—” So many of the patients in this ward ask the same question. I declined the kind offer for the first week I was in here, but then I thought of an idea, something that could help me if ever possible.

“I—there is, and I understand if it doesn’t work out, but would you mind if I give you a letter to hold on to? If you make it out of here, maybe it can find its way to my children.”

“Of course, but why do you speak as if you won’t make it out of here?”

It’s hard for me to answer when I gave her hope yesterday. “The letter is for…just in case.”

“I understand and would be honored to hold on to it for you. I will do whatever I can to ensure your children receive the letter.”

If any of us are given the chance.

I pull the small, folded note out of the satchel and glance over my shoulder, around the ward, before handing it to her. “Thank you,” I tell her.

I’ve written Leo and the children at least a dozen notes at this point and handed them each to different patients who pass through this ward. Living in fear of what might become of me, it seems like the least I can do should my children become motherless, if and when this all ends. There’s so much I didn’t teach them and it’s my responsibility to make sure they know how to survive if they’re ever on their own again. Again. They’re on their own now. Anything I still wanted to teach them, they’ve had to learn on their own. Yet, I still want them to know what I would have wanted them to know. I also want them to know how much Max loved them and that he was with me when he passed. It won’t be happy news, but it will be better than having to live a life assuming he died alone somewhere.

I’ve written notes to Leo too. I write of our memories, the words I knew he felt and ones I may not have explicitly said out loud. We always think there will be a tomorrow and there’s no sense in ever saying goodbye. I should have known better after what we had already lived through but because of that, I didn’t think we wouldn’t have the chance to say our goodbyes properly. I hope it’s not too late for that and we somehow manage to live on for another fifty years while keeping the best of our memories, especially with Max at the forefront of our minds. But just in case…Just in case.

This ward has become my source for outgoing mail. Each patient is a thread of hope to me, that they all walk out of this prison in one piece even if I don’t.

“Block twenty-eight is ready,” a whisper tickles my ear.

I turn around, finding no one in sight. These types of communications come and go like a wisp of fog in the night. I’ve never known a level of secrecy as I do now.

With a glance around the ward, I spot three other nurses tending to the recovering patients and take the moment to slip out the door with a clipboard in hand and a satchel over my shoulder. A person moving between buildings is a messenger of sorts and without a clipboard and a satchel, I would appear to be working under unauthorized instruction.

My walk to Block 28 is only two blocks down to the left and across the walkway. At this hour, there is less commotion outdoors as everyone is assigned to work. However, no further than ten steps out of the block, I hear the echoing expulsions of ammo fire from a weapon, one after another seven times.

I clutch my chest, the fabric bunching in my hand as I pass the gated courtyards between the rows of blocks. Most everyone knows what the courtyards between Blocks 10 and 11 are used for and when the gunshots blast, we know people are being executed. Sources have mentioned they line up naked prisoners with their noses pressed to a black wall, then each is shot in the back of the head by an SS guard. These are the people caught for participating in acts of resistance and attempts to escape. This is what I’m wagering against with the acts in which I take part.

I move quicker to Block 28, rushing in through the door until I find Marie sitting in her usual spot at the front desk.

“Here for restock?” she asks. She sounds like she’s talking about first-aid supplies, but I know what she’s truly inferring.

“Yes,” I answer quietly.

“Follow me,” she says. No one would suspect we’ve formed a bond or a friendship with the way we communicate with one another in a location where anyone else can spot us.

Once inside the kitchen, she gives me a hug. “What did you have for dinner last night?” she asks.

“Dumplings and chicken soup with a slice of cake and a glass of wine,” I tell her, all in one breath. “What about you?”

“Hunter’s stew and cranberry rugelach. The meat was so tender it fell apart before I could chew it up.”

“That sounds delicious,” I tell her.

“If only,” she says with a sigh. “But I come bearing a gift with your daily delivery.”

“A gift?”

A hint of mischief glows in her eyes as she pulls something out from beneath the fabric of her smock. I give her my hand and she places a cube-shaped object into it. I unfurl my fingers, finding a paper twisted wrapper. I recognize the packaging. Chocolate. I’ve dreamed of chocolate, wondering if I’ve forgotten how it truly tastes.

She unwraps her piece of candy and I do the same. I should be wondering where this came from or what it might cost later. But I don’t. I block out the responsible voices in my head with the hunger that might eat me alive.

I shove the entire piece in my mouth at once rather than nibbling or savoring. My cheeks zing from my awakening taste buds. My eyes roll back into my head, keeping the bite in my mouth for as long as I can before it melts into liquid. A moan escapes my lips as I savor each second I can keep this delectable taste on the center of my tongue.

When my mouth becomes empty once again, my eyes reopen, waiting for the consequence of such indulgence. Marie swallows her mouthful too and presses the back of her fingers against her lips before speaking.

