Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
CURRENT DAY
Kopciowice, Poland
Noah tried to protect me from so much that I’m questioning if I’m capable of protecting myself.
I don’t know what he would do if he were here with me beneath this tangled web of trees, waiting for the Soviets to move along with their captured prisoners, and I should.
He spent so long preparing us for the worst, and I just followed his lead, thinking he’d always be here as a guiding light to follow.
We haven’t heard a sound in the time I’ve counted out sixty seconds at least thirty times.
If the Soviets left the trench thirty minutes ago, we’re far enough behind to keep walking, but every time I’ve moved with the thought to stand and keep walking, the other three have given me wide-eyed stares. Until now.
“It should be safe to press on,” Elias says, standing without anyone giving him a how-dare-you-look. I press into my thighs to stand, my stomach screaming at me from within as I straighten. The ache from dysentery is relentless, as if someone has taken a bat to my insides.
We approach the rim of the trench that’s now barren and abandoned by the Soviets and German prisoners. I stare down into the crevice of snow, at black spots, wondering if they’re rocks or scraps of clothing, or body parts.
“Why don’t you two stay up here while Avi and I go search the trench to see if they left anything behind,” Elias suggests, watching as I help Gerda back up to her feet.
Before I agree with a nod, the two of them are skidding down the steep hill to the basin.
“What I wouldn’t give to have a fraction of their strength and energy at this moment,” Gerda says with a sigh. “I want back the healthy years of my life that were stolen from me, but it’s a selfish thing to say when we’re lucky enough to have survived at all.”
“It’s not selfish. None of us deserve to be standing here like this,” I tell her.
Not even a few minutes pass before Elias and Avi are clawing their way up and out of the trench with a broken branch in each hand. “Not a single breadcrumb,” Avi says.
My fingers, numb and clumsy, fish around in my coat pockets. The potatoes feel like small rocks, and my stomach clenches. We should eat. It’s been too long.
“Here.” I press two potatoes into Gerda’s red hands, then into Elias’s shivering ones.
Gerda shakes her head as her eyes well with tears. “No, no. These are yours.” She holds her hands out to Avi. “I can’t take food from your mouth, dear.”
“You must,” I insist, my voice hoarse from the damp air.
“I can try and find us more at the next field we pass,” Elias says. “I don’t feel right…”
“Stop.” Avi thrusts a potato into each of their hands, and mine as well, so we each have three. “This isn’t a barter.”
They’re still partially frozen inside so we gnaw at the half-frozen lumps as we trudge back to the beaten path along the railway.
The glares of orange and red at our sides, weaving between the trees as the sun sinks lower toward the horizon. Our shadows grow leaner and longer behind us.
I’m not sure how far we’ve walked, or how long, but we’ve taken a handful of breaks, slowed to a snail’s pace, then picked up our speed to try and find shelter along this route before nightfall.
We’ve all been quiet aside from the swish of snow beneath our feet and heavy breaths, but I’m sure we’re all wondering if we can survive another night without shelter.
I’m wondering if the Soviets and Germans are walking through the night as the footprints carry on without a break.
“There won’t be a shelter right along the rail lines. We should cut through the trees to find an open road before the light is gone,” Elias says.
More than a day full of walking should have taken us somewhere, but it’s hard to imagine the distance when the dark forest draws on like a repeating pattern.
“He’s right,” Gerda says.
“Agreed,” Avi follows.
I know we can’t walk through the night, nor will we survive sleeping out here again. So long as we return to the tracks in the morning. I have to believe the Soviet column will stop for the night somewhere too.
I follow alongside them until we spill out of the woods onto a road where snow has gathered in tire-tracks. It stretches on until the gray sky bleeds onto the ground. Frosted trees, frozen grass, and no sign of life.
For so long, I had no space, not enough to twist my body onto my side while trying to sleep.
Not enough to block out the whispers of how many people died in a single day.
I could barely take a full breath without choking on the stench of so many unwashed bodies.
Yet here, there’s too much loneliness, too much air to breathe within this vast space. It’s like standing out here naked.
“More smoke,” Avi says. “Let’s pray it’s the good kind.”
The good kind has different meanings to us both, I believe.
Elias and Avi move ahead of us, an eagerness in their steps. Gerda and I stay at the same pace, exhausted, pushing with every step.
“My husband, God rest his soul,” Gerda says, “loved to hike. He would set out on the coldest days of the year and call it a refreshing minty breeze. I never wanted to join him. I prefer being warm and by a fire.” She sighs.
“If he saw me right now, he’d tell me to ‘Embrace nature and live off what God left for us.’”
Her words crack a smile along my chapped lips. “Sounds like he loved life.”
“He did. Everything was a miracle to him, and I took so much for granted. Now I question if that’s why I’m still here and he’s not.”
Her words battle in my mind, leaving me to wonder if she’s speaking from reflection or grief.
“I don’t think you took anything for granted. He might have seen miracles in colors—ones without names that are impossible to describe. Perhaps, those very same colors are still somewhere out there waiting for you.”
It’s the same for all of us.
Gerda sniffles and draws a finger beneath her eye. “You’ve been so quiet all day, but I see why now. You’re searching for your miracle and you’re afraid you’ll miss it if you aren’t paying attention. You must be an artist.”
I suppose there is still an artist living somewhere within me. “I was. Maybe I will be again someday, but my quiet is only because my mind has been too loud to notice much else.”
“What’s his name? Your husband?” she asks.
“Noah.”
I hate how his name is now the end of a sentence, and just a simple answer.
