Chapter 5
FIVE
CURRENT DAY
Auschwitz, O?wi?cim, Poland
Outside the gates of Auschwitz, a man jumps into a train car and begins tossing suitcases out, one by one.
Most split in half, contents flying everywhere.
Mementos, picture frames, books, and clothes pepper the snow.
A blue knit baby blanket lands at my feet.
Every day, mothers with babies were sent directly to their death here.
The cries of those poor babies echoed through the night. I can still hear the sound.
“We can’t stay here. There won’t be another train coming,” Avi says. “Not here, at least.” She stares past me, along the tracks that disappear into a white blanket of snow.
I glance back toward the gate, spotting the same group of detained German guards and the Soviet soldiers shoving them into a truck.
It pulls away from the brick gate tower, following the direction of the railroad.
“You’re right,” I tell Avi. “We should—uh—” I notice other prisoners following the railroad in the same path as the Soviet truck.
“We should follow the others and go that way.” I point toward them.
“They must have a better idea of where they’re going than we do.
” If I suggested following the Soviet truck, she’d not only think I’m mad, but I’m confident she wouldn’t agree to go that way with how determined she was to get away from them.
“You’re right,” she says, grabbing my arm to tug me along, past those who are still staring at the abandoned train. “We just need to stay away from the Soviets. We can’t trust them.”
“Why? They are here to liberate us, are they not?”
Avi sneers and narrows her eyes. “They stole my childhood. When they crossed into eastern Poland in thirty-nine, they claimed only to be there to protect us, just like they’re doing now.”
I don’t doubt what she’s saying, but there are still only two sides: the Soviets and German soldiers. One let us out of the gates.
“It was a lie. They billeted my home, stole our farm, then sent my father to prison for selling grain without Soviet approval. He was dead two weeks later. They just wanted to get rid of him. And they did.” Her stare drops to her feet.
“They weren’t there to protect us. They wanted our land, and the women at their disposal. ”
The heaviness in my head returns, and the familiar tightness in my stomach surges. I wrap my arms around my middle, pressing against the discomfort, trying to swallow against the acidic vapors clawing up my throat.
Worse, a depiction of her words colors my mind, bringing along instant remorse for questioning her.
“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I can’t imagine going from the Soviets occupying your village to the Germans.” I didn’t know how much worse others had it before I even began to see the downfall in the Netherlands.
“They both want the same thing. The Soviets just happened to stumble upon us yesterday—Germany’s attempt at genocide. Now the Soviets look like heroes in comparison. But they’re not…at least, not to me.”
My knees shake so hard they won’t lock into place. I won’t make it far. Each step is like fifty when all I can do is focus on the soiled snow amid soaked belongings. More come into view… a Bible, a cloth diaper, a teacup, silver spoon, and a German uniform.
A German uniform. Field-gray sleeves reaching for me, lifting me from the ground…
I wanted it to be Noah, but not in that uniform.
“Didn’t you say you were looking for someone?” Avi asks between quick breaths.
“Yes. I am. He might already be ahead with the others going in this direction.” It isn’t a complete lie. He’s just in the back of a Soviet truck she most definitely would not want to follow.
“Does he know you’re looking for him?” she questions.
If I say yes, it wouldn’t make sense that he’d be walking away without me. “No, I saw him from afar. I—I thought he was dead.” Noah is dead.
Avi gives me a quick glance, her brows furrowing, trying to make sense out of what I’m saying. None of it makes sense to me either. “Family?”
I nod, hoping her questions will stop.
The path funnels between tall brown guard towers, still standing strong when so much else has been destroyed. Guards and officers once stood up there morning, noon, and night, just waiting for an infraction. I can still feel their eyes dragging across my skin like a blade.
Avi’s breaths are heavy from carrying her weight and tugging part of mine. I don’t know how she has so much strength.
“Why were you left behind? They didn’t force you to march?” I gasp.
Her short hair flips out along the back of her neck as she shrugs her shoulders. “Not sure. They made me stay to burn papers in metal rubbish bins. What about you?”
“I was sick with dysentery and couldn’t get up from the cot. By the time of the rumors about all capable prisoners marching out of the camp, I was on the mend, but it was too late to prove I could move. The SS had already decided to leave us to die.”
