Chapter 32 Rosalie
THIRTY-TWO
ROSALIE
SS RESIDENTIAL ZONE, AUSCHWITZ PERIMETER
“I’m leaving for the day. I’ll be back before dinner,” Frau Weyman says, fastening pearl clips to her lobes in the golden-framed mirror. “I’ll be taking Tilly with me.”
She takes the baby with her whenever she goes out but leaves the other children behind and under my care. In any common circumstance I wouldn’t blink an eye at the behavior since mothers need to feed their babies on demand, but Tilly is bottle-fed, and she doesn’t dote on her much at home.
Tilly is the reason I was taken and brought here. I was to nurse Frau Weyman through the delivery of their baby—a healthy, living baby. Anything different would result in my death, per Officer Weyman’s initial threat.
Rather than releasing me following Tilly’s birth ten months ago, the Weymans told me I would remain here in their home, tending to Tilly and their other three children, Hilde, Claude, and Greta. This hostage sentence has no end date.
Frau Weyman glides a tube of lipstick over her lips then puckers her pout in the mirror. Does she hear the same cries and screams that I do at night? Does she smell the burning ash in the air or care why she lives within a guarded region with a prison in the center?
I overhear their conversations in the evenings.
The stories and reasons of exhaustion Officer Weyman is forced to face every day in Auschwitz.
Dealing with the “ungrateful scum,” he says, “is something I wouldn’t wish upon my greatest enemy.
” I listen to what he says and in response, my stomach burns, blood boils, and rage builds inside me.
“The Jews need to be wiped from the earth. Once we manage to do that, things will get better. You’ll see.
” It’s the same despicable promises he makes her night after night.
Stefan and the rest of the family refused to believe Hitler would act on his threats.
The cruel political statements were impossible to believe, even with the segregation, antisemitism, and anti-Jewish laws.
How could anyone successfully demand a motion of destroying an entire race when we were all put onto this earth the same way? How could anyone get away with this?
I never thought I would find these answers. But they’re here. And they’re clear as day.
Nothing in the restricted zone bordering the gates of Auschwitz is humane. These people of the Reich think like killers and see heaven within hell. They’re warped, brainwashed, and there’s no breaking through their demented awareness.
“I come,” Hilde says, tugging on her mother’s dress. She’s just three and doesn’t understand why her seven- and eight-year-old siblings are at school, and she isn’t.
“No, darling. Not today.” She brushes Hilde’s hand from the pleat in her dress.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. The moment Tilly was born, Frau Weyman lost interest in Hilde as if she’s replaced her with a new shiny toy. The other two children barely speak a word to their parents unless spoken to first. This is how the Nazis breed the next generation.
I reach forward to take Hilde’s hand in mine, so she leaves her mother alone, bringing her to the baby stroller at the door where Tilly waits patiently.
She often stares at me as if I should be able to read the thoughts going through her mind.
I’ve always wondered how much a baby can sense.
Though, maybe I don’t want to know. I fix the thin blanket draped over Tilly, loosening it beneath her neck so she doesn’t overheat.
“Don’t fuss over her. She’ll get upset,” Frau Weyman says, walking toward me with heavy footsteps.
Like a gust of wind, Frau Weyman shoves the stroller out the door to God knows where.
“How about a walk?” I ask Hilde.
She squeals and claps her hands together then runs to the foyer closet to pull her “big girl” stroller away from the wall. “I want in,” she says, pointing at the seat.
“You don’t want to walk like a big girl?”
“No. No walk.” It will be easier to run my errand if she’s contained. I’ll take the easy way this time.
I poke my head out the front door, checking the road to see who might be outside.
Celina and Halina, the other nannies on the streets, are both watching their sets of children play ball in the street.
I’ve grown friendly with Celina, but I’ve remained cautious of how much I share with her—especially when it comes to my agenda and need to travel to the Marketplace Square.
Then of course, Halina only just arrived as the newest nanny of Officer Schafer’s children—just a short time after the last nanny was eliminated.
I’ve met her once, and she seems harmless.
Nice enough. But the less anyone knows of my business, the better. At least for now.
While debating if I should make up an excuse for where I’m going or wait out their outdoor playtime, the clouds grow dark and heavy, warning of imminent rain.
