I’m not surprised to see him sitting in the corridor, his elbow perched on his bent knee as he presses his face against his fist. The squeaks and rattles from my moving chair alerts him I’m nearby. He straightens his back against the wall and folds his arm over his knees, fabricating a more casual demeanor. Before I’m within his reach, he pushes off his knee and stands tall. “Where are they sending you?”
The flood of emotions I’ve been suppressing threatens to erupt, but I try to swallow against the struggle, knowing how much worse we’ll both feel if I lose my composure. I inhale a long, unsteady breath through my nose and blow it out of my pursing lips. “I h-h-have family in Am-Am-America, but I never knew of an-an-anyone.”
“They wouldn’t tell you who?” Elek asks, exasperation seething through his words.
I shake my head. “No.”
“I’m going with you, Nora. When do they expect you to leave?”
My gaze drops to my trembling fingers resting on my lap. “M-M-Monday morning.”
Elek’s breaths are harsh and brisk. He pins his hands to his hips and grits his teeth. “No. They won’t take you without me. I’m going to talk to Madame Cusano, and I’ll handle this, Nora. I promise.”
“Y-you can—”
“The hell I can’t. It’s clear they do not understand what we’ve been through, so I’m going to make them understand.”
I don’t want to argue, but I also don’t want him getting into trouble for speaking his mind when we both know neither of us has any say in the decisions they make on our behalf. “I’ll c-come,” I offer.
“No. I’m going to handle this. I don’t want you to worry. Did they say where in America?”
“Un-Un-Uni’ed—”
“United States?”
I nod in agreement. I’m moving to a country I can hardly pronounce with all the t’s and s’s.
“Anything more specific?”
“No.” I didn’t exactly ask, but what difference does it make? It seems like a world away from here. They don’t know the name of the family member I’m being sent to, so I doubt they have much information—or information they’re willing to give me.
Elek turns my chair to face him and he leans forward, gently pressing his hand down on my shoulder. I can see myself in the reflection of his eyes. “Trust me.”
“O-okay.”
He moves in closer, bringing his lips closer to my ear. “When it’s for love, we fight, and you are something beyond love for me.” He kisses my cheek and whisks away before I can conjure a response. His words are zinging through my head like shooting stars on a clear night.
I never thought much about feeling love for anyone aside from my family and the one person who saved my life in Auschwitz, but I have no other word that would describe how I feel about him.
Two Years Earlier
Auschwitz, Poland, December 1944
“They’ve all got to go. Send them away,” Dr. Mengele shouts from the hallway. The Nazis moved many of us out of the original barracks within the hospital to another wing. A place far away from Arina, no doubt. All I can do is pray she is still alive and in one piece somewhere.
Now, we’re being moved again. We. I’m not sure who occupies the rooms on either side or across the hall because we don’t interact with each other. Instead, we lie in our beds all day like stuffed dolls except for the short periods when Helena comes to take notes of my vitals. She helps me move around, both of us hoping I regain my strength. She’s also the only one who talks to me now.
“What do you mean, doctor?” I hear from the hallway.
“You know precisely what I mean,” he replies. A second doesn’t pass before the familiar cheerful, soprano tune of Dr. Mengele’s whistling fills the airway outside the door.
The door opens and closes in two quick blinks. Helena has her back against the door, heaving breaths. “We must go,” she says. “Right now.”
“Wh-wh-where?” I question.
She shakes her head, as if trying to readjust her thoughts. Helena rolls her sleeves up to her elbows and shoves her hands beneath my back. “Come on, dear, use whatever strength you have.”
My legs nearly fall from the side of the bed. I’ve been immobile for much longer than I should be. The recovery period is still unknown because no one has conducted surgery in the way Dr. Mengele did to me. Therefore, Dr. Mengele has been watching, observing, and taking notes. The tip of my tongue is entirely numb. There is no sensation sharp enough, cold enough, or hot enough to break through the broken nerves. Any word with an articulation that requires the top end of my tongue comes out jumbled and nearly unrecognizable. Dr. Mengele said the sensation might return, but he wasn’t looking at me when he said so and he was hardly paying attention as he jotted down notes.
My bare feet touch the ground and Helena helps me up. “Good, good. How’s your right leg feeling today? A little stronger?”
I stare at the faded freckles on her cheeks as she holds her focus on my posture. “No,” I answer. Every day it becomes weaker, and no one knows why.
“I was afraid you’d say that…” she says, sliding her arm under my shoulder. My leg doesn’t hurt, but my knee feels like jelly, not strong enough to hold myself upright if I was to rely on that leg only. But my opposite hip aches from the pressure of putting all my weight on the stronger leg. Nothing makes sense because my legs were fine before the surgery. Another unknown side effect of what he’s done to me.
I shuffle my left foot along, bearing my weight on Helena as I walk alongside her through the conjoining doors. “Wh-wh-where are we going?”
“Somewhere else.”
The hairs on my arms rise upon understanding what she must mean. A shiver runs down my spine. If we break rules, we pay a consequence. They send people to their death. The Nazis have even shot some patients right here in the hospital for simply screaming out in pain.
“Just be as quiet as possible. Trust me, okay?”
I glance over at her, wondering how anyone could ask for trust now. But what other choice do I have? “O-okay,” I huff through my rapid breaths.
If someone were to ask me to guess how many doors existed on this one floor, I would have never known there were so many. It feels like we’ve been walking for days. I can’t help but think I’m moving even farther away from Arina. I need her. She must think I’m dead. The last time we were together was when she tried to fool Dr. Mengele into thinking she had a stutter like me. Her impression was nearly spot on. When he caught her in the lie, though, she knew it was the wrong decision. How were we to know what was right from wrong here? I don’t blame her for trying. I only pray that I was the only one of us to endure Mengele’s wild theories and procedures.
“I w-w-wan’ ’o find my ’i’er,” I cry out softly. I can barely understand myself. I’ll forever be stuck inside a soundless chamber, pounding on the walls until I grow tired and give up.
“I know you want to find your sister. I know,” she whispers. Tears stream down my hot cheeks for no other reason than knowing she understood me. “I will do whatever I can to find her.”