guards or the Fräulein. Instead of dancing, I hugged myself and then sat on the floor by the door. My happiness only lasted a few minutes, however, as I realized that my reprieve from facing the Fräulein was likely at an end, and I felt freshly ill by the prospect of being forced to help the Nazis.
Not that fear was the only emotion this prospect elicited in me. There was a part of me—a part I thought was long dead, that wonders at the unknown instead of the constant and bleak acceptance of death—that was curious about meeting this odd woman of power in the middle of this war between men. Fräulein Kaufman, regardless of her possibly ignorant views regarding my ethnicity, must have been a powerful woman to make her place amongst all these soldiers and needless deaths. That she could command my own extermination made me no less interested in meeting her, as that order would at least let me know what she was sent here to do. If all she wanted was more dead Jews, then she was just another monster. But what if she was like me? I had no illusions about being alone in my abilities, minor as they must seem when compared to my disability. To encounter, in this of all places, someone like me—it might sound mad, but I honestly think I would have traded my life for a shared minute or two with such a person.
As we lined up in the warmth of the sun for the selection outside of the office, it was hard not to smile. Snow still littered the ground here and there, but compared to the week of waiting we’d endured, a little leftover snow was no problem. The line moved slowly, but that was all right, simply because of the weather. I was at the back of it, not because of my name, Rabban, but because of the number tattooed into my skin, another Nazi indignity that I think God will forgive us for.
My name in this world is 226160, and in the line of women I was stuck in, that meant I would be waiting for almost all of them to talk to the Fräulein before me. I did not speak while I waited. Instead, I absorbed information. That is another gift of being blind amongst these strangers. Few if any of them have lived around a blind person before, and they think my handicap makes me weak or stupid. It doesn’t, but for once, that others would think so was a good thing. I might not have been able to see the line—and I was scared to use my second sight, in case the Fräulein was looking for that—but I still knew everything that was happening ahead of me.
“No one is being taken”—that was repeated over and over again in a hopeful voice by the woman ahead of me, a grouchy lady of former wealth named Edna Greenberg who still believes she will be returned to her deserved station someday. I like that she has this dream, despite her attitude toward others. Some of us must hope for the best. Otherwise, we will all wallow in the truth. I know that her stolen money has been long spent and that despite the Allies’ impending victory, those she cares about are likely dead, and there’s a fair chance she will be soon, too. What good would it do tell her? None. I would upset her for no reason, and I would let a small and ever-growing circle of people know that I am cruel and perhaps not as stupid as they assume.
The line moved slowly, but still one truth remained: no one was being taken by the Fräulein. I knew that this was no confirmation that the first rumor was true, but rather that it was unlikely. It was still possible that the rumored four were taken, but why did no one know a name for any of these mysterious girls? We don’t all know each other in the camp, but collectively we work like the roots of a tree—you’re never separated from another person by more than a few names. If there really were four girls selected, I would know about them. What was happening before me, in the ever-present void of my eyes, was exactly what I suspected: the selection had netted no one of worth to the Führer —at least not yet.
Finally, the ground
Not that fear was the only emotion this prospect elicited in me. There was a part of me—a part I thought was long dead, that wonders at the unknown instead of the constant and bleak acceptance of death—that was curious about meeting this odd woman of power in the middle of this war between men. Fräulein Kaufman, regardless of her possibly ignorant views regarding my ethnicity, must have been a powerful woman to make her place amongst all these soldiers and needless deaths. That she could command my own extermination made me no less interested in meeting her, as that order would at least let me know what she was sent here to do. If all she wanted was more dead Jews, then she was just another monster. But what if she was like me? I had no illusions about being alone in my abilities, minor as they must seem when compared to my disability. To encounter, in this of all places, someone like me—it might sound mad, but I honestly think I would have traded my life for a shared minute or two with such a person.
As we lined up in the warmth of the sun for the selection outside of the office, it was hard not to smile. Snow still littered the ground here and there, but compared to the week of waiting we’d endured, a little leftover snow was no problem. The line moved slowly, but that was all right, simply because of the weather. I was at the back of it, not because of my name, Rabban, but because of the number tattooed into my skin, another Nazi indignity that I think God will forgive us for.
My name in this world is 226160, and in the line of women I was stuck in, that meant I would be waiting for almost all of them to talk to the Fräulein before me. I did not speak while I waited. Instead, I absorbed information. That is another gift of being blind amongst these strangers. Few if any of them have lived around a blind person before, and they think my handicap makes me weak or stupid. It doesn’t, but for once, that others would think so was a good thing. I might not have been able to see the line—and I was scared to use my second sight, in case the Fräulein was looking for that—but I still knew everything that was happening ahead of me.
“No one is being taken”—that was repeated over and over again in a hopeful voice by the woman ahead of me, a grouchy lady of former wealth named Edna Greenberg who still believes she will be returned to her deserved station someday. I like that she has this dream, despite her attitude toward others. Some of us must hope for the best. Otherwise, we will all wallow in the truth. I know that her stolen money has been long spent and that despite the Allies’ impending victory, those she cares about are likely dead, and there’s a fair chance she will be soon, too. What good would it do tell her? None. I would upset her for no reason, and I would let a small and ever-growing circle of people know that I am cruel and perhaps not as stupid as they assume.
The line moved slowly, but still one truth remained: no one was being taken by the Fräulein. I knew that this was no confirmation that the first rumor was true, but rather that it was unlikely. It was still possible that the rumored four were taken, but why did no one know a name for any of these mysterious girls? We don’t all know each other in the camp, but collectively we work like the roots of a tree—you’re never separated from another person by more than a few names. If there really were four girls selected, I would know about them. What was happening before me, in the ever-present void of my eyes, was exactly what I suspected: the selection had netted no one of worth to the Führer —at least not yet.
Finally, the ground
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