"Josef," said the Kommandant. "Find out what language she speaks."
"Magyar," I said.
"Hungarian," said the Kommandant's adjutant.
"Are you a Jew?" said the Kommandant.
"She's a Jew."
"You can't be a Jew," said the Kommandant, lifting my chin with his baton. "You don't even look like a Jew."
"She says she's a Jew."
"Are both of your parents Jews?" said the Kommandant, his baton butting my lips.
"These are her parents. They're clearly Jews."
"Do you have any ancestors who weren't Jews?" said the Kommandant.
His gloved hand touched my cheek, my mouth. His thumb forced itself between my lips and teeth.
"All of her family is Jewish."
The Kommandant stared at me a moment longer before he waved his adjutant aside.
"What a pity," said the Kommandant.
"Pity you didn't have a flower or something pretty put on, instead of them numbers," said the fat man as he squinted at my forearm. "Never seen nobody do numbers before. Zero-six-one-eight-five-six: what do they mean?"
"Nothing," I said. "Can you..."
"How about a rose? You kinda look like a rose yourself."
"I don't want another tattoo," I said, easing my arm from his grip. "I want to know if you can take this tattoo off."
"Take it off?"
"Yes. Can you?"
"Well, now, ain't nobody never asked me to take one off before. 'Course I don't get many ladies in here neither. The ones that do come in like roses, though."
"Can you get rid of this one for me?"
He took my arm again and looked at it while he rubbed his chin with his free hand.
"Don't know," he said. "Don't know if it can be done."
A sailor came in the front door, with a woman clutching his arm. They were both drunk, and they swayed unsteadily. The red and green lights of the shop glared, and the sailor grinned.
"See? What'd I tell you?" said the sailor, nudging the woman.
"I don't know, Charlie," she said, leaning heavily against him. "I ain't never done nothing like this before."
I freed my arm and rolled down my sleeve.
"How about a rose?" said the fat man. "A rose would be nice. You'd like a flower."
"He's like a flower," someone said, in my language.
I turned around.
"And he likes the ladies."
It was one of the inmates taking care of the luggage.
"What did you say?"
He grabbed my arm, pulling me away from the boxcars, away from the spotlights, away from the guards and their dogs.
"Listen," he said.
"Have you seen my parents?" I said.
"Your parents?"
"We got separated. I can't find them."
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"Your parents are gone."
"Gone? Gone where?"
He inhaled deeply, dramatically. The air was foul, and smelled of something burnt.
"Into the chimneys," he said. "They're smoke."
"What a horrible thing to say. Why are you saying that?"
"The only way to stay alive here is to face the truth," he said, roughly taking my arm. "It's too late for your parents. You have to think of yourself now."
"No," I said, trying to pull free of him. "No."
"You have to stay alive. We can't let them beat us. We have to survive so we can witness."
"I have to find my parents. My father's ill. He'll need his medication."
"There's only one way to survive in this camp, and he was standing right in front of you. Give him lots of attention, he'll blossom," said the inmate. "Ignore him, or starve him, and he'll wither, but you'll die."
"Who? What are you talking about?"
"The Kommandant, the Kommandant," said the inmate.
He gripped my arm so tightly that I cried out.
"Listen to me. I'm trying to help you," he said. "You're the first one he's noticed in a long time. In ages. He's your only hope of survival."
"I don't know what you're talking about,"
"You've got to make sure he notices you again," said the inmate. "Take off your coat. You can't go to him with blood on you."
He yanked my coat off me and shoved another into my hands. It was ermine. When I just stood there, he tugged the fur coat around me and roughly fastened it.
"Yes. He'll like this," he said. "It emphasizes how blonde you are. How Aryan. It'll excite him."
"But I don't... what should I... how..."
"He'll teach you everything you need to know."
"You know we need you," said one of the inmates from the camp.
Three of them huddled outside the Kommandant's office window, squatting in the wet clay. They were gaunt and dirty, and trembled in the damp air. They were with the camp's Underground, and they came in the night, tapping at the glass until I opened the window. Or worse: they wrote cryptic messages on scraps of paper and shoved them between the window frame and the sill.
"Why won't you help us?"
"I can't help you," I said, glancing toward the office door. "I told you that, when you left the last message."
"You mean you won't help us," said their leader. She was called Rebekah.
"And you've got to stop leaving messages," I said. "This is his office. He's bound to find one of them."
"She's not going to help us," said the one standing next to Rebekah.
Her arms were folded over her chest. She was called Sharón, and I didn't like the way she looked at me. She spat at the ground.
"I can't help you," I said. "I can't even help myself. If I could, I wouldn't be here. Now, go away. He's been coming down in the night, when he can't sleep."
"What kind of Jew are you?" said Sharón, reaching in and digging her fingers into my forearm. "Don't you even think about the rest of us?"
"We don't want to damage his merchandise. Let her go. Let her go," said Rebekah, but the others mumbled. "One day, she'll need us."
"And in the meantime, she keeps on living her pampered life," said Sharón.
Rebekah looked at me, with a hard look. I rubbed my arm: I hoped there wouldn't be any bruises.
