The angel of auschwitz, p.15
The Angel of Auschwitz, page 15
The morning settled slowly into its full shape. Pale light drifted through the cracks, turning frost into thin lines of silver along the rafters. Women rose with tired movements, wrapping their arms around themselves as they stepped from their bunks. A pot clattered softly near the stove. Someone whispered a blessing under her breath, barely audible.
The melody continued, softer now, tucked beneath the sounds of waking. It came from the child’s corner; little more than breath shaped into notes. Gisella heard it even as she scrubbed a set of metal tools in cold water, her fingers turning stiff and pale from the chill.
Each tool glinted faintly. A faint memory glinted with it.
Her daughter at the kitchen table, polishing her school shoes before the recital. Concentrating hard, brows drawn in a line of determination that so resembled Ephraim’s. Snow tapping lightly at the window behind her. The faint hum of the same tune rising from her lips as she worked.
The present folded over it gently, like a hand closing over a small flame.
Gisella lifted one tool at a time from the basin and dried it on a rag. The metal felt colder than the air. She placed each item into its proper place with care that would have looked ordinary in any other world. Here it felt like an act of reclamation. A way to remind herself that her hands still belonged to her. That her work still carried purpose.
Behind her, the child hummed again, this time with greater steadiness. The women nearby listened in silence, their expressions unreadable but softened.
Gisella rinsed the final tool and set it aside. Her fingers shook slightly from the cold, but she held them still until the tremor eased. She wiped the basin clean and folded the rag over its edge.
The melody slipped into a higher tone. A faint rise Gisella remembered her daughter stumbling over during practice. Too quick an ascent. Too sharp a turn. Gabriella had tried it again and again, voice breaking into laughter when she missed the note, then regaining its steadiness with stubborn resolve.
Gisella closed her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them, the barracks returned in full clarity. The cold. The vapour of breath. The thin blankets. The machinery rumbling in the distance like a steady growl that never stopped.
She crossed the room toward the child. The girl looked up, wide-eyed, uncertain whether she had overstepped some invisible boundary. Gisella shook her head gently. “You may continue,” she said.
The girl nodded, relieved.
The tune began again, barely loud enough to shape the air.
Women moved around it, careful not to break the fragile thread. A few hummed under their breath, too softly to be heard beyond their own chests. The melody travelled along the rows of bunks like a quiet pulse, warming nothing, yet stirring something living beneath the cold.
Gisella lifted a piece of cloth and folded it neatly. Her mind drifted once more to the street outside the school in Máramarossziget. Snowflakes caught in her daughter’s hair. The faint steam rising from their breaths. Ephraim holding their son’s coat closed against the wind. The glow of lamp light falling across their daughter’s smile.
The last image softened, then dissolved, leaving behind only the echo of the melody.
Gisella stood still.
The barracks had grown brighter. The day had begun. Work details and inspections would soon pull the women from their bunks. But for this moment, between breaths, the melody lingered. Gisella listened as the final notes of the tune drifted through the room, dissolving slowly into the morning air.
A sound carried from one world into another. A daughter’s voice, held in memory.
A child’s hum, held in the present. A small act of survival. A quiet defiance.
The melody faded but did not disappear.
20
Snow pressed hard against the walls of the infirmary, blown in sheets by the wind that cut through every chink and seam in the boards. The candles on the shelf burned with trembling flames, their light pale and weak. Breath hung in the air of the barrack like smoke, drifting from bunk to bunk. The storm outside swallowed every sound except the wind and the distant muffled shouts of guards moving through drifts of snow.
Gisella moved between the bunks. The cold made her joints ache, and when she exhaled, the air clouded around her face before dissolving into the dimness. The women were awake but silent, their bodies turned inward as though trying to curl themselves into warmth that no longer existed.
A sound broke the quiet. A low, painful moan from the far end of the barrack.
Gisella turned.
A woman lay on her side, gripping the edge of her bunk. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps. Her wool coat had been pulled halfway up her body, exposing bruises across her back and ribs. The skin there was mottled purple and blue, each mark a dark bloom against the pale of her flesh.
Gisella crossed the room and knelt beside her. “When did it start?” she whispered.
The woman shook her head, unable to speak. Her hands pressed against her belly, fingers trembling. Another wave of pain passed through her, and she moaned again, teeth clenched hard.
Hannah approached, her breath forming a thin cloud. “She was beaten in the yard,” she said. “A guard struck her when she fell behind.”
Gisella laid her palm lightly against the woman’s abdomen. The muscles were tight, the tension rising and falling like a fist clenching in darkness. The woman’s skin felt too warm beneath the coldness of the room.
“Bring water,” Gisella said.
Hannah hurried to the pail and returned with a cup of water that steamed faintly only because the air was so cold around it. Gisella held it to the woman’s lips. She swallowed with difficulty.
Another contraction gripped her.
“Help me move her,” Gisella said.
Together, quietly, they moved the woman to the lower bunk. A candle was placed at the foot of the bed, its flame bending under the draught, throwing shadows that stretched across the boards like long, thin fingers.
The woman grasped the blanket. Her breath shuddered.
“It is early,” Gisella whispered to Hannah. “Too early.”
