It’s Sunday. It’s the day of the Lord, which means rest, except that rest means the officers make the prisoners jump for sport instead of work.
Poland doesn’t want to move. His stomach feels like it’s inside out, like it’s trying to suck the marrow out of his own ribs.
“Hey.” Germany nudges him with a boot. Poland waits as long as he thinks he can without getting hit before he opens his eyes.
Apple.
Germany is holding an apple.
Apple apple apple –
Germany tosses it down to him, and he surges and scrabbles for it, but he is too weak and it rolls into the mud.
Germany snorts and picks it up, swiping it clean on his –
Filthy striped jumpsuit. The red triangle on his arm confuses Poland’s eyes for a moment, because it’s been so long since he’s seen red from dye and not blood.
Germany pulls out a knife and sets the flat of it against the skin of Poland’s jawline, sliding slowly. Poland gasps softly, and Germany grins. He carves one small, thin slice of apple, and holds it to Poland’s lips. Poland snaps it up, and lets Germany worry about getting his fingers out of the way of Poland’s teeth. He forces himself to chew instead of gulping the chunk down whole, afraid of losing the unexpected sustenance if he eats too much too fast.
The skin is a little leathered and shriveled and the juice dribbling over his tongue is sweetest goddamn thing he has ever tasted. Germany cuts another morsel and another, and Poland nips his fingertips and gobbles them down. When he pares the small fruit down to nothing but the stem and seeds, Poland grabs Germany’s wrist and sucks the sticky drips of juice from his fingers. He tongues the line of his palm, tasting salt sweat and dirt with the apple, and he doesn’t care.
(Ashes settle like dust on his hair, like dandruff as they all age too-quickly.)
He licks the knife clean too, and all he can taste is sweet.
Poland laps at his lips, grinning. Germany ruffles the new white wisps of his hair and hands him a turnip, asking if he can manage now without being hand-fed half in amiable jest, half in malice. Poland answers in kind, calling him a coward, too scared to risk his fingers any further. He tucks the root inside his shirt, promising himself on the God he isn’t talking to that he’ll save half for Roma.
And –
And he is still alive.
*
Most of the material I used here came from the stories of survivors I heard in the “Voices Of Auschwitz” room in the United States Memorial Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. Oswiecim was the Polish name of the town where Auschwitz was built; Auschwitz is merely the Germanized form of the name. The red triangle indicated a political prisoner. Germany, in the last section, rather than a guard, is a kapo: a prisoner, usually German, whom the guards gave (non-firearm) weapons and told to keep other prisoners in line. Some kapos (many of them, with green triangles, convicted rapists and murderers) were even more brutal than the S.S. guards, but some kapos helped ‘their’ prisoners to stay alive, including by getting them extra food.
I did include one historical inaccuracy: the mention of Birch trees lining the fence would indicate that the camp in question was Auschwitz II or Auschwitz-Birkenau (Birkenau means Birch), which was the large extermination camp people think of when they think of Auschwitz. Most of the Polish prisoners and Soviet POWs, however, were assigned to the smaller Auschwitz I nearby. For the purposes of simplicity, emotional impact, and fulfilling the spirit of the prompt, I amalgamated the two a bit.
Voices From Auschwitz (3/3)
Poland doesn’t want to move. His stomach feels like it’s inside out, like it’s trying to suck the marrow out of his own ribs.
“Hey.” Germany nudges him with a boot. Poland waits as long as he thinks he can without getting hit before he opens his eyes.
Apple.
Germany is holding an apple.
Apple apple apple –
Germany tosses it down to him, and he surges and scrabbles for it, but he is too weak and it rolls into the mud.
Germany snorts and picks it up, swiping it clean on his –
Filthy striped jumpsuit. The red triangle on his arm confuses Poland’s eyes for a moment, because it’s been so long since he’s seen red from dye and not blood.
Germany pulls out a knife and sets the flat of it against the skin of Poland’s jawline, sliding slowly. Poland gasps softly, and Germany grins. He carves one small, thin slice of apple, and holds it to Poland’s lips. Poland snaps it up, and lets Germany worry about getting his fingers out of the way of Poland’s teeth. He forces himself to chew instead of gulping the chunk down whole, afraid of losing the unexpected sustenance if he eats too much too fast.
The skin is a little leathered and shriveled and the juice dribbling over his tongue is sweetest goddamn thing he has ever tasted. Germany cuts another morsel and another, and Poland nips his fingertips and gobbles them down. When he pares the small fruit down to nothing but the stem and seeds, Poland grabs Germany’s wrist and sucks the sticky drips of juice from his fingers. He tongues the line of his palm, tasting salt sweat and dirt with the apple, and he doesn’t care.
(Ashes settle like dust on his hair, like dandruff as they all age too-quickly.)
He licks the knife clean too, and all he can taste is sweet.
Poland laps at his lips, grinning. Germany ruffles the new white wisps of his hair and hands him a turnip, asking if he can manage now without being hand-fed half in amiable jest, half in malice. Poland answers in kind, calling him a coward, too scared to risk his fingers any further. He tucks the root inside his shirt, promising himself on the God he isn’t talking to that he’ll save half for Roma.
And –
And he is still alive.
*
Most of the material I used here came from the stories of survivors I heard in the “Voices Of Auschwitz” room in the United States Memorial Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. Oswiecim was the Polish name of the town where Auschwitz was built; Auschwitz is merely the Germanized form of the name. The red triangle indicated a political prisoner. Germany, in the last section, rather than a guard, is a kapo: a prisoner, usually German, whom the guards gave (non-firearm) weapons and told to keep other prisoners in line. Some kapos (many of them, with green triangles, convicted rapists and murderers) were even more brutal than the S.S. guards, but some kapos helped ‘their’ prisoners to stay alive, including by getting them extra food.
I did include one historical inaccuracy: the mention of Birch trees lining the fence would indicate that the camp in question was Auschwitz II or Auschwitz-Birkenau (Birkenau means Birch), which was the large extermination camp people think of when they think of Auschwitz. Most of the Polish prisoners and Soviet POWs, however, were assigned to the smaller Auschwitz I nearby. For the purposes of simplicity, emotional impact, and fulfilling the spirit of the prompt, I amalgamated the two a bit.