My breaths come and go quickly as I hurry to the next conjoining door, pleading for another miracle that Nora won’t be in the next room either. From the moment I cross the threshold, I know I won’t find her in this room with its wall-to-wall shelving containing books and large fluid-filled jars, lit by a ceiling light as if on display. I avoid the sight, not wanting to know what might be in the jars. Upon reaching the next door, a sight draws my eyes over to the long wall spanning the space. I take a step closer, curious about the little white balls lined in perfect rows and columns. It takes a second for my focus to adjust, but as I reach my finger toward the nearest ball, I notice an iris and pupil in the center. My stomach turns sour as a fiery sensation gurgles up my throat. Rows of different colored eyes, no longer attached to a person but pinned to a wall with a label between each pair.
My lungs threaten to give out as I race for the door, wishing my curiosity hadn’t gotten the best of me. I barge into the next room without a thought of the danger that could be lurking on the other side. I’m grateful for another quiet room, one without displays of body parts. Only one person is lying on a gurney beneath a sheet, also bald, but with a thick incision along the front of their scalp, lazily stitched together. I study the person, noticing the age difference between this one and the other three. With swollen lips sewn together, I can’t imagine what they have been through. Another moving chest means they are still alive, but for how long? I hold my arms around my stomach as I take another step closer. As I move, the faint light from the ceiling bleeds around me, offering a clearer picture of what I’m seeing.
Shards of ice fill my insides, my limbs stiffen, and I gasp against breathless lungs. My freckles are on her face. Those are my freckles. “Nora,” I weep. This can’t be my sister, scalped, savaged, and trapped. She doesn’t move when her name falls from my tongue. Her eyes don’t move beneath her lids. Eyes. I can see the shape. She must still have her eyes. “What has he done to you?”
I can hardly swallow against my dry throat, and I hold myself up against the gurney, wishing my mind would work faster. I can’t stop the tears from falling or the sobs from escaping. Her hand is beneath the sheet, and I’m terrified to look, but I want to hold her hand. I need to hold her hand. “What do I do?” I whimper.
Thuds from a pair of boots echo in the hallway, and I drop to my knees in fear. Do they all know what Dr. Mengele is doing? Is this why we are here?
The footsteps stop, but I don’t know where the guard might be. “I must get help. I have to get you out of here. Nora, can you hear me?”
There’s no answer. My knees are trembling, and I can’t stop the tremors vibrating through my body. “I’m doing rounds now,” I hear someone shout.
My breaths are short and shallow, not knowing what to do or where to go. I reach up to touch Nora’s cheek, finding it colder than her skin should be. “You can’t leave me. You can’t. We’re in this life together, always, just you and me. Today is just some bad weather, just stormy weather,” I cry. “Just stormy—” The sound of boots return and I know I have to leave her here. “I’m coming back for you as soon as the coast is clear. Nora, I’m not leaving you—I’m not.”
I pull myself across the grimy floor, crawling to stay beneath the window of the main door. I make my way through the conjoining doors of the next three rooms, remaining on my knees while I pull myself with a form of strength I didn’t think I had. When I reach the last door, the one I need to exit, I fall forward, pressing my forehead to the ground. “I can’t do this. Mama, Papa, I can’t. I can’t. Help me.”
I hear the sound of a nearby door opening. I can tell it’s on this side of the hallway and I know this might be my only chance to make it out of here without being seen. It takes every ounce of energy to pull my body up by the door’s knob and slip back into the hallway, grateful no one is in sight. I shuffle across the way in two fluid steps, spinning back inside the darkness. My feet feel heavier than lead weights as I drag them clumsily to my bed. I use my fingernails as a grip against the dirty sheet covered mattress and curl into a ball. I cling so tightly to my knees, pressing them into my chest, finding the harder I hold myself, the less pain I feel writhing through me.
I want to wake up now. Please, let me wake up. Please. I don’t want to be stuck here in this nightmare. I’d rather die. I’m scared. “Mama,” I call out.
“Shhh,” someone responds. “Are you crazy?”
My cries become silent, escaping through ragged breaths. They don’t know what exists in those rooms. If they did, they wouldn’t be sleeping. They wouldn’t be telling me to hush. All the missing twins—that’s where they are, where Nora is right now. It should be me on the gurney. This is my fault. I should have kept my mouth shut. Why did I have to be so stupid? Why punish her when she did what she was supposed to do? Why is she always the one who’s punished? Take me instead. Just take me.
TWELVE
NORA
BOUGIVAL, FRANCE, NOVEMBER 1946
I’ve never watched someone stir a straw around their carton of milk with so much intensity. Elek seems lost in the thoughts he once tried to bury. The mess hall seems to stir him up more and more each day, and I’m not sure why it’s this location out of all of them. The smell mustn’t help—the sulfuric odor from the morning eggs leaves behind a potent stench that doesn’t disappear until dinner. It’s also stuffy in here. There aren’t any windows either.
I didn’t think I was holding on to hope—hope that Arina, Mama, or Papa might have survived Auschwitz. I didn’t think Elek was holding on to hope, but he was. I think his upbeat disposition was because of that. Something inside of him stopped working the day he received the letter. Sometimes it feels like we’re strangers now, which hurts more than anything else since our connection is the only true one either of us have in our lives now.
It pains me to be on the outside of his world. This must be what it felt like for him when I so often refused to talk. It wasn’t long ago. I’m not sure our friendship can survive if we both give in to the anchors of our past. “H-h-how abou’ a walk?” I ask, placing my palm down over the top of his milk carton.
“I’m not sure I want to take a walk right now. Maybe later.” At least I’ve gotten his attention. He’s looking at me, but I also think he may be staring right through me.
I pull his tray over and remove the half-eaten chicken and rice he’s shoved around his plate and place it on top of mine. Once his tray is empty, I place mine on top and bring it down to my lap. I’ve been getting better at wheeling my chair around with one hand—well enough to make it to the waste receptacle.
“You don’t need to take care of me,” he says.
I wheel around to his side of the table and reach my hand out for him. “A w-w-walk,” I firmly state.
Elek’s head tips backward. A groan murmurs through his throat, but I wait. After a long few seconds, he rolls his head to the side and glances at me with such solace. He places his hand in mine and I tug, knowing he’s going to have to give in if this is going to work. I can’t pull him out of his seat.