“As soon as you told me you had a twin sister named Nora, I began searching for her. It took much longer than I hoped it would, and I couldn’t bear to tell you I knew her or that there was hope of her being okay and alive, not until I found her. I would not give up because there had to be a reason bigger than anything I could understand that I had the privilege of meeting you both at separate times and at opposite ends of the world.”
“Here, in this very same place?” I ask, knowing how slight the odds truly are.
“Yes, I arrived in Chicago by happenstance…a distant cousin, one of only two in the United States, responded to a letter I sent, asking for help. I was fortunate enough to receive a reply from him offering to be my sponsor for emigration. He lives out of state, but upon arriving here in Chicago, I learned there may be war refugee children at this orphanage. I didn’t hesitate to inquire with Mrs. Vallentine about open positions. If there was any way to show my gratitude for being lucky enough to make it here, I couldn’t think of any other way to spend my time than helping children like you.”
Mrs. Vallentine clears her throat. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have a meeting to tend to in a few minutes. Arina, I will see that we move you into a new room with Nora. Maybe she will be a good influence over your behavior here. If all goes well, we can send you two off on a pleasant note when you turn eighteen in a few months.”
Arina snarls at her as she turns her back. If I could speak quickly and properly, I would sarcastically tell her it was so nice to meet her acquaintance too, but then she’d realize there were two Arinas she must deal with now. Arina has never been a troublemaker, but she uses her mouth to express her thoughts, even when not always welcome. I can feel her distaste for Mrs. Vallentine already.
“You two are truly identical, my goodness,” Helena says.
“Inside and out,” Arina says, using my chair to pull herself back up to her feet. She wraps her arms around Helena. “I know we’re not allowed to show each other affection here, but I will never be more grateful for anything or anyone than I am at this very moment, and it’s all thanks to you.”
Helena cups her hand around the side of Arina’s head in a motherly way, making me think of Mama and what she might feel at this moment.
“Arina, why don’t you show your sister around,” Helena suggests. I peer over at Helena again, finding a strangled look upon her face, like she’s struggling to hold something inside.
“’hank y-y-you, Helena,” I say, “f-f-for every’hing.”
“The pleasure is all mine, girls, truly.” Her brows knit in toward her nose and she looks as if she might cry. “I’ll come find you in a bit to help you get settled. Nora, I’ll leave your suitcase in the office for now, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
Helena lifts the case from the floor, rushing away and I watch her go, wishing I knew what just stole her momentary happiness. As soon as she opens the office door, I recall the words she once spoke to me: “I lost my twin babies when I arrived here.”
We aren’t all so lucky, not as Arina and I are at this moment.
Two Years Earlier
Poland, February 1945
The last place I expected to end up was back in another hospital. This one doesn’t scare me or smell like formaldehyde and rotting flesh, but the doctor’s coats, the instruments, hustling up and down the hallways, it can easily be mistaken for where I was recently.
A mix of allied medical military personnel tend to those of us who need medical treatment. Elek, the boy from the last refugee center, is at this hospital too. He’s down the hall just a couple of rooms away. He’s the only familiar face I know.
Nurses and doctors walk into my room frequently, not just for me, but for the four others here as well. A linen curtain strung to a metal rod separates each of our beds. Then, in front of my bed is another wall. I’ve seen so many walls in the last year and a half, and not one of them looks the same as the last. This one has glossy white paint covering terse stone blocks. It would look like a sponge if I tried to draw what I’m looking at.
The curtain billows to the left and a doctor steps toward me with a clipboard, his focus set on the paperwork attached to the clipboard. He drags the tip of his pencil halfway down the page and stops to study what he’s reading. The doctor’s glasses perch just over the bridge of his nose. He looks like a teacher more than a doctor.
“Nora Tabor, sixteen years old of Debrecen, Hungary—is that correct?”
I nod my head in agreement. “I’m Dr. Markov.” His accent sounds Russian, like all the other doctors who inspect me. I’m not even sure what they’re looking for since no one says much aside from something like: keep being strong. I’ve noticed more and more doctors and nurses arriving to assist with refugees. In terms of treatment, they all seem more focused on nourishment and hydration than any of the more serious issues we’ve been dealing with. I’m not sure anyone can do much to undo what Mengele did, but I’d rather hear that for myself than assume that’s what they’re all thinking.
Dr. Markov pulls in a rolling tray and the glistening silver on the tools strikes a nerve in my stomach. “Wh-wh-wha’ i’ ’ha’ for?”
He glances over at me and his forehead creases with wrinkles. He didn’t understand my question.
I point to the tray, hoping he can see the question mark in my eyes.
“We need to take a sample of blood. We want to make sure we’re treating you properly, that’s all.”
I’ve been stuck with more needles than I can count. I’m not afraid of them, but I’ve had blood stolen from me. A lot of blood, without my consent. Every day in Auschwitz, they took more and more.
A nurse glides into the small space, a caring smile on her lips. She ties a rubber tube around the thicker part of my upper arm and gently twists my wrist to the side. She stares at the small welts left behind from months of searching for veins. The bruises subsided, but the scars hadn’t. Some people who posed as nurses were prisoners like me and didn’t know how to draw blood. It wasn’t their fault, but I’ve had enough.
I inhale sharply and exhale just as hard before closing my eyes to block out the reminding sight of a needle piercing my thin, pale flesh. The nurse places her warm hand on my arm. “A few more deep breaths might help you stop shaking. I don’t want to cause you unnecessary pain, dear.”
The memories flash through my head of the daily attempts to steal my blood, and I wish I could close a curtain over the memories. But there’s nowhere to hide from them now.
“The doctor at Auschwitz, he attempted a brain surgery procedure to correct your stutter?” Dr. Markov asks.
“Y-ye’,” I respond, squeaking like a mouse.
“Your papers show there is damage to the nerves in your leg. Is this a result of that surgery?” I nod to agree. “Without further testing, your symptoms appear to be a side effect of nerve damage, which we refer to as monoplegia—paralysis of specific regions of the body affected by trauma. Without another surgery to examine whether the brain injury is fixable, it’s impossible to say whether there is a solution. I’m afraid you’re far too weak to endure surgery of any kind now. However, there are some therapies you can do on your own which might help with mobility, but you will have to take the initial recovery day by day for now. I will ensure you have a copy of these medical records to keep with you.”