The angel of auschwitz, p.4
The Angel of Auschwitz, page 4
Gisella returned to her family’s shelter. Her daughter clung to her hand. “Mama, what are they doing?” she whispered.
Her husband pulled both children close. “Stay near us,” he said.
They listened as the noise moved closer. A shout. Another. The sharp crack of a rifle butt striking wood. Then a cry that cut through the night and fell abruptly silent.
Gisella closed her eyes. She could not let her fear spill into the room. She held Gabriella, feeling the small heartbeat against her own chest.
Her father sat with his back against the wall, his eyes closed, his breath shallow. Her husband placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder, steadying him.
The raid passed their building without entering, but the echoes continued on the other side of the wall. They heard the soldiers take whatever they wanted. They heard the pleading. They heard the silence that followed.
Hours later, after the soldiers withdrew, the ghetto settled into an uneasy stillness. The air felt bruised. The night had been stripped of any softness.
Gabriella slept lightly beside her, waking often with small whimpers. Samuel remained alert long after the sounds had stopped. He placed his coat over his sister and then sat close to his father.
Gisella lay awake listening to the breaths of her family.
At some point near dawn, her father stirred. He reached for her hand. She took it gently.
“Your mother would have been proud of you,” he whispered in a frail voice.
She did not speak. She squeezed his hand once. His breathing slowed. His eyes drifted shut.
The sky grew pale. Footsteps approached from the street. Harsh voices called out. The sound of rifle butts struck the doors in steady rhythm.
Ephraim rose quickly, pulling the children close. “It is time,” he said quietly.
Gisella stood, her heart beating in a tight rhythm. She reached for her satchel, though she knew it would be taken.
Boots struck the door. A voice from outside barked orders. “Out. Everyone out.”
Her father tried to rise, but his legs faltered. Samuel took his arm. Gabriella stood trembling beside her mother.
The door swung open and a soldier filled the frame, his eyes cold and unreadable. He gestured toward the street. “Move.”
Cold air rushed into their small room. Gabriella gripped Gisella’s hand while her father leaned heavily on his grandson. Ephraim stepped forward, shielding them as best he could.
They crossed the threshold, the world outside strange in its early light. The street was filled with people being herded into lines. Children cried. Women clutched their bundles and men stared ahead in stunned silence.
Behind them, their shelter door swung shut with a hollow final sound.
6
The doors slammed shut with a force that stole the last breath of daylight from the world. Wood struck metal, metal struck metal, and the echo rolled through the dark interior like a final verdict. A bolt slid across the outside. Then another. Then silence, thick and absolute.
Gisella stood pressed between bodies, her cheek against the coarse fabric of a stranger’s coat. The movement of the crowd had carried her into the wagon before she even understood she was inside. The crush of people drove her forward, step by step, until the only direction left was inward. She felt Gabriella’s small hand gripping her skirt, Samuel somewhere behind her, her husband’s shoulder brushing hers with each tremor of the crowd. They had been herded inside with hundreds of others, packed until there was no more space to claim.
Darkness settled at once. There was the metallic tang of fear as steam rose from sweat-covered bodies. Someone near the back called out for a child. Someone else begged for a little room to breathe. Others muttered prayers under their breath.
The train lurched.
A shudder ran through the crowd as people lost their balance and leaned into one another. Someone stumbled and cried out. The sound vanished beneath the swell of bodies trying to remain upright.
Gisella felt the slow roll of the wheels beneath her feet, the rhythm deep and deliberate. The floor of the wagon was slick with moisture, mud from the boots of those who had climbed before them mixed with something she could not identify. She tried not to think about it.
Her daughter pressed her face into Gisella’s hip. She reached down and touched Gabriella’s hair, feeling the strands damp with sweat, as Samuel leaned against her. Ephraim’s hand found Gisella’s briefly, his fingers brushing hers in a gesture that held more than words could. They had no room for speech. Breath itself had become too precious to waste.
Time moved strangely in the dark. Minutes stretched and folded back upon themselves. The crowd swayed with each turn of the wheels. The air grew warmer, as if the breath of hundreds had nowhere to go but back into their own lungs. The smell thickened. The floor became slicker. The murmurs grew quieter.
It felt as if earth had been shovelled onto them, burying them alive.
A woman somewhere near the corner fainted. Gisella could not see her but felt the shift as bodies leaned to support her. The woman’s breath rasped. Someone asked for water, but no one had any left. What little had been brought had been consumed in the first hours.
A man near the slats at the back tried to force his mouth to the crack for fresh air. Others followed. Their shoulders pressed tightly together. Someone cursed under his breath. A guard outside shouted a warning. The man flinched back. A shot cracked through the outside world, a sound that ripped through the wagon like a tear in the air. The crowd shrank from the walls, pressing inward again.
The heat intensified. Clothes clung to skin. Sweat dampened the wooden boards. Breath came shallow and frantic. The darkness swallowed everything.
Gisella could not see her father anymore. He had been beside her when they entered, leaning on Samuel, but the movement of the crowd had pulled them apart. She could not hear his voice above the murmurs. She pressed her hand backward, trying to feel for him, but found only unfamiliar coats.
