The Family Behind the Walls

35. Dalia

THIRTY-FIVE

DALIA

JANUARY 6TH, 1945 – O?WI?CIM, POLAND

Almost three months have come and gone since the crematoriums were blown up. Nine weeks in which no one has come to our aid. All the time spent preparing and planning for the hopeful end to our imprisonment has done nothing more than elongate the process of death here.

There has always been a clear sense of hatred between the SS officers and guards toward every prisoner here, Jewish or not. A hatred I’ve struggled to understand, wanting to know where it began and how it might ever end. But now, their anger has surpassed any level I could comprehend from another human being. The beatings I witness daily, they’re worse now, happening to twice as many people. The SS look for any reason to punish us and sometimes there’s no reason at all. It’s as if they look at someone and decide they deserve to be shoved to the ground and kicked repeatedly until blood spews from their mouths. Our food allowances are smaller too, but no one is sure if it’s a punishment or lack of resource.

Despite the changes, I’m still standing here, weak, bony, and numb. I don’t know why I’ve survived when others haven’t. This isn’t a game of luck. Not one of us is luckier than another. Even worse, it’s only just one small step forward in the act of survival.

Since I arrived in Auschwitz, I’ve been warned by many trying to make newcomers understand that while we might have come here for the same reasons because of who we are, a faith and culture, uniting many of us, the moment we stepped through those gates, we became the only person who cares about ourselves. No one else will fight for my life.

This system of camaraderie is the opposite of Leo’s ideals, the ones I wholeheartedly agreed with and understood. It might have been the reason he came home to me. It might have been the reason he was given the fateful opportunity to save another person or many others. Together, they were stronger than one. They were.

I wonder what he might say now, knowing I’ve participated in the October uprising and despite many who have taken the fall for the acts, not everyone has stepped forward. Because I wasn’t involved with the intimate details of igniting the physical uprising that day, there isn’t a definitive link back to me. The SS have made threats, scaring every one of us, convincing even the innocent to consider stepping forward just for the sake of making the madness stop.

Yet, I’ve remained quiet. As I promised the other resistance members I would do. Those who participated from the infirmary blocks aren’t in the spotlight. There were many who had to help the final act come to fruition. Even those who escaped were found and murdered before they could get far enough to hide.

The affliction comes in waves, watching the others fear waking up each morning, knowing the actions from the uprising still play a part in our everyday treatment. I have to tell myself that even if I walked forward and admitted to the SS that I took part in what they call a crime, the punishments wouldn’t cease. I’m just one person. They know there are more of us among them.

Everything I’ve done thus far has been to survive—not for myself but for my children who need me. For Leo. And now for Max, because he wouldn’t want me to give up. A spitting image of his father in every way, physically and internally, Max would make me promise him that I would never confess no matter how high the stakes grow.

Upon exiting the latrine, I’m nearly run over by a herd of running women. Everyone is shoving each other, trying to get somewhere faster than most of us can walk.

Brygid, the young woman from my block who warned me how soon I would stop caring about others, the one I called lucky before I understood there’s no such thing, and the one who spends her days cleaning up hair from the incoming prisoners’ shaved heads, takes a hold of my arm and pulls me with her. “Don’t be left behind,” she tells me.

“Where are we going?” I ask, my words bouncing in the air as we hobble along. I flinch with every step, trying to ignore the pain from the infected sore on my heel caused by a hole in my sock. No matter what I’ve tried to help the wound heal, it remains open, growing redder, and riddled with dirt. This one sore on my foot could easily be my demise—the end of the road for me. Then again, anything could be my end.

“Why are you limping?” Brygid asks, locking her arm around mine.

“It’s just a sore on my foot. It’s nothing,” I say, making it out to be a sliver rather than a hole.

“Don’t let the guards catch you favoring your foot,” she says. I didn’t realize I was limping. No one walks around as if they’re healthy. How could we?

All the women crash into each other when whoever is up front stops short. Some of us fall, some get back up. Some don’t. Heels crunch through the snow-covered grounds, a steady beat I might never forget. The SS are shouting at us to move out of their way, and some aren’t moving fast enough, causing a rippling wave through that uneven row of women.

