Chapter 33 Rosalie
THIRTY-THREE
ROSALIE
AUSCHWITZ I
No two days are the same here, yet people continue to die. Not die, but fall, lifeless, to the feet of their murderers.
First, I was useful for my midwifery skills, then for my handwriting, and then simply for staying upright long enough to fetch logs from the infirmary barracks.
Now, those well-kept logs—proof of life, death, and everything in between—have become a risk to the Reich.
The Soviets might uncover the truth if the truth is allowed to survive.
I’ve been inside every barrack, corridor, courtyard, and infirmary. Some blocks use more disinfectant than others, but nothing can conceal the putrid stench of human remains, disease, and waste.
I’ve checked pulses, finding none more often than even a slow beat. I’ve pulled bodies out of corners so they aren’t missed when a lorry comes around to cart the dead away. Through every barrack and among every bed I’ve passed, I haven’t found Stefan.
Upon returning to Weyman’s office for more papers, he greets me with a stack of ledgers he’s pulled from a filing cabinet.
“Burn these next,” he says shoving them into my chest. “Now.” His grunts and demands have become more belligerent, aggressive—something more like a fury of alarm bells constantly ringing with no reason. I prefer his anger over amusement.
I spin around to walk out of his office, but he clasps a hand on my shoulder, his thumb tracing a circle along my neck. “Every paper becomes ash. Leave nothing behind.”
“Understood,” I say, my voice pinched.
I hurry through the administration building, scratching my shoulder against my neck, wishing to scrape away the sensation of his touch.
Out in the front courtyard where fire-lit metal rubbish bins belch gusts of dry ash, there are SS huddling in small groups conversing, paying no attention to the act of burning papers.
Something is coming. A storm of allied forces is all I can assume. The SS know what’s happening but don’t divulge anything in front of anyone. For weeks, all I’ve been doing is burning papers, choking on smoke.
Except for the top ledger on the pile, I drop the rest to the dirt beside my dusty boots.
I hold the ledger close to the flames, the ink sweats, glistening before dripping.
I flip the top cover over, pressing it behind the alphabetized pages as I thumb through to find “SIL.” As usual, there are dozens of Silberbergs, Silberfelds, Silbers—so close, my eyes flinch at every name that could be his.
A gust of wind snags the page from my fingers, whipping it into a hungry flame. I yank it back as a strip of blackening paper rips free and floats like a feather before landing face up in the dirt between the bin and my feet.
I stare down at the mangled strip, spotting:
25.08.44 | 1705…
The last of the number is charred, a number that might begin with a 0 but might be an ash mark. It’s not a full number, but Stefan’s begins with 17050…
My heart hiccups and my knees give out, the frigid ground unforgiving against my knees as I peel the scrap of paper off the ground and slip it gently into the torn hem of my sleeve before the wind steals it again.
“Pockets!” A guard moves through the smoke in my direction, rage igniting his eyes.
I stand up, wondering what he’s seen. He wasn’t within view, or not that I noticed.
“Empty them.” I drop the ledger from my hand and pull the lining of my dress pockets out, a bobby-pin and paperclip falling loose.
“The rest of them.” His demand growls, spit flying from his mouth.
I don’t have any other pockets. He must have seen me put the strip of paper in the hem of my sleeve.
Without breaking eye contact from this wolf of a man, I slip my fingers into the hem and retrieve the scrap, holding it pinched between my fingers.
The guard continues to stare, his eyes bulging.
I can’t look at the paper as I release it over a flame, the sizzle and crackle destroying the number quicker than a blink.
The number. It proves nothing and denies even more. All I’m left with is the pain in my chest that almost became worse. The guard narrows his eyes and pivots, charging away to find the next indiscretion among all they are trying to hide.
I drop the remnants of the ledger into the fire, listening to the hunger and burn. I can’t find him. I might never know what has happened. Whether the lists are fitness rosters, deaths, or transfer logs, I have not seen his name. There are even other Silbergs here. None with a familiar first name.