Ephraim leaned near her ear. “Hold them close.”
She nodded.
Hours passed in a press of bodies and breath. At some point, a low moan drifted upward from somewhere near the floor. A child cried and then fell quiet. The temperature rose further. People fought the instinct to push, to claw, to carve a little space for themselves. Every movement sent ripples of discomfort through the crowd. Every sound felt threatening.
A sudden wail cut through the noise.
It came from a young woman pressed against the far wall. The voice was sharp, rising in panic before falling again. Gisella recognized the sound at once. She pushed through the cramped bodies, guiding her daughter to her husband’s grasp.
“Stay with them,” she whispered.
The woman was breathing hard, her hands gripping her swollen abdomen. She bit her lip to stifle another cry, but the pain forced its way through.
Gisella touched her arm. “Tell me when it started.”
The woman shook her head, unable to speak. Sweat beaded on her brow. She swayed, almost losing her balance.
Gisella guided her downward slowly, though there was no space to lie fully. The crowd shifted. Those nearby whispered. Some tried to make room in small, strained movements. Others looked away, knowing there was no comfort to offer.
Another contraction seized the woman. She clutched at Gisella’s arm and let out a gasp.
“Breathe,” Gisella murmured. “Slowly. Follow me.”
The woman nodded weakly.
Gisella placed both hands on her belly. Even in the dark, even without clean water or instruments, her instinct remained. She felt for the position of the baby. Her heart tightened.
“It’s coming,” she whispered.
Around them, the train rattled and groaned. The sway of the carriage made everything harder. The woman’s head fell against Gisella’s shoulder. She cried out again, her voice muffled by the noise around them.
Gisella tore a strip of cloth from her skirt. The sound of the fabric tearing carried strangely through the dark, a raw sound. She folded the cloth swiftly.
The next contraction came with greater force. The woman bit the cloth to stop herself from screaming. Gisella held her steady, whispering to her as the wagon moved in jerks and tremors beneath them.
The smell changed.
Gisella knew before she even checked, pressing her hand gently against the woman who was trembling. A faint whimper escaped her lips.
The baby slipped into Gisella’s hands in silence.
She cradled the tiny form. The stillness struck her like a cold blade. No breath. No cry. The woman sobbed softly, her head falling back, her breath uneven.
The small body was barely the weight of a bird. Gisella pressed the cloth around it, wrapping it carefully. Her movements felt automatic, as if guided by memory rather than presence. Her breath caught, but she held it steady, smoothing the cloth around the child she could not save.
The woman’s sobs quieted into shivers. Gisella sat with her for several minutes, whispering, guiding her slowly back to stillness. When the woman could sit upright again, Gisella placed a hand on her shoulder and let her lean against the wall.
The tiny bundle rested against Gisella’s chest. It felt impossibly light and unbearably heavy.
A quiet passed through the bodies near her, as if those close enough to sense what had happened had fallen into reverent silence. No one spoke. No one moved.
Gisella handed the bundle to its mother, with hands steady but cold. She thought of the countless births she had attended. The cries, the warmth, the joy. The hands that had reached for her. The mothers who had thanked her. The sense that life could be coaxed gently into the world.
Here she sat in darkness, having helped birth a life that had never entered it.
Ephraim reached for her hand through the crowd. His touch was brief but anchoring.
The train rolled on.
Hours blurred. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. A guard shouted. The wheels clattered over track joints in relentless rhythm. People slept standing, leaning on one another. Others murmured weakly. A few fainted and remained limp where they fell.
The train stopped only once.
A shout rang out. The doors opened a crack, letting a thin knife of light cut through the dark. People surged toward it, gasping for air. Gisella felt the rush of cool wind brush her cheek for the first time in a day.
Some passengers tried to reach for the outside. A hand extended toward a patch of dew on the metal edge, trying to gather a drop of water. Another reached for melting snow near the track. A guard shouted. Another warning shot cracked the air. The doors slammed shut. Darkness returned.
The train lurched forward.
Light slipped through a narrow crack near the roof. Gisella lifted her face toward it. Through the slit she glimpsed a passing line of trees. Their branches blurred into streaks of grey and green. She saw smoke drifting from distant chimneys. A sign marked with German words flashed briefly past. The letters blurred before she could fully read them.
Her daughter clung to her once more. Her son leaned heavily against her husband. Her father’s breath rasped near the floor. She could not see him, but she felt the weakening of it. Thirst burned like fire in Gisella’s throat and sweat dripped down her back and cooled against her skin.
On the second night, someone whispered a prayer and others repeated it. The sound grew and faded like wind.
By the third day, the air had grown so sour that breathing felt like swallowing heat. The floor stank. People sagged against one another.
Then, near dawn, the rhythm changed.
The wheels slowed. The train moved through a space where the air carried a smell unlike anything she knew. Not earth. Not wood. Not smoke. Something sharper. Something metallic. Something that clung to the breath.
