Dachau

My fingers catch in the angry, matted snarls of my hair, as I struggle to untangle the strands. The curls brush their sweat laden fingers against my cheeks, clearing thin trails against the dirt and grime that has built up. Elbows jab into my sides with every shake and rattle of the cattle car. Each jarring movement sends heavy lidded eyes glancing my way through the fog-like haze that surrounds us. 

Hunger claws at each of our stomachs, hurling itself into our bones and shattering our defenses. The heat bleeds through the metal shuttered windows, staining the sweat-soaked bodies and carrying the stench to the next person. A screeching sob leaps from the corner of the car where a young mother sits. A baby lays cradled in one arm, hand carefully bracing its small head. Her other hand is clasped over her mouth, trying its best to keep her screaming from leeching through her fingers.

The baby’s lifeless fingers dangle to the ground, stiff with blood that is no longer moving. The mother presses her lips to the infant’s head, feeling desperately for a temperature that is long gone. Her hand releases her lips allowing the inhuman moans of pain to escape. Her fingers curl into talons that scour the ground, trying to find purchase as her world crumbles. 

Wary eyes glance at her from around the room, watching her pain, but refusing to add the burden of it to their own. My mother’s hand curls into my own, her dirt-stained fingers trembling as she tries to hold back her tears. 

“Eva, my baby. Eva,” repeatedly in time with the circles she rubs into my skin. 

On my other side, stands my father, his thin body turned away from me, hand clapped onto my brother’s shoulder. Even now, he ignores me. Outside the window a cement wall divides the skyline, brick buildings dot the other side.

Dachau.

***

            A group of bedraggled people shuffle through the gates, their heads hung low, eyes slack with despair. I force myself to stare straight ahead, unseeing as the cluster slowly passes. Sweat trickles down my back, but I stand tall, ignoring the sensation. A mass of wild brown hair catches my eye. Dust covers her skin, giving her an angelic glow. 

            My fingers twitch with the memory of unraveling curls like that, twisting my sister’s hair into thin braids and picking it loose. Watching as she giggled and her curls wrapped around my fingers, tiny serpents winding through and twisting around the joints. The way her laughter would be stifled by our mother, worried that our neighbors would believe that our pleasure came from unnecessary indulgences.

            Her eyes shimmer through the filth, far too intelligent to be considered anything less than human. My commander eyes me sternly; despite the dust, everything about him is pristine, from his spit-shined boots to his carefully gelled blond hair. His attention weighs on my shoulders, I tear my gaze away from her, straightening me posture and locking my hands firmly behind my back. My vision goes blurry and after a few moments I lose her to the crowd. It is for the best, I tell myself, knowing that I shouldn’t become attached. That in this place, there is no freedom.

***

            My mother pushed me away when got out of the car; her eyes had been filled with tears as she whispered sternly, “Eva, keep me in sight, but don’t come near. I couldn’t stand for them to take you away. They would do that you know, just to hurt us.”

            Her back was rounded with misery, her hair hanging in her eyes; until the last moment before she disappeared. 

The rough linen of my jumpsuit scrapes against my neck, rubbing the skin raw. My fingers are chafed and red; with each garment I wash, the pain is more acute than the last. My chapped lips ache and the empty space where my tooth was throbs. 

            The memory of the leering gaze of the doctor brings shivers to my skin. The way he had touched my lips, preparing to tear my silver crowned tooth from my mouth. His whisper against my skin that he would see me soon.

            The experiments conducted are no secret. If I were to look around, the brown brick building would be there. Simple and imposing. The lack of knowledge of what occurs there, instilling fear into our very bones. 

The sunlight trickles slower and slower, like rapidly cooling molasses creeping to the edge of a table. We walk back to the barracks. I force my head to stay high; I force myself to be the sole bearer of our pain. My hair sits plastered to my head with sweat, loose strands curling into my eyes. Off to the side, a young officer sits. His posture erect and stiff, his eyes follow me curiously before glazing over again. Sweat creeps down his brow as I watch, he doesn’t bother to acknowledge the sign of humanity creeping through his stone façade. 

My mind dredges up memories of my uncle, only a few years older than me. The blank stare of the boy’s eyes reminds me of him. How he was mercilessly whipped when he refused to board the car that would invariably lead to his death. How his face went slack as he dropped to the ground in front of us, forcing us to step over his unmoving figure. 

He was too strong; he knew that either way he would die. He chose to be whipped instead of starving to death. 

***

            My commander has moved me to oversee the washing. The days pass quickly, birds taking to the wind. The camp doctor creeps over beside me to whisper in his ear, doubtlessly summoning another young subject for his experiments. My commander gives a sharp nod and turns to me.

            “Soldat Bauer, the doctor requires a new subject. A girl.” His thick accent rings in my ears, like Papa’s did. The harsh syllables thundering from his lips, a rainstorm where every letter splatters on the roof of your mouth. “She is across the camp, in barrack 16. Her hair is most identifiable. Very curly. You are to retrieve her at the break of dawn. Now bring me and the doctor here something to drink.”

