Chapter 2
TWO
CURRENT DAY
Auschwitz, O?wi?cim, Poland
The day after the crematorium blew up in front of me, sunlight grazes over my closed eyelid, my cheek flush to a wooden floor. Pain pulses through me as I push into my palms, dry dirt molded against my flesh. I don’t know how I ended up inside. I was left out in the snow…
Who brought me into this barrack?
A groan scrapes against my throat, and I wince, peeking through half-lidded eyes. The light burns as if I’ve been in the dark for years.
Damp walls surround me, tiered bunks with a scattering of prisoners, a clog, and a pair of women’s underwear lying in front of me.
Muffled words blare through a speaker outside.
I claw myself forward along the ground until I reach the wall and hoist myself to the frostbitten window.
I smear my palm in circles along the cold glass.
Outside, prisoners drag their heavy bodies through the snow, all moving in one direction. Where are they going?
My heart races as I lift my hand to the back of my head, afraid of what I’ll find.
I comb my fingers through my short strands of hair, stiff from sweat and filth, matted along the area that hurts the most. I flinch upon contact with the swelling, hot and tender beneath my skin.
Not just swelling, but a bump the size of an orange.
Pain surges across my entire scalp, blunt and undeniable.
A flashing memory of the exploding crematorium; the pressure that sent me flying. How I hit my head. Then, the German guard grabbed me. His eyes, which seemed so familiar.
But Noah is dead.
I know he is.
And even if he wasn’t, he would never wear a German uniform. Would never be one of them.
The head injury explains it. And hunger—never ending, insistent hunger too. But still, the way he looked at me… That felt real.
I twist around, keeping my grip on the window frame.
My shoulder screams in pain as I face the section of bunks still full of people like me.
They stare back at me with lost, bulging eyes weighted with suspicion.
We’re all wondering the same—what has happened to the camp?
Why are we still here, and what are we waiting for?
I open my mouth to speak, fighting against grit and phlegm. “Did anyone see a man…a German guard who brought me here?”
I want to take back my words the second it becomes too late. I don’t want to imply that one of the SS has saved me, after the torture and beatings that we’ve all endured at their hands. People around me shift uncomfortably, taking in ragged, uneasy breaths.
A woman releases a broken, croaky laugh. “A German?” she asks, her inflection bitter, the question shrouded in mockery. “You think one of them came back here for one of us?”
“I—I di—didn’t mean that,” I stutter, knowing it’s too late to defend myself.
“No German brought you here,” the woman says. “You were lying in the snow behind the barracks. Two of us hauled you inside before the smoke choked us all to death.” She sighs. “We’re not fit for transport, but we still managed, somehow.”
“Fit for transport…” I repeat.
“They left the sick and weak-looking ones behind…” She points to herself. “We’re the weak-looking ones. The SS had reasons for taking most and leaving some behind.” She shakes her head and grumbles, “No one knows which of us is better off.”
I slink back against the window, the muffled shouts returning.
Another woman, further down the row, pushes herself up on her elbow, her mouth ajar but not from shock. Loss of muscle. “The Germans don’t rescue Jews,” she croaks out. “They don’t even bury us.”
“After the crematorium exploded, who pulled me away from the blast?”
“You’re just confused,” a woman says, swatting a hand in the air.
Murmurs waver through the room—a slew of insults, prayers, and disgust blending into one droning sound.
“Hope like that gets people killed,” someone says before dropping back down to their cot. “Keep it to yourself.”
Hope should keep us alive, I want to tell them. But there’s no use in arguing. No one listens to each other anymore.
I slide down against the wall and draw my arms in over my face to block out the noise. The darkness pressing into my eyes brings forward an image of an officer from a long time ago, staring down at me while I scrubbed uniforms. “None of you will leave this block alive,” he’d said.
His words live inside of me, clear as if he were standing here now, threatening my life with his icy stare and cruel smile. I wanted to believe his words were just another weapon of cruelty to control our every breath and step, but I could only convince myself of that for so long.
There’s no better truth than the sight of twitching bodies, others pale and lifeless, the rest squirming with discomfort. The SS knew what they were doing. But I can’t be the only one of us who believed we had a chance to make it out of here alive…only to now settle on the reality before us.
The door to my right squeaks open, a man in a prisoner’s uniform falling in through the opening. He catches himself on the threshold of the door. “There are soldiers—good ones. Here. They’re here to help us. All of us who remain,” he shouts through ragged breaths.
“What soldiers?” a woman calls out. “It’s a trick! Don’t listen to him!”
“No, it’s not a trick,” the man replies. “Soviet soldiers. Russians. They’ve captured the remaining guards.” Remaining guards. Captured. “They’re taking them away right now. The gates are finally open!”
“We are here to help,” the words come in clearly over the loudspeaker now. The accent is undoubtedly Russian.
“We mustn’t believe them,” the woman cries out again, a cough rippling through her words. “They’ll shoot us the moment we step outside.”
The barrack whirs with agitation, a storm of anger, pain, despair, and questions. No one speaks for a moment, but the tension squeezes in every direction. It’s impossible to know whether it’s more dangerous to stay here or seek the truth out there.
The man at the door leaves, wasting no more time proving a point we won’t believe unless we see it with our own eyes. A few clamber down from their bunks, staring at the door as if it’s the gate to heaven.
I push myself upright, and pain tears through my entire body.
The room sways. Or I sway. Blood rushes to my head.
I might black out again. I brace my hand against the cot, waiting for the room to steady and the floor to straighten beneath me.
I can’t stay here. Not waiting or wondering.
I must see if the man is correct, if the world outside these walls has truly changed, or if this is just another lie told for favor, reward, or survival.
I won’t give up, and I won’t waste this chance. Whatever it is.
The sun bleeds through the doorway, harsh and blinding. White light swallows the world in front of me. My eyes burn as I trudge forward into the snow, leaving the barrack I don’t remember entering.
Soviet tanks are parked in lines inside and outside the gates, one with a man repeating the same words through the loudspeaker: “We’re here to help.”
People are running in every direction toward the Soviets. A group of Soviets are beating several German guards. Field gray coats, rope-bound wrists, and soot streaking down their faces. Soviet soldiers yank them to their feet.
One of the German soldiers glances in my direction and holds my stare. I falter, eyes squinting. Before I can stop myself, I call, “Noah?”
No. No. I screw my eyes shut and shake the thought from my head. My husband is dead. He was Jewish, and he was caught. He is not here in a German uniform.
But… I don’t have anyone else, do I? I can’t bring myself to think about what has happened to my parents, but I’m quite sure I’m alone now.
And that man—the one who looks like Noah, just looks like, told me to run.
No German soldier would tell me to run. I wouldn’t even know where to run or what I’m running from or toward, but there must be an answer.
He didn’t have to help me. I need to know why he did it. And—why I thought he looked so much like Noah. I have nothing to lose by getting a closer look. I just want to be absolutely sure of what I saw and heard…
Before I take another step, someone slams into my back. There’s nothing to catch myself on. I fall hard to my knees, the impact knocking the air from my lungs. Snow, ice, and gravel bite into my palms.
“Move!” someone shouts from behind me.
Bodies surge forward in slow motion.
A boot slugs my ribs. Then another.
My short hair falls into my eyes, brushing over my cold nose as I try to push myself up, but my arms give in. The noise around me swells, not with screams or gunfire, but with something unfamiliar. Voices crying out in disbelief and reckless hope.
My chin collides with something sharp hidden in the frozen snow. Ice cracks under my weight, and I sink lower as the crowd pushes forward—over me. I open my mouth to call out for help, but there’s no sound.
They don’t see me, and I’m disappearing beneath them.