The Things We Cannot Say(107)

CHAPTER 35

Alina


I thought I’d be terrified while the rest of the truck was loaded. It was surely the most dangerous moment in a series of dangerous moments. But listening to the laughter and jokes of the Nazi soldiers loading the truck made me furious instead of terrified. I knew we must be at Auschwitz, and that meant my parents were possibly nearby.

Were these the men who took my parents? Were these the men who killed Saul’s family?

I was suddenly, overwhelmingly incensed. I had been worn down by the years of occupation—so much so that I’d almost forgotten how to be outraged. But listening to the carefree tinkle of that laughter, a furious, murderous rage surged through me—especially when it occurred to me then that Saul was right behind me, hearing that very same soundtrack, probably wondering the very same things. I reached up behind myself and squeezed Saul’s shoulder, hard. After a moment, he set his shaking hand over mine.

Sometime later, we heard the door to the cabin close, and the engine started again.

Time lost all meaning after that. For the most part Saul and I sat in total silence, moving only when numbness or necessity commanded. The suitcase contained preserves jars full of water—and once each was empty, they were awkwardly repurposed for our waste. I’d packed the last of our rations biscuits and some jam, along with the very last of Mama’s bread—a veritable bounty by Saul’s standards if it only had to last us for a few days. I waited for hunger, but instead, I had to force myself to eat every now and again, and when Saul ignored my offers of food and water, I had to awkwardly shuffle until I could lift the jars and the bread to his mouth. He was a walking skeleton. I knew he simply could not afford to go too long without sustenance, and so, I fed him like a baby.

I was endlessly aware of the fear and the suffocation and grief for my parents and longing for Tomasz and the itch of the cast and of the sting of splinters that came upon any part of my skin that happened to rest against the wooden crate—it was as if the entire world had paused except for my suffering. Sometimes the truck would slow or stop and I’d hear voices and I’d be completely resigned to what felt like an inevitability. This was so surely the end. We’d been discovered, we were done for, death had arrived, I had failed. But despite the sheer terror, each and every time the truck then started up again and we’d amble on, until the next stop and the next scare.

When the noise of the truck was loud enough, I’d try to strike up a whispered conversation with Saul—anything to ease the boredom, anything to distract myself from the way my mind raced with all of the horrible possibilities of what lay ahead of us. Sometimes he answered me in grunts, but mostly, he didn’t answer me at all.

I got the impression that he was sleeping a lot, or perhaps that he’d lost himself altogether in the memories of that night—in the first tender stages of a lifetime of grief, amplified by the terror of our current situation and the sensory deprivation of the entirely dark cavity we were trapped in. Eventually, I accepted that he didn’t want to talk, or perhaps he was exhausted to the point that he simply couldn’t. Sometimes, he’d cry very quietly, and at first, I hated that, but I soon realized there was something even worse, because other times he’d fall silent and I’d feel a suffocating anxiety that he’d died and I was trapped in what amounted to my coffin, still breathing beside an emaciated corpse. I’d hold my own breath for a moment so I could concentrate on feeling the movement of his chest behind me, just to be sure he was breathing, but sometimes it took me hours to work up the courage to do so, because I knew the reality of my situation. Even if Saul had died, I was stuck in that cavity with him until we stopped, and there was nothing at all I could do about it. By then, the smell in the cavity of the truck was so thick I felt like I could taste our sweat and waste in the air—a different kind of death, a living prison of our life.

I’d lost track of the stops and starts of the truck’s journey, so I was startled when it came to a stop, and then I heard footsteps in the tray and cartons shifting around, but no conversation. Saul and I both tensed as the steps came near to us, neither one of us relaxing even as Jakub called quietly, “Are you two okay in there? We are at the Don River, but we have to hurry—I am running late to the command center to deliver the last of the supplies.”

He helped us out onto unsteady feet, then lifted us both onto the ground because our limbs were too stiff to climb down. Finally, Jakub passed us the suitcase, and then he started shifting boxes around. It took me a moment to realize that he was trying to get the crate we’d traveled in out from behind the load of supplies.

“What are you doing?” I gasped.

He glanced at me, confused.

“I need to dispose of the crate and make the last delivery.”

“Dispose of the crate?”

“I can’t take it into the command center with me,” he explained quietly. “If someone tries to unload it, they’ll soon realize it’s not what it looks like. I’d be done for.”

“But you used it once before. With the other courier.”

“The front was much closer to home back then and a resistance unit hid the crate for me until I made the return journey. We’re well into what used to be Soviet territory here—I just don’t know anyone to hide it for me.”

“But...there are so many who need your help. So many who—”