            “Yessir!” I walk away briskly, his Heil Hitler coming to me from a few feet away. I murmur it back to him, the joy I used to feel, the connection to so many others, shivering, a thin thread in a tornado. I force the feeling down, pushing it back into the dark place within me, where no light dares to penetrate.

            The dust I kick up settles on the polished leather of my boots, finding its way into the pores and crevices of the rawhide. It creeps forward again, the small doubts forcing me to question my loyalty. The memory of my sisters’ stiff smiles when I told them that I was going to rise up, that I was going to fight for our country. 

My mother’s tight embrace as she begged me to stay safe, “Elias, you don’t have to go. You understand?” she gripped me tighter, “whatever you do, you can’t leave me alone. Promise me. Promise!” I hadn’t understood the furious passion in her voice; I couldn’t believe that she couldn’t see the bigger picture. 

***

            A sharp knock comes from the door, like the one my father answered a few weeks, but a lifetime ago. Just as they did then, a few seconds of silence came after the knock, a brief illusion of privacy before a dark-coated figure barges in. The other women and girls in my unit cower, glancing with trepidation-filled eyes at the young soldier. He glances at each of them in turn, sparing them a bare moment of attention before his gaze lands on me.

            “Come with me,” he spares no words. His eyes slip over me, seeing but not processing, refusing to process. Despite my fear, I glance at him curiously, his apparent hesitation astounding.

            He lurches towards me, as unsteady as a drunk man, and grips my upper arm. His fingers bite into my flesh as he hauls me towards the door. 

Rocks prick my feet through the scraps of my shoes, his eyes flickering over to me every few seconds. Dewy light trickles through the camp, the first scraps of daylight burning a fiery red. He clears his throat with a deep rumble, and the panes of his face soften incrementally. Little by little, he slows his brisk march to a slow ramble.

“Gosh.” He says, rubbing his free hand over his eyes.

***

I can’t say every time I look at you, I see my sister. I can’t apologize for where she is going, or that she’s even here in the first place. My fingers loosen over her arm, hand falling to my side. Her toasted cinnamon eyes widen, her lashes catching the early morning light, fingers lightly tracing where I was gripping her skin. 

I can hear my mother scolding me for being so brutal, so harsh; sending me down to the basement with a small wooden bowl. The steam spilling off and flowing over my face in soft curtains of warmth. A frail figure shifts, deep in the shadows; carefully I slide the bowl under the stairs. Eyes the color of burnt wood peer back at me, the light catching in his irises like embers sparking in a pile of ashes. He whispers a tarnished thank you, the words catching in his dry throat.

I’ve stopped walking. She stands next to me, shifting anxiously, waiting to see what I will do. I lean close to her ear and whisper as quietly as possible:

***

            “If you want to get out of here, you need to trust me.” His lips brush my ear as he speaks; it takes everything I have not to recoil from his touch. 

He straightens up, shoulders thrown back, and starts yelling. Harsh intelligible German thrown from his mouth, syllables clanging sharply off his tongue. My heart thrashes wildly, a rabid animal trying to escape its constraints, doing everything short of chewing off its own leg. His heavy hands land on my shoulders, shaking me wildly, pushing me to the ground.

I land with a hard crash, something in my arm splintering, giving way. I bite my lips, desperately trying to hold in a sob. The cries of the young mother creep into my mind, her lifeless child clutched desperately in trembling, starving arms. My fingers curl, nerveless, in the frost-spiked dirt. He rips me up to my feet, an apologetic softness in his eyes.

With my arm clutched tightly to my body, he leads me in the opposite direction of the brick building, to a softer, ramshackle structure. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes as daggers of pain finger their way through my skin, penetrating my bones.

“Herr Meminger?” He calls into the room.

A small man appears in the opening, long white hair sticking up in tufts, dwarfed by his long lab coat. His small eyes crinkle with recognition as he looks at the soldier. Glancing at my arm, he shuffles me inside.

“Another one, Elias? Are you sure this is smart?” The doctor glances up at the soldier, Elias, as he tears gauze from a roll. Gesturing impatiently at my arm, he carefully shifts it from my grip, wrapping the gauze around it. With several sharp movements, he straightens the bones, creates a brace, and pulls it into a sling, despite my cries of pain.

The soldier eyes him steadily as he replies, “Yes, another one. She will be the last. I need to get out with her; my commander is onto me—or at least close.”

A shimmer of emotion glazes the doctor’s eyes, rounding his shoulders. “Very well.” He sighs, determination building in his eyes. He drifts over to my side, pressing some pills into my hand. Next to me, Elias grabs some for himself, smiling grimly.

“Cheers.” He says, gulping them. I swallow mine at the same time; moments later our limbs go slack, and we slump to the ground.