Chapter 15 Rosalie
FIFTEEN
ROSALIE
AUSCHWITZ I
If I was a dog, I’d have a collar, a muzzle, and a leash.
Humans aren’t more obedient, we just know too much, and therefore a leash isn’t necessary to keep me tethered to Weyman’s side. I already know if I try to run, I’m surrounded by electrified barbed-wire fences and guards with rifles. There is no escaping Auschwitz. Unless by death.
For the last five minutes, since arriving at his office in the administration building at the main Auschwitz complex, Weyman is pretending to read a paper concealed in a folder, his eyes drifting to me more than the page.
This has been a routine we follow daily after group selections in Monowitz.
Usually, he’ll give me stacks of papers to file until he’s ready to leave for the day.
A groan rumbles in Weyman’s throat as he throws the folder down to his desk. “We’re going back to Monowitz.”
I follow him through the corridor, down the stairs and out the main door.
Like German shepherds, I stay in pace with him, walking without question.
The black Mercedes waits outside the Administration gate as it always does, its gleaming paint catching the faint ray of light breaking through the thick clouds.
The iron gate croaks open, and clanks shut, and I wait for Weyman to reach across the front seat to pop the passenger lock so I can slide in beside him. Always, beside him.
We follow the same road we drive every day, through the fog, past the barren fields of dead grass until the odor of burnt rubber seeps through the car’s vents.
The folder with the paper he was reading sits between us, and I wish I could see through the thick card paper.
We don’t normally return to Monowitz once we’ve left for the day.
Our footsteps crunch against slush and ice as we approach the gates.
A guard’s stare lingers on me like many do.
It’s because I don’t belong here. I’m not one of them, nor a prisoner.
Weyman notices. He always notices. He clears his throat and cuts the guard a cunning stare—an unspoken threat, forcing the lower rank to drop his stare.
“Another typhus outbreak in a factory. The isolation barracks are beyond capacity, and administration wants it cleared out.”
Isolation barracks—where Stefan is and has been for the last week. Maybe with typhus, maybe not. We need to clear them out…
“Clear—”
“There’s nowhere else to put them, so yes.
You will identify those who are sick, becoming sick, or won’t be useful come a week from now.
” Weyman becomes silent for a long moment.
“There’s likely an infestation within those walls by now.
The thought of walking inside is sickening.
” His face grows pale as he stares up at the grim sky. “God help me.”
God won’t be helping him.
No one will.
Except me.
It’s a chance to find Stefan, make sure he’s all right, and ensure I spare him from being sent “elsewhere.”
“I’ll go into the barrack alone. I’m most likely immune from the disease by now. I will send out the ‘unfit’, so you don’t have to step inside.”
Weyman is silent for a moment, staring at my profile. “I thought I warned you about doing only what you’re told. Someone could notice your eagerness to assist me,” Weyman utters.
I swallow the knot in my throat, knowing the delusion I’m nursing.
“Not if I’m following your orders,” I reply, keeping my voice low.
He inhales sharply through his nose. “Yes. You are to go inside and send out the unfit. A transport will be waiting to take them…elsewhere.” He doesn’t look away when he says this, and there’s an inflection of pride in his voice as if he thinks I’ve begun to see these duties through his eyes rather than ones of a servant.
He couldn’t be more wrong.
Though now that I’ve managed to find a way into the barrack alone, I fear finding out that Stefan isn’t in the isolation barrack. It would mean the SS have already moved him “elsewhere.”
If I do find him, I don’t know what shape he’ll be in. I’m terrified to imagine the level of deterioration he’s gone through in just a few days. Each time I’ve seen him, he’s more skeletal, pale, hollow, and—he’s looked close to the brink of death.
Weyman snaps open a handkerchief and reaches around my neck to secure it.
He’s too close. He’s not wearing his gloves, and his knuckles graze my cheek.
Nausea strikes. Guilt fills my chest, knowing the person I am would never allow someone to get close to me without my consent.
I would shove him away if I wasn’t scared for my life.
“You’ll keep this on,” he says, his words more tender than a command. “Keep your scarf on your head, too.”
Every rule here is meant to strip us of control, and Weyman believes I’ve become easy prey, submissive to his lingering stares and subtle touches—because that’s exactly what I want him to think.
