We come to a room with a different-looking door, one that’s metal rather than wooden. I’m positive it won’t open until she proves my thought wrong. Helena holds the door open and helps me through, still withstanding my weight on her shoulder. She’s skin and bones. I feel very little muscle or fat on her body, and I don’t know how she has the strength to hold any part of me up. They must not be feeding her. They’ve hardly been feeding me as of the last couple of weeks.
A narrow stairwell unravels before my eyes, and I hold on to the cold railing rather than leaning so heavily on Helena. My body is stiff and works against my every move as we descend each step, making our way down two floors until we hit concrete and darkness. The cold air bites at my face. If I didn’t see walls on every side of me, I would have thought we were outside in the dead of night, but we’re inside, underground—under the frozen ground. This must be the way to Hell.
We walk further and around a sharp corner where a slim glow of light streaks in through a thin, frosty panel between the ceiling and the wall. “I found extra blankets and I will bring you food whenever possible. You must stay down here no matter what happens. Can I trust you to do that for me?”
I hear Dr Mengele’s words again: “They’ve all got to go. Send them away.” Helena knew what he meant by that. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I assumed I had already suffered the consequences of being a Jewish girl, but I realize now I’ve become useless to him—a medical casualty he’d like to crumple up and toss into a waste bin.
“I pr-pr-promi’e,” I tell her.
“Thank you,” she utters, wrapping her arms around me while keeping me steady on my feet. “I found some paper and a few pencils. There will be some light right here during the day, enough for you to sketch whatever wonderful things you dream up in your head. Create scenes of a better world and make yourself believe you are there rather than here. You have a gift greater than the rest of us—you can still see beauty in your mind and bring it to life.”
It took me three weeks to regain the strength in my hand to draw again, but it came back and if that’s all I’m left with, I should be so thankful. “I’m v-v-very gra’eful.”
“Don’t be grateful. Be hopeful for us and for Arina. I have her name on the piece of paper you gave me. I will continue to search for her, and I will be back.”
She urges me over to the blankets where she helps settle me down on a soft spot. When she releases me to stand up straight, I take a hold of her arm. “Wh-wh-why me?” I ask, sniffling back the tears I wish would dry up forever.
She kneels and places her hands on my cheeks. “I lost my twin babies when I arrived here. They were of no use to Mengele, so he—” Helena tries to catch the breaths that are trying to escape her lungs. “He sent them away the same day I turned up sick with Typhus in the hospital. When he found out I have a history in medical science, he thought I might be helpful to maintain clean records. He handed me paperwork while I was still fighting a fever in bed. That’s when I saw my babies’ names crossed off his list for failing tests he conducted. My girls hadn’t even turned one yet, but they were old enough to fail a test.”
The tears finally stop. I’ve been selfishly thinking about myself and Arina this whole time, thinking she was just a kind aide who was being given extra privileges. I didn’t know she was fighting her own war inside of this war, alone, like me. I gasp for air, trying to find words to let her know how greatly I’m hurting for her too. “Y-you are m-my s-savior,” I say.
“We aren’t safe yet, Nora. We just need to keep praying that safety will find us soon.”
I wish I could tell Helena to stay. She’s been my only anchor to hope.
I don’t want to be alone down here, but then I would keep her from helping others, and from finding Arina.
I want a choice.
I want a voice, and the ability to use my words.
I deserve a say in what happens.
FIFTEEN
ARINA
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA, DECEMBER 1946
The mailman arrives at the same time every afternoon, around four. Despite the frigid temperatures and the arctic breeze, I sit on the bench outside of the front doors and wait to see if he has anything for me. If I don’t catch him before Mrs. Vallentine, I’ll end up waiting even longer to find out if the Red Cross has responded to any of the letters I’ve sent.
While I sit here and wait, shivering against my attempt to ignore the wind, a young couple walks outside. The woman wears a long chestnut brown fur coat with a matching hat, and red velvet gloves. Her black boots look to be brand new, not a crease to be seen, and the gentleman looks similar, but in tweed suit pants with a knee-length overcoat. A complementary tan fedora and brown leather gloves complete his appearance. The perfect parents-to-be.
“Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Abram,” Mrs. Vallentine’s voice calls out sweetly from a crack in the door.
The couple stop and turn back toward the front of the orphanage. “Yes?” the man responds.
“Somebody was asking to say goodbye just once more.” Mrs. Vallentine strikes a charming smile across her face, highlighting the fact that she’s wearing a darker shade of lipstick than usual. It’s the “please-adopt-them” shade of red, the one she only wears when couples are visiting.
“Oh goodness, how precious,” the woman says, cupping her gloved hands over her mouth. “We would love to have one more goodbye.”
“Go on,” Mrs. Vallentine says. Angelica, a three-year-old who arrived here with her six-month-old brother just a few weeks ago, runs out the front door and wraps her arms around the woman’s legs. I’m sure that sealed the deal for her and her brother. It was a smart move for a three-year-old.
“It was so very nice to meet you, Angelica. I hope to see you again soon.”
Angelica grins from ear to ear. “Me too,” she squeaks before turning around and running back into Mrs. Vallentine’s open arms. She doesn’t give hugs. It’s a rule. No affection or someone might become attached.
Like wallpaper, I go unnoticed by both Mrs. Vallentine and the couple. I wouldn’t expect anyone to be interested in taking pity on a seventeen-year-old girl, nor would I want anyone to replace my parents, but it’s difficult seeing one building as a place where dreams come true for some, but is captivity for others.
Once everyone has disappeared, I’m alone again waiting for the postman to arrive. He’s later than usual and it’s colder than it’s been this season. I bounce my knees for warmth and hum a melody to a song that has been stuck in my head for the last few days. I’m not sure what has made me think of “I’ve Got a Feeling” by Ray Noble, but I can hear it perfectly after going so long without hearing it. It seems like a silly song to be thinking of when I can’t feel much of anything in this cold.
I hear the chugging engine and whiny springs of the mail truck before I see it. He’ll stop along the curb and take the pile for the building from one of his bins and shovel it into his satchel.
When he steps out of the truck, I stand, ready to greet him, holding my hands against my chest with anticipation. “Miss Arina, you’re going to catch a cold out here in this weather,” he says.