The Family Behind the Walls

37. Dalia

THIRTY-SEVEN

DALIA

JANUARY 27TH, 1945 – O?WI?CIM, POLAND

We’re coming toward an end, but which end is anyone’s guess. Artillery strikes rumble the floor beneath us, but it’s hard to know what’s happening within the containment of Auschwitz versus outside the gates. Another crematorium was blown up yesterday. I don’t know if it was an act of resistance, an air strike, or something else. I heard the explosion, stepped outside the block, but could only see smoke and dust in the distance.

No one knows who is fighting whom but many of the SS guards left the camp over a week ago, marching out thousands of prisoners with them. The rest of us left behind can only guess where they were going, not knowing if we’re better off here or there, or if it matters at all.

There has been no kapo to take a group of women from Birkenau to Auschwitz in the early morning to report to duty. So, we’ve remained in our barracks. I’m unsure if anyone is in the infirmaries, and if so, whether they are alive.

Those who are still here seem to be roaming back and forth between the blocks, mindlessly, while others lie still in their wooden bunks, staring blankly ahead.

The kapos are still around but seem to care little about what everyone is doing, or not doing. The kapo from my block sits by the door and stares between the columns of bunks.

I slide off my bunk, trudging down carefully to the floor to check the wound on the bottom of my heel. I unwrap the piece of fabric I’ve kept secured, finding the shade of red to be the same as yesterday and the day before, the rawness still as severe, but no other discoloration and no growth. There’s no more antiseptic. Whether I heal now is up to God.

Every step I take feels as if my skin is tearing open, undoing any form of healing my body attempted overnight. I’m staying off my feet as much as possible except for using the latrine and washroom, as well as the unorganized roll call still in partial effect.

“How’s your foot?” Brygid asks, shuffling toward me in slow turtle-like movements. She’s so young but could pass for an elderly woman in her final days. She’s skin and bones, similar to me, but I try to avoid looking down at the rest of my body aside from my foot. The less I see, the better mindset I can keep, which isn’t saying much at this point.

“The same as it’s been,” I answer.

She struggles to slide down against the wooden posts to sit beside me. “There’s a lot of commotion out there. People are flocking in every direction as if a fire is chasing them, but they don’t know where the fire is coming from.”

The irony of her statement, knowing I ended up here following a fire that was coming at us from every direction.

“Why do you think that is?” I ask her.

She shrugs her shoulders. “Likely a rumor started.”

Our block kapo stands up and opens the block door, poking her head outside. There’s enough space for us to see others rushing by the block.

“Something must be happening out there.”

“Where are you running to?” the kapo shouts outside.

“Soviets!”

Soviets.

Brygid pushes herself back up to her feet and yanks my blanket down from my bunk before moving down to grab hers. Then she offers me her hand. “We should go see for ourselves.”

“Yes, we should,” I say, giving her my hand, knowing she won’t be able to help much with getting me up to my feet. I take hold of a wooden beam and use all my might to push myself up. Brygid swings my blanket around my shoulders, then around her own before wrapping her arm around me. “I’m sure I’m not much help, but you should try to keep the weight off your heel if you can,” she says.

Since the day of the hanging at the beginning of the month, she’s been kinder to me. I thought she was able to read the thoughts inside my head and knew I had taken a part in the uprising. Maybe she still thinks I did, but all any of us were trying to do was free everyone—do something, anything. The effects of what we achieved were slight, but there was a shift in the way the SS were parading around, then many left the camp. It could all be a coincidence. I might never know.

Brygid and I stay close to the outer walls of the blocks, trudging through the hard snow and brittle gusts of wind until we turn left toward the main entrance of Birkenau where everyone is gathering. Just beyond the electrified wire fences are rows of tanks and trucks, but they aren’t German vehicles.

Brygid and I walk nearer to the fence where others are standing, leaning against the wires we’d never step foot near unless it was to end our lives. There mustn’t be any more electricity running through the fences now.

The Soviet soldiers of the Red Army stare at us through the fence as if we’re a rare species they’ve never seen before. It’s hard to understand the looks on their faces.

Through a bullhorn, a man speaks in Russian, words I don’t understand. Most of us don’t. When no one responds, they begin speaking in German, saying:

“You are freed, my comrades. Don’t be afraid. We’ve come to liberate you.”

My gaze swings to Brygid, wondering if she just heard the same thing I did. “Did they say we’re free?”

She doesn’t speak German well. I forgot. Just as I’m about to recite the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard, the man repeats them in Polish. Then again in Yiddish. He’s making sure we all understand that they’ve come to save us.

Brygid clutches her hand against my side but falls to her knees, yanking at my smock. Her howling sobs echo the many others around us, and I wonder why I’m not crying. What’s wrong with me? Do I not understand what’s happening? Is this my imagination? Am I dreaming? I’m afraid I’m hallucinating. That must be what this is.

The crowds of prisoners all shuffle to the sides, creating open paths for the Soviets to enter the compound, enough of them to move in each direction of the camp to spread the news.

Despite the unsettling looks on their faces, they don’t take their eyes off the crowded lines of people welcoming their arrival with wailing sobs, shouts of prayers, and silence as some convince themselves these men aren’t just a mirage of our dying minds. I don’t know how they’ll be able to help so many of us at once. Those of us still on our feet are walking miracles. There are so many who can’t move from their bunks.

I watch the Soviets carefully, wondering what their plan might be. We all want to run out of those gates but most of us can’t. I doubt there are many who could.

I stare down the row of blocks and all I can think about is Max, knowing I’ll likely be freed along with the others, escorted out from these godforsaken walls, but I’ll be leaving him here. His body is gone. I know this. But a part of him is here and will always be here, and now it will be without me. What kind of mother am I? How can I just leave him here?

“Max, I need to take you with me,” I whisper into the wind. “Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

“Dalia,” Brygid says, wrapping her arm around mine, our blankets overlapping one another. “Max will always be with you. He’s a part of you, not this place.”

My tears come all at once and with the wind striking me as a punch to the face, the tears freeze against my skin. I gasp for air, the cold, a searing knife. “My girls and husband. I don’t know where to find them. What if they were here too? Is this the freedom I’ve been praying for? A life alone without everyone I love?”

“You don’t know that they’re gone too. We both still have the chance to find our families. We can’t give up now,” she says. “We’ve come this far, Dalia.”

“We could help one another,” I tell her, afraid of being utterly alone in this world I might never learn how to navigate.

“I think that’s the most wonderful idea,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder.

“If you need medical aid, hold up a hand so that we can assist you,” the Soviets announce.

I don’t raise my hand, knowing others are in much worse condition than I am. As I limp alongside Brygid back toward our block, she takes my hand and lifts it up. “No, no,” I say, pulling against her grip.

“If you don’t receive treatment for your foot, you aren’t going to make it. Don’t try and fool me, Dalia. I saw the wound.”

“It isn’t so bad.”

“There is a hole in your foot. You have exposed tissue.”

“I just need some antiseptic,” I argue.

“No, you’re going to receive proper treatment,” she says sternly, still holding my hand up.

I’ve seen what happens to those who request medical treatment of any kind. Who’s to say it’s any different with the Red Army. They want to help those who can be helped, rightfully so. I might be beyond help. I’m only fooling myself by thinking otherwise.