by Tia Souders
Today marks three months I have been forced into this role. I find I am growing numb to it, but I remember the first day like it was yesterday, though I wish I could forget.
We stood outside the crematorium—a large brick building. The largest room was used for the gas chamber. Everything about it reeked of cold and death.
Before we could start, the SS officers waited for the gas to take effect, checking through a peephole to ensure everyone was well and truly dead before they started the ventilation system. A pulsing, throbbing, whirring noise of a machine breathing in and clearing the air. Once the noise died, we were instructed to go in and collect the corpses.
An instant punch of relief hit my gut, followed by shame. We were not waiting for our own deaths, as I had imagined. Instead, we were waiting for the extermination of others.
I shuffled inside, along with the other Jews hand-picked to help with this task, into a large room comprised of brick, stone, and plaster, unsure of what to expect.
My imagination couldn’t have done the horror justice. Piles of bodies lined the stone floor, making it impossible to see the ground. At the time, I had no idea how many. Hundreds perhaps?
A terrible, acrid smell filled the room, making it difficult to distinguish between the scent of the gas and the smell of the corpses combined with human excrement.
My eyes watered. I fought the urge to cover my nose as we were given instructions. Several Sonderkommando were put in charge of cutting the hair from the corpses and extracting gold teeth. The hair was rumored to be used for materials, such as thread and felt, while the gold was used as merely another way to fill the German officers’ pockets. Nazi cruelty, it seemed, knew no bounds.
Once they finished, two prisoners were charged with loading the bodies onto the hoist that sent them up to the ground floor of the building and the crematorium ovens, where I waited.
These men struggled with their task. The undressing room and the gas chamber were underground. Depending on their size, it was possible to load between seven and ten people on the hoist. If they were new arrivals, their bodies were larger and heavier, yet to be malnourished and so less fit at one time. The starving of prisoners, however, allowed many more bodies to be piled high, nothing but skin and bones.
On the floor above, I waited with another prisoner. We collected the bodies, then sent the lift back down for reloading.
I remember the sight of the first lift. The hoist had no door, but a wall blocked one side. When it arrived, a pile of flesh greeted us. I gagged, but I pushed my nausea aside, not wanting to get caught sick. We had a job to do, so I swallowed over the bile in my throat and got to work.
When I touched the wrists of the first body, I dry-heaved. Still warm, I struggled to move it, to use my weight to pull this nameless person off the hoist onto the floor in front of the ovens. As I worked, I dare not take in their faces, instead finding my job less painful to only look at the bodies as I worked.
We laid them out two by two, as other Jews in our group placed the dead head-to-foot on something resembling a stretcher. It took two men to lift each stretcher, while a third held the handles that would push the corpse into the furnace.
I would soon discover moving the bodies was not the worst job.
On this first day in the Sonderkommando, the men in charge of burning did not slip the dead into the fire fast enough. The iron became too hot, scorching their hands, and as the men worked, they found the corpses began to stick to the metal. I watched as the prisoners increasingly struggled with their work. The bodies began to pile up. The men began to use a fork-like device to pull them off the stretchers while their flesh stuck to the red-hot iron.
Sweat poured down their faces, and I found anger welling in my chest as they slowed. I could not continue pulling bodies from the hoist if they didn’t speed up, and when I noticed the SS. officer checking on our work, my heart plummeted to the floor.
They called him The Butcher of Auschwitz for a reason.
His face contorted in anger. He stared at the bodies in disgust and paused to watch the men struggle with the ovens. Afraid, I wanted to please him. I worked harder, faster, but this only exacerbated how behind the other men were.
All at once, the officer descended on them. He turned his blazing blue eyes from me to the men at the oven, his heels clicking on the floor as he approached them and backhanded the first man who toppled, nearly falling onto the searing iron stretcher—now empty but embedded with the flesh of his own people.
“What is the meaning of this?” His voice boomed, echoing off the brick walls. “Are you sabotaging this operation?”