Halina peers up at the sky and collects Officer Schafer’s children then gives Celina a quick wave goodbye. Celina follows and takes Officer Drexel’s children inside their house.
That solves my dilemma.
I take an umbrella from the rack next to the door and make a quick exit with Hilde.
The walk isn’t long, but it’s dreary with drizzle and mist. Many of the other streets in the surrounding area are abandoned.
Tree branches are overgrown, grass hasn’t been clipped, and rubbish grows in piles by the day.
The only pleasant part of the walk is through the path in the woods where nature hasn’t come to learn of the rotting world closing in on it.
Birds still sing. Frogs croak. Squirrels scamper up trees.
For these brief minutes when we stroll through the woods, memories of growing up in the cottage and constructing forts with Mama in piles of pine needles return, bringing back a warmth that feels borrowed from another lifetime.
After she passed and we moved out of the cottage, I would cycle back into the woods to collect berries that Papa would lick his lips for when I brought them back to the clock tower.
Then, of course, Stefan—those memories. Our moments in the woods, the trees embracing us, never judging—just existing as a safe place.
What I wouldn’t do to relive those moments…
“Birdie!” Hilde shouts, scaring the poor thing out of a tree. The bird takes my memories and flees someplace safer.
The Marketplace Square is full of German families who live throughout the enclosed area, running their errands to the pharmacy, tailor, bakeries, bread shops, butchers, dress shops, boutiques, and florists.
It’s as if life hasn’t changed here, except the people who were born and raised here have all been kicked out, replaced by these Reich-loyal families.
I keep my focus ahead of the stroller and walk as if I have purpose.
I do. Just not the same purpose as most others here.
Down a narrow side street between the pastel buildings, the stroller thumps over the cobblestone and Hilde sings a tune to hear the vibration in her throat.
If I tell her to hush she’ll grow louder, so I slow my pace hoping she’ll stop before turning the next corner.
A squawking crow swoops by us and startles Hilde.
The singing stops. And I take the opportunity to make it around the corner, quickly knocking on the third door on the right side of the street with a: knock knock, knock…
knock…knock knock. “I have your sauerkraut,” I call into the seam of the door, making sure my German pronunciation is proper.
The man on the other side of the door isn’t German, but anyone not a servant of the SS does not live within this territory unless they survived the Reich’s raid, hid without being caught, and have perfected their German. To fly under the radar of guards here is the only way to remain now.
The door opens a crack, not enough for me to see inside, but enough for the man to peek out and see me.
“Rosalie Kaufman,” I whisper.
The door closes and my head recoils. Any other time I’ve knocked and given him my name, he’s said: No, nothing, then closed the door.
I clench the handlebar of the stroller, feeling an ache in my knuckles.
My chest tightens, lungs constrict, and sweat beads on the back of my neck.
On edge, I keep a lookout on both ends of the street, ensuring no one is passing down the narrow street.
Only pigeons and crows like to gather here.
It’s dark, and damp with crumbles of trash littered along the sides of the buildings.
The door opens once more and still only a small crack, just big enough to slide an envelope through. I reach for it, but the man pulls it back inside.
I almost forgot. I retrieve the loose coins I’d stolen from Frau Weyman’s purse and hold it up to the dark opening. The man shoves a folded cap through the crack, and I slip the change inside, hearing the quiet thud against the woven fabric.
The letter returns and this time the man releases it in my grip.
I shove the letter into my sweater pocket and move away from the underground Polish postal service and make my way to another dark narrow alleyway where I can inspect the envelope.
When I pull it back out, my hand trembles as I stare at the words on the envelope.
R.K.
MIDWIFE OF SK.
The R.K. is in script penmanship, but “Midwife of Sk.” is in black block letters. I unfold the top right corner, revealing the matching string of letters I sent Stefan through my letters.
I press my hand to my chest and cup my other over my mouth, smothering the sob quaking through my chest.
My God. He’s alive.
My fingers fumble as I try to quietly open the envelope and slip out the paper.
May 2, 1943
To my beautiful Rosalie,
I wish you could hear me crying out your name with the joy your letters have brought to me. I didn’t find them until this past May. They were locked away, out of sight.
