under my feet changed from frozen earth to wood, and I reached out a hand to lean on the wall of the office for a moment. Any other day and I would have made sure that I wasn’t watched before committing an easily punished offense like not standing to attention, but today felt different, and besides, I didn’t want to give myself away. Today I was just poor little Ora, the blind girl whose family is dead, and if that got me killed, then so be it.
I could hear the door ahead of me opening and shutting, opening and shutting. Every time the door snapped closed, we shuffled forward a few meager steps, that much closer to the Fräulein and our fate. Is she taking notes? Is it like a play—will there be callbacks for the prisoners she likes best? Most important of all, How far away are the Americans? That last thought faded as the door closed again and I shuffled forward. Reaching my hand out, I could feel the door before me, and my heart began to race in my chest. I was next. For better or for worse, soon I would know what the Fräulein wanted with us—or at least with me. A few minutes passed, the door opened, and I walked inside, feeling along the wood and shuffling slowly so that I did not fall and make a fool of myself.
The squeak of a chair got my attention and I looked up, an instinct even for the blind. I heard heels on the wooden floor—the sound of Fräulein Kaufman coming to heave me from this building for being useless, no doubt—but then I felt a hand cup my elbow.
“Come sit, come sit,” said Fräulein Kaufman as she slowly guided me to a chair and helped me settle into it.
Her hand left me—a hand that was small; she is no beer-hall wench—and then I heard her heels again crossing the room, the sound of metal against metal, and then more heels. Fräulein Kaufman was shoving something into my hands—a cup that was impossibly warm; the warmest thing I’d felt in forever.
“It’s coffee,” said Fräulein Kaufman, and I didn’t need eyes to tell that she was smiling.
It could be a trick ,I reminded myself, but it was like she was in my head.
“If I wanted to kill you, girl, I’d just do it. I don’t need to trick you. The only things in there are coffee, sugar, and cream. You probably would have enjoyed it more a few days ago, but it should still warm your belly.” She paused, and I sipped coffee. It was warm and wonderful, the most flavorful thing I’d had to eat or drink in years. “Now then, what is your name?”
“Two-two-six-one-six-zero,” I said, doing my best not to drink the coffee too quickly or do anything else that would make me look like an animal to her.
“Your name, child,” said Fräulein Kaufman. “What is your name?”
“Ora Rabban,” I said quickly. This, I worried, was a trap. We were told that names are dead, that numbers are all we are now, and I told her as much. “I’m used to the number, though. That’s what everyone calls me.”
“I like Ora better, don’t you?”
“I guess so, but the number is all right.”
“You need to speak your mind, child. I need the truth,” said Fräulein Kaufman, and I nodded.
“Yes, Fräulein, I’ll do better.”
“Katarina, child, Katarina.”
“Katarina,” I said, waiting for the back of her hand to strike me, for the chair to be ripped from underneath me, for the showers, for the ovens, all for the cost of a name.
“Much better,” said Katarina, and again I knew she was smiling. “So now you know my name and I know yours. We both have cups of the best coffee available to us at this point in this war that Germany is losing, and we are out of the cold. Things could be worse, right?”
“Things can always be worse,” I said, and then I knew I’d gone too far. Katarina Kaufman may have been treating me well, but I had to remind myself that she is still working in a death camp, and I am one of the soon-to-be-dead. She had disarmed me, made me feel even younger and stupider than I am, and I felt as if I had
I could hear the door ahead of me opening and shutting, opening and shutting. Every time the door snapped closed, we shuffled forward a few meager steps, that much closer to the Fräulein and our fate. Is she taking notes? Is it like a play—will there be callbacks for the prisoners she likes best? Most important of all, How far away are the Americans? That last thought faded as the door closed again and I shuffled forward. Reaching my hand out, I could feel the door before me, and my heart began to race in my chest. I was next. For better or for worse, soon I would know what the Fräulein wanted with us—or at least with me. A few minutes passed, the door opened, and I walked inside, feeling along the wood and shuffling slowly so that I did not fall and make a fool of myself.
The squeak of a chair got my attention and I looked up, an instinct even for the blind. I heard heels on the wooden floor—the sound of Fräulein Kaufman coming to heave me from this building for being useless, no doubt—but then I felt a hand cup my elbow.
“Come sit, come sit,” said Fräulein Kaufman as she slowly guided me to a chair and helped me settle into it.
Her hand left me—a hand that was small; she is no beer-hall wench—and then I heard her heels again crossing the room, the sound of metal against metal, and then more heels. Fräulein Kaufman was shoving something into my hands—a cup that was impossibly warm; the warmest thing I’d felt in forever.
“It’s coffee,” said Fräulein Kaufman, and I didn’t need eyes to tell that she was smiling.
It could be a trick ,I reminded myself, but it was like she was in my head.
“If I wanted to kill you, girl, I’d just do it. I don’t need to trick you. The only things in there are coffee, sugar, and cream. You probably would have enjoyed it more a few days ago, but it should still warm your belly.” She paused, and I sipped coffee. It was warm and wonderful, the most flavorful thing I’d had to eat or drink in years. “Now then, what is your name?”
“Two-two-six-one-six-zero,” I said, doing my best not to drink the coffee too quickly or do anything else that would make me look like an animal to her.
“Your name, child,” said Fräulein Kaufman. “What is your name?”
“Ora Rabban,” I said quickly. This, I worried, was a trap. We were told that names are dead, that numbers are all we are now, and I told her as much. “I’m used to the number, though. That’s what everyone calls me.”
“I like Ora better, don’t you?”
“I guess so, but the number is all right.”
“You need to speak your mind, child. I need the truth,” said Fräulein Kaufman, and I nodded.
“Yes, Fräulein, I’ll do better.”
“Katarina, child, Katarina.”
“Katarina,” I said, waiting for the back of her hand to strike me, for the chair to be ripped from underneath me, for the showers, for the ovens, all for the cost of a name.
“Much better,” said Katarina, and again I knew she was smiling. “So now you know my name and I know yours. We both have cups of the best coffee available to us at this point in this war that Germany is losing, and we are out of the cold. Things could be worse, right?”
“Things can always be worse,” I said, and then I knew I’d gone too far. Katarina Kaufman may have been treating me well, but I had to remind myself that she is still working in a death camp, and I am one of the soon-to-be-dead. She had disarmed me, made me feel even younger and stupider than I am, and I felt as if I had
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