The cargo trains have stopped coming into Auschwitz with new people too. But trains are still departing with those marked on deportation lists. Those lists are not to be burned. Not yet.
The day ends earlier than usual with Officer Weyman shouting at me to get into his car. Wet snow has begun to fall, flurries gust against the windshield, and the tires slip over fresh patches of ice.
Weyman has been clenching his fists along the steering wheel, grinding his teeth, breathing so heavily I smell the onions he had with his lunch.
“They’re coming for us.”
They?
I’ve stopped responding to him. No matter what I say, it works against me, one way or another. He doesn’t expect a response. He just wants to be heard.
“Did you hear what I said?” he shouts, whipping his hand across my cheek. The slap, a strike of lightning. Stars fizzle before me as I cup my cheek, my cold palm doing little to nurse the sting.
I clench my jaw, refusing to react or make a sound. It’s exactly what he wants. To hear me whimper in pain.
“The Soviets are pushing through. They’ll be here soon.
Everything needs to be burned to the ground.
Everything in Auschwitz. Everything in our house.
Or we’ll all be taken down.” He runs his fingers through his damp balding hair.
“I know what you’re thinking. But you’re wrong.
You will not be seen as a prisoner or an innocent bystander.
Your blood is on the line too. You’re with me. ”
I want to block out his words. Each one of them. They make my blood boil and my pulse hammer. I didn’t do anything except survive. Do what I was told. And try to find Stefan.
“You’ll help Lotte pack up the house at night and continue burning documents during the day with me,” he continues.
He swings his head toward me, flashing a vengeful glare. “You want me to slap you again, girl? Respond to me when I speak to you!”
“I heard everything,” I reply.
“Good. I had almost forgotten how stupid you could be. Beautiful, but senseless. Allowing a damn Jew to trespass into a restricted zone to—what—save you? Save you from the safest job you could have found within this entire country?”
Ice slides through my limbs, locking me down as my throat tightens. “What exactly—” He knew Stefan was here for me. He knew we were connected long before he caught me offering him “preferential treatment.”
Weyman laughs, a maniacal sound. His grip loosens around the steering wheel. “No one ever warned you that these trees have eyes? Someone is always watching. Just like they were that night you thought you’d break free from these boundaries. Knowing everything you think you know.”
A feral craze charges through my veins as I twist my head to stare at this animal. “You knew who he was to me…”
“Of course I knew. He couldn’t save you. And there’s no saving him, but—” he punches his fist against his chest, “you—you will live as long as you stay with me.”
“You forced me to watch him suffer. All while you go home to your wife and children every night acting as if you sit at a desk doing paperwork all those hours you’re gone.”
“Shut up!” he screams, foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth. He jerks the car from side to side for no other reason but to make me hit my head against the window. “Just shut up!”
“Or what? You’ll kill me like you did to him? You’ve made it so I have no one left. You aren’t taking me away from anyone. You’d be putting me out of my misery.” The words are foreign on my tongue. Words I would never dare speak before. Not to this killer.
He draws his sidearm from his right hip and whips the barrel toward my head.
I didn’t think this would be the way I’d go. I’ve fallen into step, followed every order, have lived off nothing but vague hope, all to just end up like this.
He cocks the trigger just as he pulls up in front of his house. If I reach for the door handle, he’ll shoot. If I beg him not to kill me, he will.
From the corner of my eye, I spot Hilde tear open the front door of the house and hold her hands up, waving furiously.
“I didn’t kill your Jew. I’ve been saving that for you.” The barrel steadies and I lose the ability to breathe.
Celina’s warning to cease the risks I’ve been taking echo in my head.
“Rosalie, if you’re right, and he does have an inclination about the two of you, he’ll destroy both of you without hesitation. I know you believe you are supposed to save Stefan, but it might be impossible. And that is such a thing.”
Maybe I should have listened.
Under my blouse, the heart-shaped winding key bites into my skin, dangling by a thread against the center of my sternum. A reminder. My anchor.