I need to relieve her of my extra weight. Just the thought makes me trip, my hands plunging deep into the snow. I grit my teeth and force myself back up, fighting the pain with whatever strength I have left.
“This won’t work,” Avi says. “You can’t possibly be strong enough to walk very far. Dysentery and a head injury?”
“You don’t have to stay with me. I’ll catch up.”
“You mean, leave you here to die? That isn’t a real suggestion, is it?” she snaps.
“You barely know me, and I’m grateful you helped me up. I am. Believe me… I don’t want to die.” I need to catch up with that Soviet truck.
“I don’t think we have much say in when we die,” she mutters.
“I’ll decide whether I live or die. I survived fifteen months in Auschwitz. It isn’t my time yet.”
Avi scoffs and shakes her head. “God, you remind me of my older sister.”
“How?”
“Never mind.” With a soft groan, she trudges on ahead.
We’ve fallen behind the other prisoners as the railroad curves and the road narrows between tall trees. We need to catch up.
Roaring shouts echo ahead, the wind distorting the sound and masking their origin.
My head fills with pressure, each step felt behind my sore eyes. Avi squeezes my arm and spins in a slow circle, searching. “You hear that?”
I blink and a cold rush of air snakes down the collar of my smock…
The sound storms within me. Women screaming as they’re shoved into our barrack.
Numbers echoing over our heads as if intrusions to those already occupying the bunks.
A kapo strikes the ground with a rubber truncheon repeatedly until all other sound dissolves into static. The silence always comes too late.
“Celina…” Avi’s hiss jolts me out of my brain fog. “This way.” She moves off the railroad and onto the snow and rubble running parallel to the tracks. I stumble after her, past a brass casing and a blue-tinged hand poking out from a snow drift.
She tugs me behind a long mound of warped metal and splintered wood.
She crouches, her knees bending smoothly as mine creak as I waddle awkwardly to keep my head below our cover.
When we reach the edge, Avi jerks backward, colliding into me.
I lose my footing and fall onto the frozen ground with a muted thud.
“Soviets,” she mouths, the word barely audible. “With SS guards.”
I shift to my left, past a corpse half buried in pink-brown slush.
Beyond our barrier, I see seven—no, eight—Soviet soldiers in fur-lined caps with rifles pointing at three German uniformed men with hands raised above their heads.
This isn’t the same group that was detained and put into the Soviet truck.
These German uniforms are different—different ranks and insignia.
It’s just as the SS did to us. Except it was a yard and mud instead of snow along the railroad.
Innocent women stand side-by-side, eyes fixed ahead, unblinking, because looking away is a punishable crime.
I know—we know—one of us will be next. The gallows wait as guards pull her from the line.
She’s young, no older than twenty. Her clogs slip in the mud.
No one catches her or helps her to her feet.
She struggles to stand, struggles to bear her weight while walking to her death.
Whispers about her stealing food move up and down the rows.
The rope creaks when the guard pulls it tight.
Time drags. Long enough for the girl to think there’s hope, and long enough to convince myself this is a threat rather than a punishment.
The sound proves me wrong.
Not the snap or screaming from women beside me—the silence that follows as we keep staring at a young woman, now hanging by her neck, already dead.
My stomach knots, and a sourness burns my throat.
This isn’t just a punishment to her. It’s a scarring memory seared into my mind.
Avi waves her hand in my face, “If we stay along this road,” she whispers, “and weave through the trees, we can get back to the railroad and try to catch up with the other prisoners.”
“That’s a good plan. We want to stay in a group rather than on our own,” I say, already fixating on the route. If the Soviets are moving German prisoners toward working railways for transport, I’m sure they’ll stay close to the tracks. If we go the same route, we might find them again.
I need to see that man again. Just once more to know if I imagined him.
“Wait, wait…one minute,” I whisper.
A man, bloody and bruised, shoved into a cluster of others. A torn German coat hangs off his shoulder. Dark brown hair.
This isn’t the same group I saw when we left Auschwitz.
It can’t be him.
My breath sticks in my throat anyway, and I wrap my fingers around my neck. Plenty of men have brown hair, but his walk—the slight dip in his right shoulder—Noah stood the same when he was tired.
The man twists his head over his shoulder, his glance cutting in our direction. I let my knees give out again. I don’t have the strength.
“We need to go,” Avi scolds me.
She’s right.