Chapter 19 Rosalie
NINETEEN
ROSALIE
BIRKENAU (AUSCHWITZ II)
Officer Weyman didn’t punish me with his hands last week.
He didn’t need to.
The consequence he chose came silently, the type that leaves no mark on skin…only on the life that follows.
After the Monowitz isolation barrack was cleared, Weyman informed me that the doctor who oversaw the recent typhus outbreak had requested my assistance at the medical barracks in Birkenau.
He made a point of telling me it was just a request, not a command, reminding me that my compliance would reflect on him.
He didn’t have a reason for why the doctor asked for me.
Not knowing why is keeping me awake at night.
For the past four mornings, he’s marched me to the yard outside the row of medical barracks, ordering me to stay put and wait until I’m called for—like a dog.
Then he joins the doctor in the white lab coat outside the nearest barrack.
They speak covertly, rounds of chuckles often break through their serious tones.
That’s when I turn away, searching for somewhere else to keep my focus.
To my right is the Romani compound, where mothers struggle to console their starving children.
Behind me stand the so-called shower buildings, where lines of people hold on to hope, not knowing those showers have only an entrance.
Not an exit. Ahead of me, there are the two rows of medical barracks.
In front of the first, Weyman and the doctor converse over a clipboard.
The doctor appears to agree with everything he says then lifts his raven-like eyes, points them at me like daggers and curls a claw-like finger toward his chest—gesturing for me to join him.
Weyman leaves me here, offering me up as a borrowed slave to this doctor.
But today as he passes by, he smirks and hands me a list of identification numbers, titled:
Unfit male prisoners transported from Monowitz Post, 14 days in isolation following typhus outbreak.
“Enjoy your day, Fr?ulein Kaufman. I’ll see you tonight.”
His hushed comment dissolves before me as I study the multi-page list in my hands. Monowitz Post—typhus outbreak. My previous location. And Stefan’s.
All I can think about are the very words that the doctor spoke to Weyman fourteen days ago. Even the sinister inflection from his voice is still clear in my memory, as if it happened just a moment ago.
“In two weeks, once quarantine is complete, anyone no longer fit for labor—send them my way, yes? I can certainly make use of them.”
At that time, I didn’t know what “make use of them” meant. I knew it couldn’t mean anything good, but in the four days I’ve been serving beneath this horrific doctor, I will never see anything or anyone the same way again.
Now, I stare out the window from inside a medical barrack, watching a new day roll in, trying to keep my eyes set on the sky and only the sky.
There’s one cloud up there. Though the color blue is nothing more than a memory now.
In its place, a palette of ash, steel, and uranium shroud the blue, leaving only a hint of its beauty behind.
Even the sun shines dull, diffused by a pale orange glow.
A moment ago, the doctor informed me of the prisoners’ arrival, waiting for me to tell him I was ready for them too. I did. Because I’m more afraid of this doctor than anything else that could kill me.
A single prisoner steps in through the door at time.
I confirm his number against my list. Wait.
Then search for his face. So far, I’ve been able to breathe a sigh of relief with each new face, but there are pages of identifications numbers, and the SS is watching me so I can’t scan through for a familiar number. For Stefan’s.
If he’s not one of the men, it might mean he didn’t survive the quarantine.
Or it could mean he was sent back to work.
Has he had another seizure? Or multiple…
Did someone finish him off during of a moment of misery?
My stomach burns, image after image slips through my imagination like a film reel, picturing the worst—as if I haven’t already experienced the worst in my lifetime.
Whoever I love, dies. So if he is still alive, his fate is already determined.
And he’ll die in front of me too. All because I love him.
I call the next number, and an unfamiliar man gallops inside after being shoved. He barely keeps his balance as he catches himself against the wooden beam beside me.
“Confirm your number: A7002XX.”
“Ye—yes,” he says glancing at his forearm as if needing to double check.
I clear my throat, trying to ease the tightness choking me from speaking.
“It has been determined that you are no longer considered ‘fit’ for labor due to a medical condition. This condition can be recorded in one of two ways: Your word, or a full head-to-toe investigation for a declared illness. Your word will allow the medical staff to proceed with simple confirmatory tests.”
I have yet to memorize this dictated statement I’m forced to recite as each person walks through the door in front of me.
I don’t want to remember the words I’m speaking.
I want to forget them the moment they roll off my tongue.
I’m being used as a puppet, a monstrous puppet sending these people all to the same place in the end, whether the long way or short way.
“Con—condition? I don’t know what you mean, miss. I don’t have a condition. Why do you think I have a condition?”
I can’t tell how old this man is. Only that he’s frail, skin and bone, with his jaw hanging so low I’m not sure he can fully close his mouth.
His skin is pale, but not too pale. There are no rashes or inflammations visible along his face or hands.
Each of these people have been reported for hiding a condition—reported by peers who have been rewarded for their “brave” acts.
“Remove your shoes,” I say, speaking loud and clear, as directed, before lowering my voice to a whisper to say, “please.”
The man stares at me, his eyes pleading for me to do something other than make him take his shoes off. “No,” he utters. “Fr?ulein.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, even quieter. I make an obvious show of stretching my focus all the way to my left, a hole in the wall where another person watches and takes notes.
The man tries to close his mouth, proving it’s as impossible as I thought.