"One day, she'll need our help," said Rebekah, "but maybe we won't be there for her."
"I'm here, Rachel. I'm here with you," said David in the darkness.
He put his arms around me and pulled me closer to him in the bed. He smoothed my tangled hair back from my face.
"The dogs were barking. People were screaming," I said.
"I know," he said, "but it was just a dream. It's over. You're here. With me."
"I was trying to find you," I said, "but the smoke, the smoke from the chimneys, it was everywhere. I couldn't see. I couldn't find you."
"Shhh."
His face was against my hair, and his arms were tight around me. The room was dark, and the breeze from the open window blew across my sweaty skin.
"I was trying to reach you, before the train left. I was running, but the train was already pulling away from the station."
"It's over, Rachel."
"My legs were so heavy, and my feet were dragging. I ran as fast as I could, but you were already pulling into the camp. I saw the sign at the entrance: Arbeit macht frei. Do you remember it, David?"
"I remember."
"Only this time, the train pulled right into the ovens. It didn't even stop at the platform. Right into the ovens, right into the chimneys. It didn't really happen like that, did it?"
"No, not like that. Not when I was there."
"This time the train went right into the ovens. And there was nothing I could do, but stand there, under Arbeit macht frei. When I reached out for you, there was nothing in my arms but smoke."
He rocked me in his arms. He murmured something, but I didn't catch the words. I closed my eyes, yet the words were still there. I opened my eyes again. The room was even darker.
"It'll never be over
, David."
"I'll stay awake for you, Rachel."
He pulled the sheet and the thin blanket up around my shoulders.
"I'll watch over you while you're sleeping. I'll keep you safe."
When I pressed my face against his chest, I could hear his heart beating. His body was warm. The room was still dark, but his heartbeat was steady and strong.
Arbeit macht frei: work makes you free. The sign's letters towered above us, and the spotlights glared on the words. Arbeit macht frei. The Kommandant shoved me inside one of the guards' towers. No one else was inside. There were no lights except when the spotlights passed. As soon as the Kommandant kicked the door closed behind him, he grabbed me, between the legs.
He ripped aside the fur coat. His mouth, hot and wet, covered my face and neck. He stank of liquor, and he forced his tongue into my mouth. He dragged up my dress as he pushed me backward. One hand pushed aside my panties and the other groped my breasts. I bumped into a table. With one movement, he swept all the papers from the table, then forced me onto it. His breathing was loud as he shoved my legs apart. Dogs were barking, and guards shouted as they fired their weapons. I closed my eyes as the Kommandant yanked open his pants. He leaned over me, heavy and hot in the darkness, and forced himself between my thighs, his gloved fingers roughly guiding him.
When he thrust into me, my head hit the wall, and I cried out, but he didn't hear me. Babies were screaming outside, and their mothers were crying out to the guards. The Kommandant's face chafed mine as he moved roughly against me, and the buttons of his uniform gouged my belly. When I tried to move, he pushed harder. I put my hand up, between my head and the wall, but it didn't help. Even the dense fur coat couldn't ease the hardness of the table beneath me, or lessen his pounding.
He took my head in both his gloved hands and forced my face toward his. He opened his mouth on mine, and his tongue gagged me each time he pushed himself deeper. Then his shoulder jammed against my chin, my cheek. My head roared with the rattle of machine guns, with the barking of dogs. The smoke from the chimneys made my eyes water. His uniform covered my mouth and nose: I couldn't breathe. When he released my shoulders to grab my hips, to lift me so he could shove himself tighter deeper faster, I turned my face. Then I could breathe.
I stared out the grimy window. I clutched the sides of the table so my head wouldn't hit the wall as often, but his weight was too much for me. Spotlights slashed the darkness, the dogs growled, his buttons scraped, the guards shouted, the wool suffocated, his nails scratched, faster deeper harder. The weapons rattled, his gun bruised my ribs, his fingers burned my thighs, his medals cut, the babies wailed, the coat slid, faster deeper harder.
When the chimneys belched out their thick dark smoke, God turned his face away.
Arbeit macht frei.
Chapter Two
"Would you like to see the work we do, while you lounge around in the Kommandant's office?" said one of the Sonderkommando.
His body was thin beneath the striped uniform, but his arms looked strong. He leaned near me, over the windowsill, his toothless mouth a black hole in his face. He smelled of smoke.
"Yes, let's take her to the Bakery," said Sharón, her eyes cold.
"You know I can't leave his office," I said.
But they gripped my wrists and arms, and pulled at me. The inmates dragged me out into the camp's yard through his office window.
"What if he comes down?"
"He'll see his little bird has flown," said Rebekah.
"No. Let go. Let go of me."
They dragged me along in the darkness.
"Come on, little bird," said Rebekah. "We're going to give you a tour of the Bakery."
"Maybe we'll give you some bread, little bird," said Sharón, and the others laughed.
Their fingers dug into my skin. Each time I slipped in the wet clay of the camp's yard, they roughly yanked me up. They scrambled alongside the barracks, just out of reach of the spotlights, dragging me behind. I pulled vainly against them.