A contraction tightened the woman’s body again. She bit her lip, a small bead of blood forming before freezing in the bitter air.
The door opened. Cold blew in like a knife.
Aron stepped inside, wiping snow from his coat. His cheeks were red from the wind, and a thin sheen of frost clung to his hair. When his eyes found the woman on the bunk, he moved toward her without a word.
“What happened?” he murmured.
“Beaten,” Gisella replied. Her voice was low, steady. “She is in labour.”
Aron’s jaw tightened, though he remained calm, and he knelt beside the woman. His hands moved with the same efficiency as Gisella’s as he checked the woman’s pulse, lifting her wrist lightly, listening to her breathing.
The wind howled against the walls.
“It is too soon,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Gisella murmured.
The woman cried out softly, then clamped her mouth shut, terrified of being heard. Gisella placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding her.
“You may make noise,” she whispered. “No one will hear over the storm.”
The woman released a long, shaking breath. Her fingers dug into the straw mattress.
Hours passed in silence broken only by the storm, the woman’s quiet cries, and the soft sounds of Gisella and Aron working. They spoke little. Every word carried weight.
The candle burned low. The woman grew weaker. Her breaths became a rapid flutter.
When she tensed, a thin line of blood appeared beneath her and Gisella felt her stomach tighten. She met Aron’s eyes. He gave the slightest shake of his head.
Another contraction came. The woman cried out in pain, then sagged back, panting. The sweat on her forehead turned cold almost immediately, forming a thin layer of frost.
“It is coming,” Gisella whispered.
The woman whimpered. Gisella took her hand as Aron lifted the blanket.
Minutes stretched. And then there it was. Small. Silent. Still.
No breath. No movement. A tiny body, unnaturally pale against the dark cloth Aron wrapped it in. He lowered his head, just for a moment.
Gisella looked at the woman. Her eyes were dim, unfocused. The exhaustion in her face was beyond the body’s limit. “It is over,” Gisella whispered.
The woman tried to speak, but only a soft exhale came out. Her fingers twitched once, then stilled. Her chest rose once. A breath left her lips. No more followed.
Gisella bowed her head. A single breath held in her chest was released in silence.
Aron placed the small wrapped body beside the mother’s hand, then covered both with a blanket. His shoulders remained steady but Gisella saw the tremor he kept contained in the tightening of his fingers.
The wind outside grew louder. Snow slammed against the boards in uneven gusts. The candle flickered, nearly extinguishing itself before catching its own weak flame again.
Gisella stood slowly. Her legs felt hollow beneath her. She stepped toward the door without speaking.
“Gisella,” Aron said softly.
She did not answer. She pushed open the door.
The cold struck her like a blow. Air so sharp it stole thought. Snow stung her cheeks and forehead, the flakes driven hard by the wind. Her breath turned to mist that vanished instantly as she walked into the yard.
The world outside was white and blurred. Snow piled high against the buildings. The sky was a blank sheet, colourless, lightless. She crossed a few steps before her knees buckled and she sank into the snow. Her hands buried themselves in it, palms pressing into the icy surface. The cold seeped through her skin, up her arms, into her chest. No sound left her. No cry. Only the slow collapse of her body folding into the snow, her breath coming in small, uneven gasps.
A shadow moved behind her as Aron approached quietly.
He knelt beside her and laid his hand on her shoulder. A weight that did not demand movement. A presence that did not press for speech.
She unconsciously leaned slightly toward him, her body seeking warmth, or shelter, or human nearness.
“Come,” he whispered.
She did not move. Snow gathered on her hair, her lashes, the shoulders of her coat. He touched her arm gently, and this time she allowed him to help her stand. Her legs trembled beneath her, but she remained upright. He placed one hand on her elbow, steadying her as she walked back toward the barrack.
Inside, the warmth felt scarce but real.
He guided her to a small corner near the stove, now reduced to faint embers. She sank onto a low stool. Her hands hung in her lap, fingers curled slightly.
Aron sat beside her. For a long time, neither spoke as the storm outside roared like an endless breath.
After many minutes, Gisella lifted her hand and rubbed her thumb gently against her palm, as though remembering her daughter’s small fingers slipping into hers on winter mornings long ago.
“She sang,” Gisella whispered.
Aron looked at her, his expression unchanged, waiting for whatever followed.
“My daughter,” she said. “She sang at school. A simple melody.”
The memory hovered between them like a faint glow in the cold.
“My son,” she murmured. “He tapped his shoes together in time with her song.” Her voice did not break. It remained low, even.
Aron lowered his gaze, giving her space.
Gisella lifted her head, looking past the bunks into the dark beyond. “We carry more than our own lives,” she said. “Every Jew in Europe carries the sacrifice of another.” Her voice held no rhetoric, only truth.
Aron listened.
The candle on the shelf flickered again, its flame thinning as the wind pressed against the walls.
Dawn arrived slowly. Light filtered through the boards in lines of pale blue.
Gisella rose without speaking. She washed her hands in freezing water. The shock made her breath tighten, but she did not withdraw. Her hands emerged clean, trembling slightly. She dried them on her skirt.