The Butcher’s wild eyes darted to the other men in front of the oven, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He began beating all three men.
He picked up the giant fork-like device and clubbed the men with it. Their wails pierced my ears, but I was helpless to stop them, so I turned away. When he finished, they could barely move. They lied broken and bloody by his feet.
I have no idea what became of them. All I know is they were carted away by another officer, still breathing but barely. And when The Butcher turned his crazed gaze to me, I only knew one thing. I didn’t want to be them.
“You!” He pointed to me, along with the prisoner helping me. “You are in charge of the ovens.” Minutes later, three new prisoners appeared, one tasked with helping us with the ovens and two more to replace us at the hoist. We worked tirelessly, slipping the bodies inside the brick ovens before the iron grew too hot, using water to help prevent the skin from sticking and the fork when necessary.
We survived to live another day. This would not be the last time we worked those ovens. Sonderkommando was our new role, and as much as I hated myself for it, the job of disposing of bodies meant I would not be one of them. As long as I didn’t screw up. As long as I didn’t arouse suspicion.
On that first day, I tried to count the bodies. Over 1400 burned. In the last couple of months, I lost count. There were simply too many...
LETTERS, SECRETS, MURDER, long-lost family members, private investigators... So many pieces to the puzzle she didn’t understand. Nothing made sense, and yet Abigail was sure the pieces fit together. She was certain Lawson was the only other person who knew the truth, and no matter what the police thought, or the case notes said, no one would convince her his death didn’t have anything to do with it.
All of these thoughts swirled inside her head like a cyclone, sucking her in and pulling her down, taking her right back to the beginning.
With a sigh, she glanced with longing in the rearview mirror as she parked the Beetle in her driveaway. Though she had dropped Kaden off only minutes ago, she found herself wishing he were still with her.
Pushing the thought aside, she got out of her car and made her way up the cobbled drive. When she entered her house, the sound of arguing immediately assaulted her ears.
She took a tentative step down the hallway, toward the kitchen, where the scent of tomato sauce and garlic beckoned her rumbling stomach. But as she drew closer to the mouthwatering scent of her dinner, the sound of the quarrel increased.
Creeping into the kitchen, she took in the sight of her mother and grandfather sitting at the small eat-in table, leaning forward in their chairs, snapping at each other like two angry wolves. For a moment, Abby debated turning around and heading up to her room, not in the mood for whatever conflict the kitchen held but her empty belly won out. She cleared her throat and waited.
The moment they noticed her presence, they turned their attention to her, and the arguing ceased.
“Hi, sweetheart. Have a seat,” her mother said. She smiled as she stood and headed to the stove where she started to make Abby a plate, but the gesture didn’t reach her eyes.
Her grandfather stared down at his food, his shoulders hunched. Not until Abby took a seat in front of him did he glance up at her, and even then, his expression remained sober. When her mother returned with her plate, Abby took a bite of pasta, trying to
distract herself from the tension hovering in the air around them like a hot air balloon.
She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable in the heavy silence. Sitting with them was like trying to walk on a bed of broken glass—say the wrong thing and a shard wound up in your heel. Nevertheless, she sat straighter in her seat and opened her mouth in an effort to diffuse the discomfort at the table.
“So, what did you do today, Grandpa?”
Her mother grunted beside her while her grandfather glanced up at her. “The same thing normal people do every day. But I guess that’s not okay.”
“Normal people don’t need glasses the size of coke bottles and refuse to wear them. Even then, you probably still wouldn’t see well enough to drive,” her mother snipped over her glass of ice water.
Her grandfather’s jaw worked as he chewed, eyeing her mother.
Sensing a brewing storm, Abby focused on her plate. She crammed a shovel full of spaghetti in her mouth. While she ate, she fought the urge to leap up from her seat and go to her room.
