“This was where he painted,” Elek finishes my statement. “And now it’s your turn to steal some of the beauty for your drawing pad.”
Despite my need to stare at every detail surrounding me, I turn my gaze to Elek, feeling hot tears burn the backs of my eyes. The muscles in my chest tighten, and I don’t understand why, because I don’t want to cry. I want to smile and laugh. I want to tell him how grateful I am for bringing me to a place I will forever call heaven. Elek offers me his arm and I pull myself up out of the chair, bearing my weight on my left leg. I lean against the bridge’s guardrail, finding my reflection in the water below. Elek doesn’t care about the scenery or the clarity of the water, and he does little to hide the way he’s looking at me while I try to take in every detail around us.
The flutter in my chest steals my breath as I straighten my posture and look at Elek. He’s still gazing at me as if he sees me differently than the rest of the world. Somehow.
“Your happiness bridges a hole in my heart,” he says.
My cheeks are on fire, and I try to convince myself to look away from the glossy look in his eyes, but I remain still. Elek lifts his hand to my cheek, surely noticing the warm blush I wish I could control. He brushes his thumb over the warmest spot and touches the tip of his nose to mine. His short, shallow breaths match my own and I close my eyes, forgetting about fairness, beauty, and cruelty. When I can feel this version of the world around me, nothing else matters. Elek gives me a different view and so much more. When his mouth brushes against mine, my leg weakens, but I stiffen my knee, refusing to crumble and miss a moment of this memory I intend to tape over so many others.
His lips are like a ripe plum, cool and quenching. The light wind provides a slight chill, but the connection between us is warm and consuming, like the first sip of tea while sitting in front of a crackling fire.
Here, right here, is the very place I never want to leave.
Two Years Earlier
Auschwitz, Poland, July 1944
“I don’t feel very well,” Arina mutters the same words I’m thinking. My throat constricts and contracts beyond my control and a cold sweat slides down the center of my back. I scan the pea-green observation room, a different holding space from what we have seen before. We were taken here following the blood work and injections we received earlier. The color of the walls won’t help settle my stomach, and the floors lost their shine when a Kapo laborer must have dragged something wet across each tile. There’s even a blood-red tinge, like a paint stroke across each white square tile. They did not give us chairs. There are no buckets in case we fall sick, which plenty of us have, leaving the room to reek of bile. We don’t have beds to rest if we feel weak, no cracks in the walls for sound to escape if we scream for help. It’s just Arina, me, and three other sets of twins locked in a room. I’m not sure I understand the purpose or what they’re expecting from us. They gave us no instructions, not that we should expect much more from anyone here. We’re toyed with like the rag dolls children play make-believe with.
“I d-d-don’t either,” I reply, holding my stomach as if the pressure will wane away the queasiness. Each set of twins has chosen a corner to curl up in, huddling next to one another. Arina’s head is on my shoulder and my head is leaning against her forehead.
The summer temperatures have been higher than usual these last two weeks, but at least there is a roof protecting us from the unforgiving sun. Though, I would be remiss not to notice the difference between my cold sweat and Arina’s scorching hot skin. With every ounce of energy I have, I lift my hand and palm her forehead. “Y-y-you are b-b-burning up,” I mumble.
Arina doesn’t respond. Her head slips off the side of my shoulder and falls as every other bone in her body follows suit. Just like dominoes.
I place my hands on her fiery cheeks, noticing her pale complexion. “Arina,” I gasp, tapping my hands hard enough to cause a sting. “W-w-wake up!”
“My sister is running a fever, too,” one of the young girls says from across the room. “We need help.”
We were told not to leave this room until someone came for us. I slide Arina’s head and shoulders gently onto the floor so I can stand up. My stomach feels like a bent hanger that refuses to straighten out. With my arm clenching my midsection, I amble to the door, wondering if they truly locked it. Maybe they knew the state we would be in and didn’t concern themselves enough to add additional security.
To my surprise, the door opens with a simple twisting of the knob, and I glance down each direction of the hallway. No one is in sight. I decide to head toward the front door, stopping at the first room on the right. With a tight squeeze of the doorknob, I twist it with caution before peeking inside to see if there is anyone I can ask for help.
The room glows with fluorescent lighting, spotlighting a scene I can’t decipher. For a long moment, I stand, my mouth agape, glancing between the two young boys—one in each bed, both unconscious, both missing a leg. A nurse or an unlucky prisoner here turns away from the bed at the far end of the room. She is cradling a severed leg and reaching it to the doctor’s waiting arms. My eyes would rather deceive me than allow me to notice the boy closest to the door. He’s lying on a table with gauze tightly wrapped around the amputated stump of his leg.
Where are they taking his leg? My stomach understands the horrific answer within seconds.
Burning bile rises from my stomach and I run for the exit, covering my mouth, praying I make it out in time. A bush is the recipient of my insides, hiding the proof that could land me in that same bed as one of those boys, and likely for no good reason. None of the twins I have seen have been missing limbs. The doctor must have done that to them.
I can’t keep myself upright. The heat and the stench of something curdling in the air, pulls me down to the dirt. My body sways and the bush somehow whirls around me. I try to lean back, seeking support, but there’s nothing behind me.
“Come along,” a woman says when the door to the barrack opens. She slips her arms beneath mine and struggles to pull me up to my feet. I’m not sure if I’m walking on my own, or if she’s dragging me back inside, but she moves fast and without pause. “You can’t be out there.”
If there is any hope of someone helping, I must speak up. Though I’m afraid my insides might purge again if I open my mouth. “M-m-my sister is b-b-burning up,” I struggle. Each time I’ve had to speak with Dr. Mengele’s assistants, I have had no reason to be terrified, and I believe it’s the only way I’ve managed to hide my stutter.
“My name is Helena. I’m a Kapo laborer here. You can trust me. I’ll help your sister. Take me to her,” she says, her accent thick. I’m not sure where she’s from, but I don’t recognize the dialect of her Yiddish—a combination of German and Hebrew. With the melting pot of Europeans here, a universal way of communicating with one another can be sometimes complicated.
As I point to the room I came out of, I can’t help but wonder why a Kapo would offer to help. They are under strict rules to work only for the Nazis and not to help their fellow Jewish prisoners. But I’m in no position to question her now.
The woman closes us back in the room and I race to Arina’s side to check her temperature again. It’s just as bad as when I left. I’ve never felt skin so hot to the touch.