Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
CURRENT DAY
Gliwice, Poland
The smell of mildew and chalk dust sour my stomach. I don’t remember sitting down on the cold cement ground or leaning against the unforgiving raw brick within this dank closet in this Soviet occupied schoolhouse. I’m not sure when I even closed my eyes. I was pounding against the door before that.
My eyes flicker, the weight of my lids almost unbearable through the relentless exhaustion I have no control over. Christoph is asleep, sitting against the wall beside me, and Elias is across from me, leaning against the wall separating us from the main corridor.
I stand up, trying to twist the doorknob. I heard the lock when they closed us in here. It’s no surprise that the knob doesn’t twist. I press my ear against the door, listening for any indication of life on the other side.
Regret is immediate.
A weak scream, female, travels past the other side of the door. “Help!” The word is muffled, but I understand it clearly.
I jiggle the doorknob again, knowing it won’t do anything for me but maybe it will annoy one of the Soviets enough to come yell at me to stop.
When the doorknob does nothing for me, I tap my knuckles against the door.
“What are you doing?” Elias asks, yanking on my coat from below. “Stop. Didn’t you hear what they said earlier?”
“She’s screaming. Wherever she is…she’s screaming for help.”
Noah might be screaming for help in a different building too, and I wouldn’t know.
Elias pushes himself up to his feet and presses the side of his head to the door, listening to what I’m hearing. “That is her.” He pounds his fist against the door, rage bursting through him.
“What are you doing?” Christoph jumps up to his feet to grab Elias’s flinging wrists. “Don’t—don’t do that. Stop!”
Keys scrape against the lock and the door shoves us back.
“What is this?” A soldier we’ve never seen.
He seems just as confused to find us in here as we are, for being locked inside.
A German soldier would have already fired a weapon at us so I’m thankful that isn’t his first reaction. “Why are you here?”
“Our friend is sick, somewhere in this building. She’s being cared for by your medic and we just want to make sure she’s all right because we could hear her screaming. Please let us see her.”
“Who are you?”
“Two of us were prisoners in Auschwitz. We’ve been traveling for days. Our friend got sick, and we were trying to find her help,” I explain, leaving out the fact that I plan to break out of this building, and do whatever is necessary to get to Noah. But he won’t help me with that.
“This isn’t a shelter for refugees.” He looks at us with wild eyes as if we’re out of our minds for even setting foot in the village.
“We know. Or… we didn’t know, but our friend—the girl who was screaming…” I press.
“This way,” he says, still looking around as if he’s worried about being spotted by someone.
We follow him back toward the front of the building, then around to another corridor. The screaming has become a whimper, one I couldn’t hear moments ago but hear clearly now.
The soldier pushes on a door to our left, a dimly lit room, hospital style bed, a sterile smell, and Avi. I can’t tell if she’s awake or asleep, but her eyes are closed.
“Stay here. Don’t let me find you wandering around. It’ll be my head.” The guard stares at each of us before closing us into the room.
Elias flies to Avi’s side, and I stop at the window first, desperately searching outside for Noah, but the prisoners aren’t out there now.
My heart falls into my stomach and I move to Avi’s side, placing my hand on her forehead.
As if I’ve hurt her, she screams again and whips her head away from my hand. Her eyes clench tighter.
“Avi, it’s me. It’s Celina.”
Her eyes flash open. “Celina.”
“I’m here too.” Elias leans in, making sure his face is within her view.
Christoph stands behind us quietly.
“Where are we?” Avi cries out, trying to keep her voice low, though I’m sure it carries through the thin walls.
Christoph makes his way to the other side of Avi’s bed where a rolling cart sits, topped with a few medical supplies.
“They gave her penicillin.”
“One dose won’t be enough,” Elias says.
“Celina.” She grabs the loose wool of my coat. “Where are we?”
“We were trying to find medical care for you and ended up in this village.”
“They’re Soviets,” she whispers, her breaths uneven. “They can’t know who I am. They can’t. Do you understand me?”
“It was either that or you—” I stop after her words register within me. “Why can’t they know who you are?”
“I would have rather died than be left in their care,” she says through gritted teeth, not answering my question.
“You weren’t going to make it much longer,” Elias says.
Elias and I exchange a quick look, but it’s nothing more than shared confusion.
“We’re here with you now,” I say.
“But…wh—what did they already do to me?” her voice squeaks, air pinching in her throat. She stares straight ahead, toward the door. Her lips part and tears trickle down her cheeks.
“They started you on a treatment for your infection—whatever was making you sick,” Christoph says.
I hope that’s all they did.
“They don’t take care of Polish people.” Her words are hollow as she continues to stare ahead, then she lifts her hand to the scar on her cheek.
“They want things from us. Whatever they can get their hands on.” She groans.
“They’re cruel. They pillage, billet, and pillage again.
He told me he’d find me again. He told my father, made a deal with him.
He owed him. And I was the cost.” Her eyelids grow heavy and despite battling them to stay awake, her exhaustion wins. For the best, I suspect.
“Avi…who was he? What was he looking for?”
“I don’t know. He was a soldier. He tried to take me with him.
My sister tried to beat him. It was just the two of us at home.
We were all just outside our cottage when a commander shouted for the soldier—told him he was needed at once.
The only thing the soldier said to us was that he would be back for me.
He’d find me, no matter where I ended up.
My sister promised she wouldn’t let that happen. Now she’s gone.”
“I won’t leave your side, Avi. I won’t let that happen to you. I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her. “I’m sorry we got separated.” She looks at me, her half-lidded eyes so weak. A tear falls.
