“Why can’t we go in together?” Arina whispers. “What’s the point of doing anything alone if they were seeking twins?”
“Shh,” I say under my breath.
“I want Mama and Papa. We must find them. You agree with me, right?”
“Y-y-you’re going to get us in tr-tr-trouble,” I whisper back.
I step in front of Arina to go first, knowing she might talk less if she sees everything turns out fine with me. Each set of twins has gone into the room one at a time for approximately five minutes, and then return to the hallway where a new line has been forming in the opposite direction.
As the second child from the last set of twins steps out of the room, the man who led us here summons me with a slight tip of his head.
The room has four white walls. Columns of ceramic tiles with several wooden cabinets and three tiled laboratory tables. The remaining space is bare up to the ceiling, which displays yellow spots between large hanging light bulbs. The dark stone floor is the only contrast to all the white fixtures.
A man, or doctor, I presume by the white lab coat he has on, is waiting by a chair, jotting notes on the papers pinned to his clipboard. “Have a seat,” he says without lifting his head.
Behind the seat, I spot a tray of unfamiliar silver tools. No one who has come inside before me has made a sound of pain, so I pray it’s not because we simply couldn’t hear them.
“Your name?”
I’m no stranger to a doctor’s office. For years, Mama has taken me to see many specialists about my stutter, hoping someone might help me outgrow the impediment as my childhood practitioner suggested. Each time Mama brought me to a new doctor, they started from the beginning, trying to solve the puzzle on their own without information from previous doctors. The process was always lengthy and tiresome, and it’s the last thing I need here.
I give myself a moment to calm my nerves. “N-N-Nora,” I say. I tried not to elongate the n but I know there was a slight delay. Although I’m sure every child who steps foot into this room would show signs of apprehension.
“Last name?”
I hold the t on the tip of my tongue, trying to form the word fully before speaking. “T-T-Tabor,” I say with only a little pause.
“No need to be nervous, young lady. I just need to take some measurements for our records, and you’ll be on your way.”
Relief settles my racing pulse and I stare toward the opposite wall, finding a vague reflection of my body among the shiny tiles.
The doctor uses all the tools on the metal tray to take measurements of my face, the space between my eyes, the width of my eyes, the length between the tip of my nose and my bottom lashes, as well as my nostrils to my top lip. He even measures the distance between the bridge of my nose and each ear. Next is the space between my forehead and eyebrows, and up to my hairline. The length of my neck comes before the general measurement of my height, and then the scale’s number dictating my weight.
“You’re all set,” he says. I look up at the man’s face, noticing the pale blue hue of his eyes and the fair coloring of his hair that’s not quite white but not blonde either. His golden-rim glasses are filmed with a foggy residue and dark hairs poke out of his nostrils. I wonder what his measurements look like compared to mine.
I step away and walk toward the door, ready to give Arina a look she will find consoling rather than unnerving. I force a tight-lipped smile and nod as I pass her at the door, hoping it is enough to ease her worries.
SEVEN
ARINA
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA, AUGUST 1946
Is it the screams that awaken me or do I subconsciously know how to pull myself out of a nightmare? A hypnopompic state is the period between a deep sleep and consciousness. Miss Blum kindly explained this to me during our last therapy session. Sweat is raining down the sides of my cheeks, pooling at the center of my chest, causing me to shiver from the light breeze of a nearby fan. Was the scream silent or—
An answer comes to me as the door flies open. The hallway’s blinding lights and sudden clatter highlight a startling look on my roommate’s face. Although she was likely already awoken by my screams. I’m sitting up straight on my bed, facing Mrs. Vallentine, one of her new assistants—whose name I’ve forgotten—and the groundskeeper who must be here to find out why the other two are storming into my room in the middle of the night.
“What on earth?” Mrs. Vallentine says, holding her hand against her chest while she fights to catch her breath. “I’ve never heard a scream like that in all my life. Are you hurt?”
“No,” I respond.
“Then why did you scream so loud that half of this building is now awake?”
I’m staring at her, trying to wrap my mind around the separation between my subconscious flashback and the current moment. If she saw what I see in my head, she would scream too. It’s easier to control the visions when I’m awake though. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to have an answer that might forgive me for causing havoc, but I don’t. “It was a nightmare,” I explain.
“About what, Arina?” She knows better than to ask me a question like this, but I realize it’s the middle of the night and she might have been asleep too.
“Eyeballs pinned to a wall,” I state, giving her what she would like, which is an answer.
She closes her eyes and takes a long breath. “Our mind can be very good at playing tricks on us. It was just a nightmare,” she says.
“It was a nightmare, but my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. It was reliving a reality I experienced.”
“Eyeballs pinned to a wall?”
“Yes,” I state sternly.
Dale, the groundskeeper, is the only one with concern lacing his eyes. Mrs. Vallentine seems annoyed, and her assistant is yawning. “You’re going to scare the others,” Mrs. Vallentine says, nodding her head toward Lilliana, who has her head buried beneath her pillow.
“What about me?” I ask. Why is it I need to be worried about the others when I’m the one reliving these stories no one will ever believe?
“You have an overactive imagination, and I think it’s best to remind yourself of this so you can get some rest.”
Anger churns in my stomach, and my throat tightens as I try to respond. “My nightmares are not a product of my imagination, Mrs. Vallentine, and if you think they are, I suggest you reread my records. I stood in a room within a hospital in Auschwitz, where the walls were as shiny as they were white. A metal desk with a green leather rolling chair was the only decorative accent in this room except for a bulletin board covered in perfect columns of human eyeballs, organized by colors into various hues and shades—it was artwork created by a murderer. Only his imagination could conjure something so sickening.”
Mrs. Vallentine must feel mortified, stunned, or tired of my stories. “Enough. I can’t listen to any more of this. Come with me at once. I won’t allow you to disturb Lilliana’s sleep any longer.”
Before I decide if I should move or stay, Mrs. Vallentine’s veiny hand clamps around my wrist, pulling me out of my bed. “Stay with Lilliana to make sure she’s all right,” Mrs. Vallentine tells her assistant who is peering at me through heavy eyelids. Dale, though, seems afflicted and somber—whether for him or me, I’m not sure.