Then she turned toward the infirmary beds and resumed her work. Her movements were steady. Her resolve colder and sharper than the wind.
21
A group of SS men moved slowly across the yard, their movements stiff with cold. Their boots struck the frozen ground with dull thuds. They used shovels not to bury the dead but to obscure them, pushing snow across limbs and faces with mechanical detachment. Frost clung to the edges of their coats. Their breath hung in the air like smoke.
Gisella watched from the window of the infirmary. Her breath clouded the glass and then vanished, leaving a faint film of moisture that froze almost instantly. She lifted a hand to wipe it away with numb fingers. The cold inside the barrack was nearly as sharp as outside.
She stood there for a long time, watching the shadows beneath the snow. Shapes that were once women she had checked for fever, treated for infection, urged to drink one more sip of water. Now their bodies lay stiff under the white snow, the last trace of their presence erased with each push of the guards’ shovels.
The infirmary was louder than the yard. Coughing rose from the bunks in fits, breaking the early morning quiet. Women shivered beneath their blankets. Some lay curled in the corners, too weak to lift their heads. Breath hung above every bunk, floating visibly in the cold. Typhus had taken hold. Fever spread through the barracks with a speed that defied any attempt to stop it.
Gisella moved among them on heavy legs. The cold settled into her bones with every breath she took. She paused beside a woman whose eyes stared into the rafters, unblinking, frost on her lashes. She closed the woman’s lids gently. Another name to remember.
She reached the basin of water she had set beside the stove. A layer of ice still covered the surface and she had to break it with her hand before she could dip a cloth into the water. The cold stabbed up her arm like a blade and her fingers stiffened instantly. She squeezed the cloth out and moved to the next bunk, placing the cold fabric on the burning forehead of a woman delirious with fever.
“Doctor,” someone whispered behind her.
She turned.
A young woman, no more than twenty, stood unsteady on her feet. She held out a strip of cloth to Gisella. It was stiff with frost, frozen into a rigid shape.
Gisella took it. “Thank you,” she murmured. She pressed the cloth between her palms, forcing warmth into it until it softened enough to fold. The act required more strength than she expected.
The woman reached toward her with a small crust of bread. “I saved it,” she whispered. “Take it.”
Gisella shook her head. “No, you keep it.”
The woman pressed the bread into her palm. “You are needed,” she said softly. Then she walked away, supporting herself against the bunks as she moved.
Gisella closed her hand around the crust. It felt weightless, barely more than a crumb. But she slipped it into her pocket. She could not refuse a gesture made with such cost.
A cough tore through the air. Then another. The sound grew into a chorus of ragged breaths. Gisella walked further into the ward. Some women pulled themselves upright as she passed, seeking water. Others watched her with hollow eyes. Typhus had taken their strength. Their faces burned with fever, yet their hands were icy.
Gisella reached for a bowl of water and tilted it toward a woman struggling to swallow. The woman’s lips cracked as they parted. Water dripped down her chin. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, seeing nothing.
The days had become a single frozen blur. Time dissipated, indistinguishable from one hour to the next. Hunger gnawed at Gisella relentlessly. Her thoughts moved slowly, as if slogging through drifts taller than herself. The cold had become a constant presence, settling into her marrow, flattening every sensation except the need to keep moving.
Somewhere outside, faint shouts carried over the icy wind. Rumours had been circling for days. The Soviets were near. Prisoners whispered the news at night, voices trembling with doubt and hope in equal measure.
“We will be killed before they come,” some said.
“They will march us until we fall,” others murmured.
“They cannot kill us all,” a few insisted, voices barely audible.
Gisella listened but did not speak. She knew enough to recognise the truth in silence.
When the coughing quieted for a moment, she walked to the back of the barracks where the candles sat. Their flames wavered as the wind squeezed through the cracks. She lifted one and placed it beside a dying woman whose breath rattled in her chest. The candlelight illuminated the woman’s face for a moment.
Gisella whispered her name then reached into her pocket and pulled out a small scrap of paper. Using a sliver of charcoal, she wrote the name in small, tight strokes. The charcoal crumbled as she pressed it to the surface. She wrote slowly, her fingers numb, her letters uneven.
The woman took her final breath as Gisella wrote the last letter. Her hands shook as she folded the scrap.
The floorboards near the corner were loose. She lifted one and slipped the paper into the dark space beneath. Dozens of other scraps lay there. Names. Symptoms. Small fragments of stories. A record of lives that would otherwise disappear completely.
The board creaked as she pressed it down again. Gisella jumped as the door opened behind her. Aron stepped in, his coat covered in snow. His face was grey with exhaustion. He nodded once.
“You heard?” he murmured.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Evacuation orders,” he said, voice low. “They are coming.”
She drew in a slow breath. The cold stung her lungs.
“They will march the men first,” Aron said. “Then the women.”
“They will not survive the road,” she whispered.
He did not answer. The truth needed no words.
A woman nearby began to convulse with fever. Gisella moved instantly to her side and lifted the woman’s head, holding her until the shaking stopped, then eased her back onto the bunk. Aron watched for a moment, then stepped in to help when the woman’s breathing became ragged.