“I miss her,” she says quietly. “Mama and Papa too.”
“Of course you do,” I tell her, running my fingers through her hair.
I miss my parents just the same. I wonder if they suffered a similar fate to Avi’s. I don’t know if I’ll ever find out. I might have to go on forever wondering what happened to them.
Christoph is over by the window. I’m not sure if he’s listening or avoiding the personal confession from Avi, but it’s dark outside and I’m not sure what he can see. He turns away and makes his way to the door.
“What are you doing? You heard the soldier…” I say.
Christoph doesn’t respond or stop. He opens the door and steps a foot out into the corridor. A sharp-tongue-whistle slashes through the air, immediately resulting in boots thudding toward us.
“I told you to stay there. Inside. Not out here.” The soldier’s voice is familiar. Only because he was the last one to speak to us, but it’s the same man.
“Can you help me with something?” Christoph asks, his voice tempered, confident somehow.
“Are we not helping you enough?” the soldier snaps back.
“Yes, and we are more than grateful that you’re helping our friend,” Christoph says, his words chasing the accusation. “But there’s a man outside wearing a SS uniform. He’s Jewish. He was a prisoner at Auschwitz with them.”
I edge toward the open door, unsure if I should add to what Christoph is trying to do or if a second voice will push the soldier away, or worse.
“Celina, show him your arm,” Christoph says, reaching for me.
I push my sleeve up and twist my arm to the side, showing the soldier the inked numbers.
“He’s mixed in with the German soldiers.
We don’t know why or how, but he’s Jewish.
He’s not one of them. He’s never hurt a soul. Your men are beating him.”
The soldier shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I’m a low rank. Those decisions are not mine.”
His explanation is flat, unapologetic, just an automatic response to a question of his limits. His refusal doesn’t imply a sense of rebellion. More like self-defense.
“If I can prove his identification, I can prove this mission of yours is not about mercy, but rather proper procedure.”
“What do you know about procedure?” the soldier utters, narrowing his eyes at Christoph.
“If questions are asked later about how a Jewish prisoner died under Soviet control, it will not end with you.”
Christoph isn’t relying on the Russian’s desire to help us, but rather on his own sense of self defense…
“We aren’t executing anyone based on uniform.”
“Then you must have a form of proof to go by,” Christoph argues.
“How would you have papers for a Jewish prisoner?”
“I don’t,” Christoph says. “That’s why I need your help.”
The soldier sneers and widens his stance. “I can’t help you.”
“Because you don’t have authority,” Christoph continues, “which means if you know information about one of those men and don’t report it, someone above you will have to answer for it later.”
“You are pushing too far, comrade,” the soldier grits.
“No,” Christoph says. “I’m pursuing this situation carefully.”
Silence grows between Christoph and the soldier, thoughts stirring. A cough echoes from down the hall, following a creak and groan.
I want to tell the soldier we’re talking about my husband. Noah would tell me to allow the silence to fester. It cracks people from the inside.
“If the man I’m speaking of is in fact a German soldier,” Christoph presses on, “you lose nothing by waiting to kill him. He’s already beaten and detained.”
“And if he’s not a German soldier?” the soldier shrugs.
Christoph doesn’t blink as he stares straight into the soldier’s eyes. “Then your unit will have executed a Jewish prisoner who survived Auschwitz by hiding in plain sight. And no one thought to question him first.”
The soldier’s jaw tightens and grinds back and forth.
“That’s not a decision you want to carry on your own,” Christoph says.
The soldier glances down the dark corridor toward the front of the building then back at Christoph, then to the numbers on my arm.
“You have papers to prove his identity?” the soldier asks.
“Yes, along with marriage records, proof of residency, and witness testimony,” Christoph says. “All of it in Amsterdam.”
“That will take weeks,” the soldier says, tossing his arms to the side.
“I’ll return within the week,” Christoph replies, “if you let me go.”
“Do what you want. But if you don’t return before the rail line reopens in seven days, we’ll kill him. One less problem to deal with.” The soldier groans and tips his head back. “I’ll get a lieutenant.”
Christoph nods. Just once.
This isn’t a win.
It’s a challenge that may have a deadly outcome.
* * *
An older soldier, wide eyes, and a dark stare, takes evenly paced strides through the corridor toward us, staring over my head as if I don’t exist. He stops in front of us but turns his attention entirely to the younger soldier Christoph was speaking to.
It’s as if they’re carrying a silent conversation between their stares.
My palms itch, damp with sweat, and I squeeze my fingers into fists.
The lieutenant finally turns back toward us, his nostrils flaring as he takes in a harsh nasal inhale. “You assume this tattooed man is not a German officer,” he says, making it clear his words don’t form a question.
Christoph gives the lieutenant a quick, stern nod. “I’m sure of it. He’s a Jewish man. Not part of the German army.”
“I don’t care who he is. I care about whether he becomes paperwork.”
His stare then falls onto me, cold, heartless, dead inside. Words roll off my tongue before I realize I’ve opened my mouth to speak. “The man has a name,” I tell him.
The lieutenant’s chest puffs out as if he’s holding on to a breath too large for his lungs. He rolls his shoulders back and squints an eye at me. “You’re attached to the man.” It isn’t a question he’s asking. It’s a fact he’s underlining.
A breath stumbles in my lungs, choking me from air. The space between us shrinks and sweat beads along the back of my neck.
His eyes narrow, studying the expression on my face before his gaze drops to the tattooed number on my arm.
“That,” he says, “is unfortunate.”