"He's sure to come down. He'll kill me if I'm not there."
"No, he won't," said Rebekah. "He'll just send you on a visit to the Bakery."
"To make your acquaintance with the ovens," said Sharón, turning her head to laugh at me.
I tripped. There was a tremendous noise as I stumbled against one of the containers stacked behind the Red Cross trucks. The other inmates released me to prevent themselves from falling. I crashed to the wet, slippery ground and landed against the wheels of one of the trucks. I could hear the others breathing. Dogs barked on the other side of the camp. The container rolled into the spotlights' path, and its skull and crossbones grinned up into the light.
ZYKLON B
POISON GAS
CYANOGEN COMPOUND
DANGER!
POISON!
FOR PEST CONTROL ONLY
I scrambled to my feet.
"I won't go," I said.
I ran back toward his office.
"You can't make me go with you."
"Jewish whore," said Sharón, and she threw something at me.
"Fly, little bird," said Rebekah, "or we'll clip your wings and shove you into the gas."
"There's a problem with the gas, sir," said the Kommandant's adjutant.
"What is it, Josef?" said the Kommandant.
"It's not working well in the damp conditions."
It had been raining, almost constantly, for three weeks now. When it rained, the Kommandant didn't go out into the camp as often, and he became irritable. When it rained, the trains didn't run punctually and the ovens didn't work. When it rained, the children couldn't go out to play in the garden and the Kommandant's wife yelled at him. When it rained, the Kommandant didn't sleep well and came down to his office in the middle of the night. I didn't like the rain. And it had been raining for three weeks. The Kommandant put down his pen, with an annoyed look on his face.
"Are they using the old gas?"
"No, sir. We exhausted that batch. This is the new gas."
"How new?"
"Only six weeks old."
"Damn. What's wrong with it?"
"It just doesn't work well in the damp," said the adjutant, and the Kommandant frowned.
"Are all the fans working?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are they using the fans?"
"As far as I know, sir."
"All right," said the Kommandant, picking up his pen. "I'll look into it tomorrow. Right now, I have to get this memo finished."
"There's also a problem with the ovens."
"Again?"
"Yes, sir. The firebricks of the inner lining are crumbling. The chimney might collapse."
"Are they overloading the ovens again?"
"I passed your instructions on to the Kapos."
"What's the problem then?"
"The company representative says we need a new chimney if we're going to use it twenty-four hours a day."
"The ovens are crumbling?" said the Kommandant.
His adjutant nodded.
"Probably a Jew made it," said the Kommandant.
"Also, there's a man from the village council here."
"At this hour? What does he want?"
"The villagers are upset about the..."
"I can't do anything about the smell," said the Kommandant. "I've already told them that."
"About the stream Sola," said his adjutant. "It's their drinking water, and..."
"How do they know about the Sola?"
"Someone must've told them, sir."
"I can't believe they notice any difference in the water. We pulverize the bones first," said the Kommandant. "Tell him it's only a rumor. Spread by Jews."
"What if that doesn't satisfy him, sir?"
"That'll satisfy him. Now, I've got to get this memo finished in time for the dinner party," said the Kommandant, and he began writing furiously. "Otherwise, Marta will kill me."
"I'll kill you," the Kommandant's wife said to me when she
came into his office.
The Kommandant looked up from his desk.
"Max, what's that filthy Jewess doing here?"
"I've asked you to knock before you come in, Marta," he said, returning his attention to his paperwork.
"And I asked you what that filthy Jew is doing here."
"This is my office, Marta. I'm working. I'm very busy."
"Busy doing what? Sleeping with Jews?"
"How dare you?" said the Kommandant.
He slammed down his pen and rose from his desk. His wife stepped back, but her face was flushed. I scooted more into the corner, pulling my legs against my chest, my head on my knees, my arms around the sides and back of my head. So I wouldn't get hurt too much. His wife clenched her hands into fists as she stepped toward me. The Kommandant came around his desk.
"It's not enough for you to be unfaithful," she said. "Now you have to sleep with Jews."
The Kommandant grabbed her arm and forced her away from me, toward the door.
"How dare you insult me in that way?" he said. "I'm a German officer."
"Dirty whore," his wife said. "Filthy, dirty Jewish whore."
She spat at me.
The Kommandant slapped her.
"What? You're coming out of your office?" said David as I came into the kitchen. "I thought you'd died in there."
I said nothing as I went over to the table. David put down his newspaper. I picked up my coffee.
"Like Beauty awakening from her hundred-years' sleep, she emerges from the tomb of her office."
"Not this morning, David," I said.
"Hark: she speaks."
"I'm not in the mood for it."
"You should be in a good mood, Rachel: you've been working all morning."
"I don't call it 'working' to write the same sentence over and over."
"If it's a good sentence, what does it matter how long it takes?"
I sighed. I picked up a piece of toast. My plate was already filled with eggs and slices of apple sprinkled with cinnamon. David's plate was empty. He'd eaten without me.
"Can we talk now?" he said.
"Not if it's going to be the same conversation we've been having for the past three days."
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