“Why is Miss Blum on leave?” It’s the only part of her statement I care about.
“I’m not sure. She had some family business to handle,” she says, waving her hands around as if it makes no difference right now. Except it does, because Miss Blum is the person I speak to when I’m upset and having trouble.
“I don’t need a solitary room,” I grumble.
“For tonight, yes. We’ll discuss this again tomorrow. After supper, bring your belongings for the evening into the room you were in last time and make up the bed for yourself. I’ll be in to check on you before the lights go out.”
I swallow my pride, my pain, and the words I’d like to say. “Yes, ma’am.”
Two Years Earlier
Auschwitz, Poland, January 1945
“The Soviets are here,” someone distinctly shouts from the corridor.
“For us?” someone else responds.
The few of us left in the barrack flee out of the room toward the exit of the building. Each door lining the way is already open. There are other prisoners moving from various directions, all toward the hope we have been waiting for.
They have fed no one in days. Even the sight of a guard was rare despite this place swarming with Nazis for the last year. We were wondering what was happening but finding war allies was not something any of us would hope out loud.
Jewish prisoners, wary, weak, skin and bone, are spilling out of surrounding buildings with the same look of question in their eyes. Not a German soldier is in sight. Not one. We, the prisoners, become a crowd, looking at one another, inspecting, trying to recognize faces. I slither through the swarm of bodies, seeking Nora. We’ve been apart for so long that I don’t know her condition, her state of being—if she is still alive.
“Nora,” I shout. The false sense of security I feel running thickly through my veins doesn’t hinder me from raising my voice. I know better than to draw attention to myself. But I don’t care. I need to find her.
The Soviets running by take in the sight of those of us in their way, but they continue one after another, an endless line of men in uniforms that aren’t so different from the ones that we have grown to fear. The sound of their movement reminds me of a flag snapping in the wind. They march with purpose, but I don’t understand why they are all moving through us, past us, not stopping to ask if we’re okay. We’re not okay. Surely, they can see this.
I pull my focus away from the marching troops and continue pushing through the crowd in search of Nora. I will keep walking until someone tells me to stop. She must be here. She has to be. My parents…perhaps they’re here too, just living in different barracks.
The cold, brittle air seeps through my outer layers and sticks to my skin like glue, and the stench of gunpowder filtrates the air like a gas. My lungs burn from overuse and the muscles along the back of my legs stiffen like rods. I will use my jagged nails to drag my body along if I must.
A hand envelops my arm, an unfamiliar sensation. The tension pinches against my bones and I whip my head around to see who has taken a hold of me. A Soviet soldier, sweating, despite the frigid temperatures. Dirt drips down his face like brown tears. “Come along. What is your age? You’re a child, yes?”
Age. We grow and mature with age. Yet I have only degenerated over this past year. “Almost seventeen.” Not that it matters.
“Poor girl. We’ll see about finding your family for you. We are working hard to liberate all of you at once, but first we must organize and note who is who.”
“I’m looking for my twin sister. Her name is Nora, Nora Tabor. She’s also almost seventeen, and I haven’t seen her in weeks, or months, I suppose. She must be here somewhere.”
“Your twin?” the soldier questions.
“Yes, sir. She looks just like me.” Or she did. Twins, twins. That’s the only reason Dr. Mengele wanted us. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. We’re not twins. We just look very much alike. We have nothing to do with Dr. Mengele. Please, don’t tell him you’ve seen me. Please.”
“Dr. Mengele?” the man asks as if the name is foreign. “I don’t know of him, but if he’s a German soldier, no need to worry. They’re gone. As for your sister, though, I will keep an eye out for her.” He looks at me solemnly, lines in his forehead deepening. “Don’t worry. Go on over there to that soldier with a clipboard. He’ll take down your information and let you know what to expect next.”
I glance at the stranger’s face, knowing I only met him a few minutes ago, but wishing he wouldn’t pass me off to someone else.
“Thank you, sir.”
“God bless you, young lady.”
“No, God bless you, sir.”
The man’s eyes narrow but with a hint of pain, as if he doesn’t want the same words of gratitude spoken to him. He’s saving us. They all are.
While walking across the patches of gray frozen snow toward the group of other children and the soldier with the clipboard, I can’t help but feel dizzy from everything spiraling around me.
There aren’t many other children, maybe twenty or thirty. It won’t take me long to inspect each to see if I recognize Nora. I’m sure she’s looking for me as well.
Most of the other children look far worse than I do, making me wonder if their living conditions were worse than mine. Judging by their gaunt figures, they seem to have been starved for longer. Not one of them is conversing with another. Each stands still, hunching forward, staring out into the distance. Why aren’t they happier? They must all be looking for someone, too.
As I approach the soldier with the clipboard, I notice a warm look in his eyes, not like the eyes I’m used to being confronted with. “Could you please spell out your full name and state your date of birth?”
“Arina Tabor, April 12th, 1929—but could you tell me if there are any other Tabors on your list? I’m looking for my twin sister, Nora.”
“We’ve only just begun taking down names,” he says, dragging his finger down the sheet of paper. “I’m afraid there isn’t another child listed by your surname. That doesn’t mean much now.” His eyes open larger, endearingly.
I nod. “Thank you.”
“You should wait over there with the others,” he says, pointing to the small crowd of children.
As I turn, I find soldiers placing blankets around shoulders and handing out parcels of paper-wrapped food. We’re being saved. We’re being freed, but I don’t know if I will ever feel free if I leave without finding Mama, Papa, and Nora.
SIXTEEN
NORA
BOUGIVAL, FRANCE, DECEMBER 1946
I’m not sure if I have always been a realist but I’ve found pain to be less severe if I assume the worst. That way, whatever comes next won’t hurt as much.
The orphanage has given me a suitcase to pack my few belongings in. It didn’t take long to toss the donated clothes and toiletries into the case. I waited for as long as possible to clasp the buckles, but I’m not sure why. There was nothing left to place inside. Except Elek, maybe. I wish he could fit. He’s speaking with Madame Cusano for the third time this morning and I’m surprised she hasn’t closed the door in his face yet. I’m not sure what form of pleading he’s been using on her, but it has yet to work.