Floodlights flared against the cracks in the wood. Voices shouted outside. Dogs barked. The sound cut through the wagon like blades. The crowd stirred, fear rising in frantic breaths. The train jerked once more and came to a halt.
Silence fell inside. Not peace; the silence of animals sensing a trap.
Gisella stood amid the crush of bodies. Her legs trembled from exhaustion. Gabriella clung to her and Ephraim steadied Samuel. Her father leaned heavily against him.
The woman next to her clutched the tiny cloth bundle to her chest.
Footsteps approached the doors. Commands were shouted. The bolt slid open from the outside and a blade of white light slashed into the wagon.
Gisella did not move.
Her hands still bore the stain of the birth she could not save.
And she understood, with a cold clarity, that nothing of her former life would pass beyond this moment.
7
The light struck Gisella’s eyes like a blow.
She had grown used to the dark of the wagon, to the smell of sweat and sickness and fear, to the press of bodies so near that her own skin no longer felt like a boundary. When the doors crashed open and floodlights poured in, the brightness cut through everything at once. For a moment her vision vanished in a white blur. The cold air rushed in against her face, sharp and raw, and people surged forward without knowing where they were going, driven by shouting and the instinct to move away from confinement.
Guards stood at the opening, shapes in darker uniforms against the white glare. They shouted in a language she understood but heard now as sound more than meaning. Hands pushed from behind. The crowd spilled toward the door.
Gisella gripped her daughter’s wrist and felt her son close behind her. Her husband’s back pressed briefly against her shoulder. Her father’s hand rested on Samuel’s arm. These were the only certainties she had in that first blinding moment.
“Down,” someone shouted.
Bodies stumbled toward the edge and climbed, dropped, or fell to the ground below. The floor of the wagon seemed higher than before. Gisella stepped forward, lowering herself carefully, pulling Gabriella after her. Her boots slipped in mud as she landed. The impact sent a jolt up her legs.
The night smelled of smoke, wet earth, and something sour beneath it all. Floodlights washed the scene in a colourless glow. She could make out the shadows of people, the shadows of dogs, the shadows of rifles. The sky above was a pale smear, neither night nor day.
Gisella turned, reaching back. Samuel jumped down beside her, her husband following, catching her elbow as she swayed. Behind them her father climbed slowly, guided by Samuel. For an instant the old man’s face showed clearly in the harsh light, each line etched deep with exhaustion.
The shouting grew louder.
“Men to the left. Women and children to the right.”
The words came in short, sharp bursts, accompanied by gestures that cut through the chaos like blades. Hands indicated directions. Rifles lifted. Dogs strained at their leashes, teeth bared, breath steaming in the cold.
The stream of people divided.
Men were pulled one way by the current, women another. Children clung to whichever parent held them. Some families tried to resist the separation and were shoved back into line. Those who hesitated found the butt of a rifle in their path.
A guard appeared in front of Gisella, his arm outstretched.
“Women to the right,” he said. He did not look at her face. His hand pointed, his gaze already moving past her.
Ephraim’s fingers tightened once on hers. There was no time for words. He stepped to the left with their son. The movement was so quick, so unremarkable, that it might have been part of any crowd at any time. There was no farewell gesture, only a small tightening of his mouth and the brief lift of his chin in her direction. Samuel glanced back once. Gisella saw his eyes for a heartbeat, wide and dark, before a wave of men closed around him.
Her father, slower, followed in the same direction. His shoulders sagged, but he kept his head up. He placed a hand on his grandson’s shoulder as they moved together into the line of older men and younger ones, a river flowing away from her.
Gabriella pressed closer to her side. The girl’s fingers dug into her palm.
“Stay with me,” Gisella whispered.
The crowd pushed them to the right.
There was no shouting of names, no formal announcement of parting. The separation happened in small, swift movements. A step here, a gesture there, a hand guiding a shoulder. People vanished from sight behind rows of uniforms and bodies.
Gisella craned her neck, trying to see past the heads and shoulders in front of her. She caught a glimpse of Ephraim’s coat, the familiar curve of his back, and then he was gone. Her son’s cap appeared above a shoulder, then disappeared as the men were driven farther along the ramp. Her father’s grey hair shone faintly for a moment, then slipped behind taller figures.
She did not know if they saw her searching.
The line of women moved forward, pushed and pulled by the pressure from behind. Children cried. Some shouted for their fathers, their voices swallowed by the barking of dogs and the harsh cadence of commands.
Mud sucked at their feet with each step. The ground trembled faintly under the weight of movement and machinery. The air vibrated with low, constant noise. A whistle blew somewhere. Another train screeched in the distance. Smoke drifted above a line of buildings, carried sideways by wind.
They reached a point where the line split again.
In front of them stood a row of officers and soldiers. One figure in particular drew the eye, not because he shouted, but because he did not. He stood slightly apart, tall and straight, his cap precise on his head, his coat immaculate. A gloved hand rested at his side. When prisoners approached, he moved only that hand. A small motion to the left. A small motion to the right. His face remained almost expressionless.
He looked less like a man at that moment than a mechanism through which decisions passed.