His skeletal state alone makes the decision.
His hanging chin shivers as he works his heels free, one at a time, removing his feet from his shoes.
Dirt embeds every crease of his skin, his toenails yellow with fungus, but all this doctor will be interested in is the sixth toe he has on both feet.
“If you’ll proceed to the next room, someone will bring you to where you need to go.”
I want to stop my mind from wandering, imagining what this deranged doctor will want with this man. I’ve seen too much from within this building already. The screams I’ve heard will forever haunt me. The laughter underlining another person’s cries of pain…
The door opens and another man is flung inside toward me. I drag my pencil down to the next row.
“Confirm your number: 17050—”
Before I finish reading the entire number, the man utters, “Yes.”
His “yes” sends a cold snap through my chest. A weight of agony plunges to the bottom of my stomach.
No, no, no. No.
A guard is watching me through the wall-hole. And I forget how to breathe.
I bite my cheeks so hard the pain sears through my jaw and I lift my head, finding his eyes—those mosaic hazel eyes.
The only eyes that have ever taken my breath away.
And the ones that have always given me reason to take my next breath.
He’s even thinner, as if starved more than usual during isolation.
Sharp cheekbones with flesh stretching over each ridge.
The whites of his eyes glow against the film of dirt casing his face.
Sick. He looks so sick. Another week or two—he’ll become unrecognizable, if even still…
here. I’m not sure I’m capable of imagining the worst of what he’s already been through, and yet, I know what lies ahead, within this very building.
There is no option to send him back to where he came from.
There is no option here at all. This isn’t a selection.
He’s already been selected to endure medical treatment.
It must have been the seizure he had just before I found him bleeding from the mouth…
God knows how many he’s suffered here, but a kapo, guard, or officer must have seen it and documented the episode.
Whoever spared him his life and then sent him here must know the doctor will be enamored by his condition.
He maintains his composure, but the strain of deep thought pulsates through his stare as he leans forward, pressing his hands to the small table between us. He must know we’re not alone. No one is ever alone in Auschwitz.
“I know why they sent me here,” he whispers. “But I’m all right now. I don’t need to be here.” He’s all right for the moment, but there’s no saying when he’ll bear another seizure.
My hand moves before my mind stops me. One small, fraught touch…my fingertips grazing his split knuckles. “I’m only here for intake. I don’t have a choice—to send you back…”
A cough barks through the wall behind me, a reminder of the eyes boring into my back. The scrape of chair legs follows. I jerk my hand back to my clipboard, blood draining from my face.
Stefan doesn’t move, his gaze holding steady on my eyes.
They’re watching, I want to tell him.
The guard must have seen me touch his hand.
I shouldn’t have.
His hands shouldn’t be on the table.
The silence between us breaks with a pen scratching against paper, proving how thin the wall behind me is. This exchange is being notated.
My throat closes tighter as I force words out.
“It—” I take in a short breath, needing it to carry me through.
“—has been determined that—” My insides scream and cry, my heart thumps so hard I’m dizzy.
“—you are no longer considered ‘fit’ for labor due to…a medical condition, observed by a guard.” His medical condition—his arch nemesis.
The only enemy he’s ever had. A part of himself that cannot be severed or cured.
“This…condition can be recorded in one of two ways.” A choke catches in my throat and I gasp for air, clutching my side as fiery bile rises in my stomach.
“Your word.” I close my eyes, unable to look at him.
“—or a full head-to-toe investigation for a declared illness.” The volume of my voice weakens to a near inaudible level.
“Your word will allow the medical staff to proceed with only simple confirmative tests.”
Why am I here? I keep asking myself.
I see the very same question in his eyes, about me, him.
“My condition…” he says, “I don’t have one.” His words are smooth, confident, and believable out loud. Except, someone reported him to this infirmary barrack with reason, which means his statement is a blatant lie.
It’s as if he didn’t hear me tell him that he will endure a head-to-toe investigation for a declared illness. Maybe I would lie, too. The outcome might be the same—the outcome I made sure he survived to face—over and over again.
I’ve failed him repeatedly.
Again, and again.
Someone is taking pleasure from watching our pain.
The chair behind the wall scratches against the floor. The guard transporting patients to their assigned areas of the block is moving toward the door to collect Stefan from my release.
I can’t do anything to stop the SS from taking him inside or sending him into the experimental unit. But I’ll find a way back there. I’ll make that doctor think he needs me, and I’ll stand between him and Stefan before he destroys what’s left of him.
The clipboard slips from my fingers, cracking against the floor—loud enough to echo inside my head and rattle my bones.
The shriek from inside my head returns, deafening all other thoughts.
He doesn’t know what lies beyond those doors. He’ll never be the same again and I’m watching it happen.
I step toward him. Cold hands clamp around my arms. I glance down—blood-covered fingers.
Mama’s fingers.
I couldn’t save her.
A clock ticks between my ears. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I couldn’t save Papa.
The door opens.
Swoosh.
Stefan’s feet shuffle.
Shush. Shush.
Shush. Shush.
Shush. Shush.
And the door closes.
He’s gone. To where I shouldn’t be able to save him.
But I’ll find a way. I’ll watch them. Learn their flaws, and take whatever chance I can to save Stefan, and as many others as I can.
Evil isn’t a sign of intelligence; it’s an exploitable weakness.