Chapter 21 Stefan
TWENTY-ONE
STEFAN
BIRKENAU (AUSCHWITZ II)
Wet, rotting wood, iodine, and disinfectant mask only a single layer of sweat, blood, and human waste.
The dark corridor is narrow, and I can only hear the crunch of gravel beneath the boots of the guard walking in front of me before entering the large open space, lined with three-tiered bunks, like the barracks I’ve already been held in.
Except this isn’t an ordinary barrack. Metal poles with IV bags are stationed between each cubed section.
Most of the straw-covered sleeping spaces are occupied.
I shouldn’t be surprised seeing as this must be a barrack for people with medical conditions.
The short interview with my dearest Rosalie—who looked sickened to see me here—made the purpose of my presence clear.
If I could convince myself that Rosalie is a hallucination so I wouldn’t have to think of her in this place, I would.
Why is she here, in this God-awful medical unit now?
In the same place as me again? I’ve been a prisoner in Auschwitz long enough to know there is no such thing as a coincidence.
I thought we’d been lucky, but luck doesn’t exist here…
The guard continues to lead me down the narrow row between the bunks, past a roped off section that’s less occupied than the rest of the barrack, and finally to smaller section of bunks that end before a corner partition.
“Here. This is your assigned space,” the guard says, pointing at the bottom bunk, third to the last column before the partition.
“What should I be—” I try to ask what I should be doing so I’m not caught doing nothing.
“Wait,” he says before walking back toward the front of the barrack.
I clamber into the cubby-like hole, scooting in backward to keep my head at the opening. A young boy lies beside me, and another one beside him. They look alike, maybe the same age as Eloise.
“Hello,” I say, wondering what these poor children must be doing in here, or how they’re surviving this hell.
“Hello,” they say in unison, their voices small and dry.
“Are you brothers?” I ask.
“Twins,” the one nearest to me says. “That’s why we’re here.”
They’re here because they’re twins? I know I’ll regret asking what that means. Maybe they don’t even know anything more. Might be best.
“Why are you here?” the nearest one asks.
A seizure. The death sentence I was born with.
There’s no purpose in hiding my truth but keeping my epilepsy a secret has been a way of life for me.
“Maybe they think I’m too old to work. Thankfully that isn’t something you need to worry about though, is it?
” I force a small smile to alleviate the nerves that lace their voices.
“You’re here because you’re old?” one asks. They aren’t buying my lie. They’re too smart for that. “You’re not old at all. That can’t be why.”
“All right, then…How about I guess your age,” I say, turning the attention back to them. “Are you…twelve?”
Their eyes grow wide at the same moment. “How did you know?”
The thought of Eloise brings a small smile to my lips. “The last time I saw my sister, she was the same age.”
“Is she here somewhere with the other girls and women?” one of the boys asks.
I shake my head. “No, but I’m hoping she’s somewhere safe.”
“That’s what we hope about our parents and older brother, too.” Their eyes droop and shoulders slouch.
“I’m sure they are,” I tell them, hearing the lie, and tasting the bitterness of it on my tongue.
The door to the partition whips open, and a nurse barges out, pale-faced, clutching her chest. The bellow of a man in pain spills out into the open space between the bunks.
Curiosity pulls my attention toward the open door, where I catch a grim glance of a man, strapped down to a table, blood spurting in every direction from what is unmistakably a castration.
My stomach curdles and burns. I twist my legs together and reset my focus to the straw mattress beneath me, moving my hands to my ears to block out some of the screaming.
I clench my eyes, but the image is still present.
The muffled screams stop, and I release the pressure over my ears slowly. I won’t look back toward the partition…
“He’s dead now,” the boy utters. I tilt my head in his direction, wondering how his voice is so calm. “Those are the screams that always end suddenly.”
They’re numb to it. How many times have they heard that scream?
How many times has Rosalie? Even from the other side of the entrance.
She must realize what she was forced to send me into.
It explains the look in her eyes, the fear that has multiplied since the last time I truly saw her here, outside my mind’s eye.
What has she seen? Or witnessed?
What if that becomes me?
Is that why I’m here?
So I won’t procreate children who may end up with the same condition as me?
The eugenics sterilization program the Reich started in 1939—it never ended as they said it did in 1941.
The fear has never subsided. But the proof has been hidden here in barracks like this.