“There’s shelter!” Elias shouts from dozens of steps ahead of us. “An old farmhouse.”
“A miracle?” Gerda gasps.
We can only hope.
* * *
There are people, ordinary people, not Soviets or Germans prisoners, sitting on the front step outside the old wooden structure, bundled up, maybe enjoying the minty breeze like Gerda’s husband would have.
On the window, the word shelter is scrolled out in big chalk letters.
We stumble inside as if invited. No one pays much attention to us as we scan our surroundings.
Piles of straw are strewn on the floor, army blankets in all different shades of green.
People sleeping. People staring up at the lopsided roof. Others are whispering to one another.
We know we belong by the sight of blue-and-white striped pajama uniforms, skeletal figures, and flesh too pale to hold enough blood.
I spot tables toward the back of the open space then smell a faint aroma of broth.
A meek woman donning a red-cross patch on the breast of her coat is hunched over a large pot, stirring a ladle next to a stack of tin cans and a mangled loaf of bread.
The bread doesn’t look much different here. I’m not sure it ever will again.
Dark bread, broken by a barrack kapo into uneven pieces. Sawdust flaking from the bottom. Flies settling on top. A sliver falls into our hands, weightless, and the only means to survive the day.
The other long table looks to hold medical supplies, with a man just as a frail as the woman there, sorting supplies.
Without exchanging a word, the four of us head down toward the two tables. The three of them reach for the food but I stop in front of the man at the medical table. “Excuse me?” I ask in Yiddish, hoping it’s a common language between us.
He peers up, gloomy light blue eyes surrounded by a web of red veins. “Yes, dear. Do you need aid?”
“No.” Well… most likely, but not yet. “Do you by chance have a radio?”
He lifts his arm, trembling as he points to the side wall where a rusty green metal box with dials sits atop a wooden crate. “We also have a displaced person bulletin for posts over to your right.” I turn the other, finding a board with pinned messages.
“Thank you for what you’re doing here.”
As if there’s a choice on moving left or right, I turn toward the bulletin—a slab of wood with torn pieces of paper pinned and stacked beneath a small sign that says Red Cross. A typewriter rests behind the board.
I take a scrap of paper and a chewed-up pencil and press the lead to the paper, with too much to say and no idea what word to start with.
I can’t draft a novel. Not even a letter. Maybe not even to a living person. I could be seeing things, but in case I’m not…
To: Noah Felsheim of Amsterdam, NL
Alive. Looking for you. 28-January.
Following Soviets/POW on northwestern route from O?wi?cim, PL. Stopped at old farmhouse/shelter. Will continue to follow Soviets/POW northwest.
From: Celina Felsheim of Amsterdam, NL
I stare at the letters, feeling like they look out of order. Like Noah’s name had changed and I don’t know what it should be now. He’s Noah to me. He’ll always only be Noah to me. I don’t know if a German prisoner would have access to these posts, but just in case…
I pin the note to the board and take one more scrap of paper, letting the pencil hover for a moment. This is what Noah would have wanted me to do.
To: Christoph Hagen of Amsterdam, NL
Alive. 28-January.
Followed Soviets/POW on northwestern route from O?wi?cim, PL. Stopped at old farmhouse/shelter. Will continue northwest.
From: Celina Felsheim of Amsterdam, NL
“There’s a bulletin board over there where you can pin messages to be delivered to loved ones,” I tell Avi.
She peers at the board then back down to her tin of broth. “You should get some bread and broth before they run out.”
“Avi,” I say, taking her elbow and ushering her away from the other two. “Were your parents with you in Auschwitz?”
Avi releases a held breath, and her knuckles whiten around the tin can.
“My mother held my hand at selection as they sent my sister away. She squeezed once.” Her words are monotone, but her gaze falls to her broth.
“That was her goodbye as she followed the same path as my sister. I was sent in the other direction. I shouldn’t have let go of her. ”
“Avi, I…” My heart aches for her, the pain etched across her face.
She loosens her grip and clears her throat. “It wasn’t long before I learned what happens when you go looking for what’s missing.” She pauses through a dry sniffle. “Sometimes you find something you wish you hadn’t.”
I reply silently, with a nod.
Her confession…it doesn’t scare me. It reins me in, slows me down, makes me realize I’m in a rush to find what I may not survive seeing.
Behind us, the radio crackles. People crowd around, grim desperation lining their faces. The static quivers in volume then cracks into silence.
…All Red Army units in route…
…All are moving northwest along rail lines…
…Prisoners of war secured…
I step toward the crowd leaning in around the radio, watching the old man from the medical table adjust the dials. A squeal breaks into fractured static again before clicking into silence. It’s about the group of Soviets and Germans we came upon—the one we’ve been following this whole time.
…German force in custody for imminent interrogation…
…identity acquisition underway…
… necessary executions, cleared…
…train transport from Gliwice to follow…
“Gliwice,” Avi mutters. “That’s a long way to keep moving.”
The words rain around me like small falling bombs.
It means the Soviets will have to stop somewhere to question them.
Whether they walked through the night or not, they are stopping somewhere between here and Gliwice, which means I’ll have time to catch up.
I need to see that man before he’s transported…
or executed. Yet, all I can think about is Avi’s last words to me.
“When you go looking for what’s missing, sometimes you find something you wish you hadn’t. ”
The radio sizzles again, smothering the voice just before the crackle returns. Then…silence exhales along with every held breath.
I don’t know what scares me more now…what I heard, or what I didn’t. There was no mention of where the German prisoners would be taken from Gliwice, and no timeline—as if a place and time won’t matter to where they’re going.