“We’re getting close to action,” she says. “I have a dozen units of gunpowder for you to take back with you today, but also, could you make sure all inventory is organized for quick retrieval?”

“I’ve kept everything organized all along,” I tell her.

“I should have assumed as much,” she says with a nod.

“What is the plan?” I ask, knowing my question is broad and possibly unanswerable.

“Your part will be complete. It’s like dominoes. We must weaken the SS to start. The following plans will fall into place.”

She seems so sure, and I can only imagine she knows more. More of what I don’t need to know.

One by one, Marie hands over fabric tied sacks, smaller than the palm of my hand to hide in my pocket. We’re just two links of this chain and I’m unsure of where the gunpowder comes from, but I know with as much as we collected, considerable damage should be feasible.

“I’ll bring these to storage now,” I tell her. “Thank you for the treat.”

“It should all take place within the next few days while we’re here at the infirmaries. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Understood,” I tell her, leaving with a heaviness in my satchel that I worry can be seen an acre away.

Upon re-entering Block 20, I find several SS guards standing around the halls, more than typical. The SS usually avoid the infirmaries. Sweat forms on the back of my neck as I pass them with a heavy conscience. They can likely tell I’m hiding something.

I take the stairwell down, passing another guard on the way.

“What ward do you tend to?” the guard asks.

“The-the, uh—the…”

“Well spit it out. Where are you going?” he snaps.

“The recovery station,” I say, my voice pinched in my throat.

“What business do you have going down into the infectious disease ward?”

My mind spins to find an answer, one that won’t require a follow up question or evidence. “It’s midday and I’m collecting the record log.” It’s a lie. I don’t know who is responsible for collecting the record log.

“What’s in the satchel?” An icy chill whips around my body as I pat my hands down my front side, knowing the only satchel I have is concealed under my smock. He lifts his hand and points to my neck. I reach up and feel the strap of the satchel peeking out from beneath my collar. It must have shifted.

I can’t blink or breathe, and he continues to stare as if he can see through my clothes. “Just a few medical supplies for when I’m moving around the ward.”

“Let me see then. Open it,” he says.

My hands shake as I reach around my neck. He can see my nerves. He’s squinting, trying to discover what I’m hiding—if I’m telling the truth about carrying medical supplies for the work I do here. I don’t have any medical supplies in the satchel. This will be the end of my work here. It could be the end of me altogether.

A wheezy wet cough echoes between a connecting corridor with moans of pain following. “Just a bit further,” another nurse says, turning the corner with a slight female propped up on her shoulder. The woman is hardly walking on her own and the nurse is struggling to drag her limp body in this direction. “Pardon. I must get her downstairs to the infectious disease ward.”

The guard steps away from me and away from the path of the other nurse and patient. He yanks a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it over his mouth and nose.

“I can return to my ward if you’d rather collect the records?—”

“No. Ridiculous suggestion,” he utters, his words muffled. “Go on then.” He shoos me away and scampers along in the opposite direction.

They must smell a rat. I should warn the others, but I won’t be able to until I’m relieved from the scrutiny of these guards and officers.

I close myself into the empty spare room on the bottom floor and open the short wall panel to the storage unit, remove one single pin from resting on top of the heap, lift the canvas tarp and add the sack of gunpowder to the rest of the pile. I then replace the tarp and gently rest the pin on top, knowing if I ever find it missing, it’s a sign that someone other than the few of us who are protecting this stash has been in here.

Footsteps pound in the stairwell and my heart thunders in my chest as I secure the small door and poke my head out into the hallway, ensuring I’m still alone. No one else is down here, but I don’t have a log to return upstairs with.

The nurse assigned to the infectious disease ward doesn’t know much about me. She’s new and might or might not be hesitant to let me take anything from the ward. I retrieve a torn piece of fabric I can keep in my satchel for the moments I’m exposed to the variety of diseases here and hold it against my nose and mouth.

“Can I help you?” the prisoner nurse asks just as I step inside.

I notice she isn’t protecting herself with a cloth or fabric, which tells me she has no will to survive this place.

“I’ve been asked to retrieve a log from this morning,” I lie.

“I only have one. Will you be returning it?”

I can’t pass by those officers a second time. “I’ll copy down the records so I don’t have to take them from you.”

“Who sent you?”

Immediately I know, she’s a kapo who finds herself rewarded for ratting others out. “Nurse Poloski,” I answer without skipping a beat.

“A real nurse?” she questions.

“Yes, from the SS infirmary. I could fetch her?”

Her complexion pales and my racing heart slows just a bit. “No, no, of course not. Take your time.”

Her stare burns against the side of my head the entire time I’m copying the log as I’m realizing it’s just as bad to have this kapo nurse down here as it would be to have an SS guard. I have to let Marie know before their plan comes to fruition. If the SS are tipped off, these months of planning will have been for nothing, and the outcome will be detrimental for everyone within this compound.