The cold air bites at my face with a gust of snow and wind torpedoing between the buildings. My eyes water in response and I wrap my arms around my cold body as my muscles tense into rock. The crowd of women begins to move again, this time beyond the last wooden block in our row, fanning out into more columns and fewer rows, giving us a full view of the wet wooden gallows posts with ropes tied into nooses, several of them.

My heart plummets into the pit of my stomach.

Whispers become louder but the SS don’t seem to have much of a concern for the crowd as four naked women, each cuffed at the elbow by a guard, are escorted barefoot across the snow over to the three wooden steps of the gallows.

Each of them is covered from head to toe with bruises, wounds, bulging contusions, and missing teeth.

“These are just some of the women who took part in the uprising. They’ve served their punishments, and now it’s time to serve yours,” one of the SS officers shouts to the crowd of women standing around me. “This could be you.” He points to a woman. “Or you.” Then points to another. “Any of you.”

My stomach quakes while studying each of the four women, my stare catching on the last one in the row. She’s as beaten and swollen as the others, but I don’t know the others. I know her.

She has children she wants to find. She had a purpose for participating in the uprising. She didn’t have a physical hand in the action on October 7th. Just like me. All of her is just like me.

I cover my hands over my mouth to stop myself from crying out her name. I can hear my voice echo from within my head though.

Marie! Marie!

Don’t hurt her!

I was hoping she had been transferred to another ward, another job, anything other than this. No one knew where she went, only that she was missing.

Did she confess? Did she give names?

The SS don smiles, appearing to enjoy this activity unlike any sane person would. The four of them look very much alike, their ribs protruding, skeletal figures with loose sagging skin below their midsections. As if in the spotlight, the four of them stand on their platform, waiting for their show of death.

The quiet, somber sounds of violinists and cellists join in harmony in an uplifting piece that feels painfully incongruous with the scene unfolding. There are more musicians than I’ve ever heard play at once here. With the overwhelming melody circling overhead, each of the four women has a noose placed over her head, and the knot tightened.

I’m staring at Marie, wondering if she can spot me in the crowd and if she could, what she might be thinking. Why her and not me?

The SS shout a command, and the platforms are pushed out from under the women’s feet, each falling heavily at the same moment, their necks folding either to the left or right. The ropes all creak in contrasting whines, swinging back and forth just slightly. My insides burn, my stomach shrivels up on itself and I can’t bear to wonder how long she’ll endure any suffering. I don’t know why everyone seems so confused, as if we don’t know that they plan to kill us off at some time in some way.

I clench my teeth together, holding my breath inside my lungs as if it will keep the tears from streaking down my cheeks as I continue to stare at Marie. Her fists are clenched, making me wonder if she’s still alive. How long will she live with what must be a broken neck?

The music grows in volume again and I fight back the tears that threaten to pour from my eyes. Teeth still gritted, I endure the pain in my jaw. Her fists release, her fingers dangle.

God, guide her into eternal peace.

My chest aches as gasps of horror continue to squeak from others around me. More women keep dying daily for too many reasons to keep track of, and yet, I still don’t understand why I’m standing.

The SS have joined together in a semi-circle, chatting between one another as if they’re standing in front of an orchestra performing at an evening dinner. Except there are women’s bodies hanging dead from ropes just steps away from them.

I didn’t realize Brygid was still nearby until she takes my hand within hers. I don’t know why, other than for comfort. Unless she knows I was a part of the uprising. But how? Could anyone know? I would be up there with the others if they did. “You’re breathing too quickly. You might fall faint,” she whispers.

I can hardly hear her words above the orchestra playing more uplifting tunes.

“Did you know one of them?”

I shake my head no because if she thinks I knew one of them, she could suspect I knew what they were doing or worse, was a part of their alliance.

I was.

“Are you sure?” she continues.

I pull my hand out of hers and clench my fists, mirroring Marie’s before her heart stopped beating.

“I’m sure,” I utter.

She’s glaring at me from the corner of her eye. Why is she looking at me this way? Is there something written on my face?