“That’s all right,” she says. “I understand.” Madame Louise squeezes my shoulder. “Have a good rest of the day.”
In fear of being rude, I want her to walk away before I turn back in the direction I was heading, but just as I move forward, the door to Elek’s room opens. He slips out into the hallway, quietly closing the door before spotting me.
I would have been in the library by now if Madame Louise hadn’t stopped me, but I’m still here, seeing Elek in so much pain that tears are rolling down his flushed cheeks. “Nora!” He sweeps his hand beneath his eyes, trying to hide what I’ve already seen. “Why are you still where I left you?” He peers down the hallway as if looking for a reason. “Another round of therapy pressure?”
“Wh-wh-why are you cr-cr-crying?” I reach my hand out for him, needing to take away his pain in any way I can.
“It’s not important. I was just having a moment. I’m fine.” His school satchel is slung over his shoulder, which tells me he was on his way to the library, but surely, he would know I’d see the proof of his tears. He knew I would ask him what was in the letter. He’s also aware we can’t speak louder than a whisper in the library without being scolded.
Elek steps behind me to push my chair, but I reach down for the handbrake to stop him from moving me forward. “What are you doing?” he says.
“Wh-wh-why?” I ask again.
He steps away from my chair and drops his head as he reaches into his back pocket, retrieving the envelope. He places it on my lap and takes a step back to lean against the wall, where he closes his eyes and grits his teeth.
My pulse rivets through every vein in my body as I pull the letter out to read. My hands shake as I unfold the paper.
The Red Cross is the sender.
Dear Mr. Elek Ozscar,
In response to your correspondence requesting information pertaining to your biological mother and father, we regret to inform you we have found their identification on a list of those who did not make it out of Auschwitz before liberation. From the information we could obtain, your mother, Wren Ozscar, perished on June 1st, 1944. Your father, Gene Ozscar, perished on September 2nd, 1944.
It is with our profound sorrow that we inform you of these losses.
For further assistance, please reach out to the Red Cross at the address stamped below.
With Regards,
Gerald Wolff
Family Advocate Officer
Red Cross
For a moment, I imagine this letter was sent to me. In the next moment, I was glad it wasn’t. Then, all in one long second, I feel jealousy, guilt, and grief all at the same time. I fold the paper back into thirds and slip it inside the envelope. If it was my letter and I found Mama, Papa, and Arina were gone, I’m not sure I would be prepared to read those words. I’m not ready to lose the last thread of hope I have, but Elek no longer has that option now and I can’t think of anything worse happening to us after everything we’ve been through.
“I should have known they hadn’t survived. I shouldn’t feel shocked. In fact, I’m not sure why I spent so much time trying to contact the Red Cross with hope of a different outcome. If either of them was still alive, they would have found me by now. Neither my mother nor father would ever let anything impede that. Simon and I were their world. Until the very moment one of Dr. Mengele’s aides pulled us away from them. Then Simon, the one person I had left—Dr. Mengele killed him. I should just be glad they all have each other. I wouldn’t want any of them to go through life on their own after what we experienced. I’m just grateful, as grateful as I could be.”
“Y-y-you’re in pain,” I say.
Elek shakes his head and steps back behind my chair, lifts the brake and rolls me forward to the library. He doesn’t stop or say a word until we’re at the table next to the short chalkboard we use for arithmetic. With my frustration boiling over, I reach for a piece of chalk and claw at the edge of the table so I can pull myself up, bringing myself closer to the board to write out what I need to say.
I write, “Don’t tell me you’re grateful while tears fall from your eyes. They didn’t deserve what they went through, and neither did you then or now. You don’t have to be strong every second of every day. For me, allow yourself to feel the pain. Then, give it the time it deserves to be felt.”
Elek’s forehead strains and his eyes widen as he stares at me. “What do you want me to think about, Nora? The way my arm looked while resting on a silver tray just before I fell unconscious from the pain? Or should I think about the way Simon looked when gangrene ate his skin, one long minute at a time until he died? Worse, should I picture the looks on my parents’ faces when they both came to realize they were suffocating from lethal gas in a metal chamber? They’re the lucky ones, Nora. They are. Can’t you see that? Look at us? Look what we have to survive with now?”
I can see the reflection of the fluorescent lights above us in the gloss of his tears, breaking my heart in a way I haven’t felt before.
Two Years Earlier
Auschwitz, Poland, September 1944
The fluorescent lighting above me is blinding. I’m flat on an exam table. The metal beneath me is colder than ice even through the flimsy sheet cover. A sharp metallic-like odor grows from one side of the room and wafts over me. My stomach contracts in response. I don’t recognize the smell, but it’s awful and overwhelming.
I need to get up and run. I can’t just lie here and allow them to do whatever it is they are planning. I want to ask why me? but I already know the answer. God made you this way; that’s what Mama and Papa told me so many times when I asked them the same question. Once, Mama said: “Those who are born with challenges are naturally stronger than the rest. They are the ones who have a lesson to teach and an opportunity to make the world a better place.” I never understood what she was talking about. I still don’t. Nothing I involuntarily contribute to this place does anything for the greater good of this world. Dr. Mengele would like us all to believe this to be the case, but most of us see right through his act of charm.
There are so many aides circling around me, and all are having private conversations—whispers that bleed into one another so I can’t make out any one thing. “Why do you think you were born with a speech impediment and your sister was not?” Dr. Mengele appears to be asking me this question, but he’s not looking down at me, just hovering. “The world needs answers.”
I’m not sure what answer he thinks he might find by examining me once again, but I doubt he’ll find anything more than any other doctor I’ve seen throughout my life.
A person walks by with a rolling cart and a tray full of tools clanging against each other. I haven’t fought against the many hands around me, but I thought I was being prepared for another thorough checkup. The metal tools have set off the alarms in my head and I push myself up to take a better look at what’s happening around me.
“No, no, no, you must remain perfectly still,” a woman says. I’m not sure who is talking. Everyone is wearing a medical mask.