As we reach the gray-brown wooden facade, Weyman sweeps a layer of snow from the top lid of a rubbish bin and removes the top before reaching inside.
He retrieves a fraying and tattered gray smock.
“Cover your clothes. When you’re through, you’ll burn the smock then you will decontaminate any exposed skin. ”
The smock hangs limply over my arm, still damp from a wash, but reeks of some sort of sharp boiled soap. I pull it over my head, trying to breathe through my mouth rather than my nose. It may be clean, but I can smell the acidic chemicals through the handkerchief.
I swallow the gag threatening to choke me just as another set of footsteps in the muddy slush join us from behind. “Heil Hitler, Obersturmführer. Here is the list,” the guard says, handing a clipboard to me, keeping his stare directed to Weyman.
“Get it done quickly,” Weyman says. “Call them one by one. Separate them into two lines. ‘Unfit’ to the left. ‘Fit’ to the right. And those who don’t make it to your selection line—mark them as unfit.
” His voice lowers into a whisper as if this conversation should be private between us.
“Have no pity. No more poor judgments. Someone other than I is bound to notice your kindness.”
It isn’t kindness. It’s a need to save the innocent.
The guard moves around me and opens the barrack door, closing it against my heels.
My stomach drops as I take in the sight of tiered rows of wooden-pallet-like bunk beds, bodies in each hair of space.
The stench from within the walls is nothing compared to the smock and handkerchief.
All I smell is sickness, waste, and death.
The air is stale, but cold, and the moans and coughs echo.
I clutch the clipboard to my chest as my pulse titters me breathless.
The pencil trembles against the paper as I begin to call out muffled identification numbers.
Each response comes in the form of either a thud from clamoring out of a bed, a groan, or silence.
Men drag their weak bodies into the center of the barrack between the rows of bunks, forming a single line in front of me. They’ve done this before.
Hues of gray, green, and yellowing skin could mean more than typhus, but unless someone can’t move or is unwilling to try, they deserve a chance to live. Even if for only another day. I won’t be the person to make that choice for them. Despite what Weyman prefers.
“Do you have bread, water, anything?” the man standing in front of me pleads. “We’re starving to death, not dying of typhus.”
My brows knit together, pain churning through my stomach as I shake my head. “Sorry, no,” I whisper as I mark the man “fit.” “Step to the right please.”
There are more silent men than ones standing in front of me. More “unfit” than “fit.”
I turn the page, starting at the top and call out the next group of numbers, ending with 170501X.
Stefan. That’s his number.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes, watching, waiting to spot him climbing out of his bunk.
I keep watching as I inspect the others standing in front of me, hardly paying them much attention as I mark them as “fit” then point to my right where the line is growing.
I call Stefan’s number once more, knowing I haven’t called anyone else’s more than once. I’m not sure anyone notices.
Movement to my left catches my eye, spotting a hand flapping against the edge of a bunk.
I get through the remainder of this group as quickly as I can, then move toward the hand.
The closer I get, the heavier my heart grows.
It’s him, on the second tier. His body contorted like a narrow question mark with a thin blanket half draped over his body.
Specks of blood dot his face, mostly around his mouth. What happened?
“She called that number twice!” a man shouts from the line.
The words float around me like bullets aiming for my head. From outside, heels pivot on the snow. Someone is listening. Weyman.
The exterior latch clicks, and a sliver of light skims the floorboards. I stiffen and remain still as if no one can see me unless I’m moving.
“Silence!” Weyman’s voice strikes between the walls. “Don’t distract the woman.” Quiet returns and Weyman’s voice fades into a breathy echo.
I close my eyes and take in a breath, trying to understand why these men would turn on each other when they’re all in the same situation. Desperation. I understand that much.
“Stefan,” I whisper. Names are prohibited here. Knowing someone and helping them isn’t allowed.
His eyes flutter at the sound of his name before he opens his eyes and struggles to focus on my face.
Confusion swirls in his eyes. I step onto the ledge of lower bunk, bringing myself closer to him, then pressing the back of my hand to his forehead.
No fever. Just skin covered in grime. His lips are cracked and swollen and as he opens his mouth to talk, blood spills out from the corners of his lips. His jaw trembles.
“Ro-e,” he utters, trying to speak my name.