I’m just thankful I finally came across them. I miss you so much it hurts more than any pain I’ve ever felt. I think about you when I’m awake and asleep, desperate to find my way back to you. But as you can imagine, it’s been best to blend into the dark and keep a presence more of a mystery.
I’ve only been able to do so because you made sure I was able to remain in one piece before you left. I’ve been able to hold myself together and stay on my feet. I couldn’t have done that without you.
To know you are alive and holding on has given me more relief and hope than I thought I’d ever feel again.
I confess, your poetic prose had me a bit puzzled at first, but then the beauty of your words leaped off the page, clear as day. Now I hope my response finds you the same way.
Rest assured, I’m surviving, but I won’t rest until I make it to your side. I’m arranging for a way to make that happen, but you must confirm receipt of my letter and reply to me in your loving way with those words that make my heart skip a beat.
Send all your love here…
I’ll wait for you on the nineteenth of January between two and three in the afternoon with eleven roses.
If I miss you that day, I’ll assume you came on the second of January at seven that morning.
Through the fierce beat in my heart and tingles down my spine, I center my focus on the last words I read. These dates aren’t real, nor are the times. They’re markers, like the ones I sent him.
19.1.2.3.11.
I focus, straining my eyes as I stare at the cracks in the stone road.
19=S, 1=A, 2=B, 3=C, 11=K—no that doesn’t make sense.
I read his words once more.
…between two and three in the afternoon—so, fourteen and fifteen, perhaps.
19=S, 1=A, 14=N, 15=O, 11=K
Sanok
And then the second of January at seven…2.1.7 is 2=B, 1=A, 7=G
Bag
Sanok Bag…I continue reading the letter, slowly, making sure I don’t miss a word.
The next time I’ll be able to go, will be on the twenty-third of May at noon, and I’ll have twelve roses.
The next word is 23.5.12.12. I clench my eyes, picturing the numbers next to the letters, using my fingers to steady my counting. 23=W, 5=E, 12=L, 12=L
Well
Sanok Bag Well
Just one more word. This isn’t an address. Maybe a code name to retrieve mail at the factory…
Just remember that I must return by 9:14 the next morning to ensure I’m back here by 11—
9.14.11 is 9=I, 14=N, 11=K
Ink
I love you with all my heart, forever and all of time.
S
My fingernails are tearing into the flesh of my chest as I place the words together:
Sanok Bag Well Ink.
It doesn’t make sense, which must be the point.
It’s clear he’s worried to say too much or too little, but I know he’s alive. It’s everything. Everything. It’s air to my lungs. A pulse anchoring my soul.
I fall back against the nearest building, trying to breathe in the thick damp air.
“I hungry. I go home,” Hilde says, twisting away from the back of the stroller’s seat with one hand, scratching at her neck with her other, leaving red marks. I lean over her and take her hand in mine to pull it away from her neck. She’s clammy.
“Are you alright, sweetheart?”
“Hungry,” she says again.
I place the back of my hand on her head, feeling a touch of warmth above normal and begin to count her breaths while staring at my watch. A steady rhythm, and no wheezing. Must be the summer heat.
“We’ll go home now.”
She resettles herself in the seat and leans back.
I push the stroller away from the shallow curb and the wheel catches on a jagged stone, jerking us both forward.
Hilde lets out a shrill cry and heat fires through my veins as I imagine every person within these tall surrounding buildings looking out the windows at us.
A window latch pops, echoes between the walls and I lift the back of the stroller and push it away from the curb, quickly turning the next corner.
My heart is pounding by the time we make it to the path through the woods and all I can do is look over my shoulder every few seconds. I’m not sure who I’m looking for, but I know I want to avoid anyone residing in this area.
The minutes of quiet in the woods settle my pulse enough to slow my pace and refocus on the letter.
Thank God Stefan understood my attempt at cipher code. I was terrified I made it too confusing. I was even more terrified that my letters were never reaching him.
Send all your love here…
It sounds like he’s found a place to hide. It must be somewhere in the factory if he was able to obtain the letters I sent there.
What I do know is that I must tell him he can’t come after me. And I already know that will be the reason he does.
He needs to understand the risk involved. I’m not worth his life.