The Reich’s only ploy is to remove the “broken” and multiply those of the so-called greater race. The Aryans.
Why would they let Rosalie witness this? It’s obvious they plan to kill me, but I also know what they do with people who know too much. I’m supposed to be protecting her, I promised, but instead, it’s she who has protected me, and all it seems I’m doing is leading her right into a lion’s mouth.
“Do they all die?” I ask the boy.
He shakes his shaven head. “No. They don’t do that to everyone. Everyone is different. Uncle Pepi has a different use for each of us.”
“Uncle Pepi?” I repeat.
“That’s what people call the doctor in charge. He’s brought us chocolate before.”
The words keep spinning around my head, forcing me to question if I’m hearing things or distorting them somehow.
A nurse, a woman with blonde hair pinned beneath her white cap, stops in front of my bunk with a clipboard in her left hand, and holds out her right hand toward me. “Arm,” she demands.
I slip my arm out from behind my chin and stretch it toward her, my fingers unsteady, a tremor in my wrist.
“1705—” she mutters my number. “Come with me.”
My body is limp as I pull myself forward to swivel out of this hole.
I follow the blonde woman into the partitioned room.
The man is gone. In his place, blood. On the table and floor.
The nurse grabs a rag from a hook on the back of the door and soaks up the blood, smearing it from one side to the other until the metal table gleams through a blur of smudges. Where did the man go?
The room is hardly large enough for two people, never mind three—the doctor, Uncle Pepi, I assume, standing in the far corner with another clipboard.
Black-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, a gap between his two front teeth that he’s pressing his tongue against as he jots down notes.
I might vomit. I’m not sure what will come up, but my body is giving up on me.
Maybe I’ll pass out. That might be best.
“This is an easy one to start with,” the doctor says, a lisp evident. “Seizures are caused by a lack of food and sleep deprivation. We’ve already got that here.” The doctor laughs at his own attempt to joke. “How often do you experience seizures?”
Is there a right answer?
“I don’t have seizures. I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“There is a report stating you seized during farm labor last week outside the isolation barrack.”
“I was weak from hunger and shivering from the cold.”
The doctor peers at his notes again, his glasses slipping down his nose more. “I also have a note here stating that Phenobarbital was found in your pocket upon arrival at the gates—a prescription with your name. Phenobarbital is most used as an anticonvulsant—a treatment for seizures.”
“That prescription was to help me sleep,” I utter another lie. Lie after lie, and I sense it’s too late for that.
“Intriguing—I’ve never considered such a strong drug for insomnia.” He squints and stares up in thought. “In any case, you’ve been withdrawing from this…strong medicine for,” he flutters his lips and stares past me for a moment. “About two months. You should be clean at this point.”
“What are you looking for?” My question is out of turn, means for punishment, or worse, but I just saw a man die from castration. It’s my choice to know what comes next.
He waves his hand around, his pen woven between his fingers.
“A slurry of things. Answers scientists and doctors haven’t found in people like you.
A defective gene perhaps, something that can be carried on through generations.
Which is just a shame. You’re a good looking fellow, symmetrical features—rare for a Jew. ”
“As I’m sure you know, insomnia can be caused by many determinants, most of which don’t point to a defective gene,” I say, my voice wavering in volume—my unease clearer than it should be.
“Are you a doctor?” he asks, amused, “or just another formerly rich, well-spoken Jew?”
“I’m not a doctor, but I’m familiar with my well-being.” How can I deny the rest of the accusation?
“Well, seeing as you’re not a doctor, I do believe you might be fascinated to learn about the information we dig up on you,” he says, his statement a period to end this sentencing.
The question of castration is still sitting at the tip of my tongue. What reason would he need to do that to anyone—or everyone?
“Orders?” the nurse requests.
“Over a series of days, we’ll run these diagnostics,” the doctor says, scribbling something on his paper.
The scratch against the clipboard echoing between the walls as he mouths the words swirling onto the paper as he writes.
“Following the series of treatments, we’ll have an orderly monitor him to keep precise notes. ”
“I’ll find one,” the nurse says.
He smiles during a pause of his pen and points it at the wall behind his head. “No, you don’t have to. That one, out front. Understood? Make sure she’s here when we’re through.”
“Yes, doctor,” the nurse agrees.
That one. Rosalie?