She hated conflict, avoided it at all costs. In the past, she would’ve left, no questions asked. But today, her thoughts drifted to Kaden. The way he faced Cammie’s question about liking her head-on. The way he just laid it all out there for her. The way he faced his dad, knowing how he felt about his spending time with her. Abby saw the strength in that, the courage. She wanted to be strong, too.
Bracing herself for the argument in front of her, she straightened in her seat, glancing between them. “So, what’s the deal? What are you guys fighting about?”
Her mother turned to her with lightning in her eyes. “Your grandfather—”
“She treats me like a child!” her grandfather interrupted.
“I do not treat you like a child.” Her mother turned on him, her mouth a flat line.
“I have to ask you for permission to go anywhere, don’t I? You’re-you’re-you’re cooking my meals, washing my clothes. She even made my bed this morning!” Her grandfather waved a wrinkled hand as he spoke.
“I’m already cooking for everyone else. It’s not like I’m singling you out, and it’s just easier to throw your clothes in with the rest. What’s wrong with that? It’s being helpful! And I already said I was sorry about the bed.”
Her grandfather leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, refusing to look at her mother.
“See,” her mother waved in his direction. “Silence. That’s what I get when I try to talk to him. Dad, if you don’t want to be treated like a child, then don’t act like one.” Her mother pushed her chair out from the table, clearly having enough of the lovely dinner conversation.
“I do not—”
“And you don’t need permission to go anywhere. You got your license revoked a few months ago, so it’s the law. Do you not remember that?”
Abby frowned. Despite her churning stomach, she asked, “Are you guys really fighting right now about laundry and food?”
Her mother turned to her, her hands balled into fists, spine rigid. “What started the fight was my coming home from work on a break to check on him and discovering his car was gone.”
“See!” Her grandfather stabbed a fork in the air. “Who checks on a grown man?”
“I wouldn’t need to if you’d stop doing things you weren’t supposed to,” she snapped at him, her eyes blazing. “Apparently, he’s off taking road trips during the day.”
“Road trips?” Abby asked.
Needing to do something with her hands, Abby poured herself a glass of water from the carafe on the table. Her thoughts flickered to seeing her grandfather in the backyard this morning. She took a sip, unsure of whether she should say something. Should she defend him? What would she say? He was just at his house digging up things in the backyard? That could hardly be considered a road trip. Of course, she’d have no explanation for why she was driving past his house when it was in the opposite direction of the school.
“Yeah. Just ask him,” her mother said. “When I found out he had gone back to his house today, he also confessed to traveling clear to Newberry yesterday.”
Abby choked, spluttering as the icy water trickled into her windpipe. Tears filled her eyes, and her lungs burned as she coughed.
Her mother exhaled and placed her hands on her hips. “Gosh, Abigail. Slow down. You’ll choke to death before you die of thirst.”
“Sorry,” she croaked, as her eyes watered.
Newberry? Newberry!
Taking a moment to compose herself, she inhaled through the fire burning the back of her raw throat. If she hadn’t thought Lawson’s death and the secret were connected before, she certainly did now.
Unable to pass up the opportunity for questions, she urged herself to relax, to show no sign of how badly she wanted answers.
Glancing over at her grandfather, she watched him as she asked, “What’s in Newberry?”
Other than the place a certain private investigator was murdered.
“That’s what I would like to know,” her mother chimed in, glaring at him.
He remained silent, eating his meal like he hadn’t even heard them.
“One week. Only a week has passed since Mom died, and you’re off driving over two hundred miles from the house just for the scenery? It’s completely unacceptable,” her mother added.
Abby raised a hand, signaling her mother to stop while she caught up. She stared at her grandfather, hoping for some sign, some clue as to the truth. Did GG send him letters, too? Was he also trying to unravel her secret?
“Grandpa, why were you driving so far away?”
Her grandfather slammed a fist on the table, and his eyes filled with tears. When he spoke, his voice trembled, whether from anger or despair, she had no idea. “I was visiting one of the places your grandmother and I used to visit, that’s all. I may be old, but I’m not senile and I can still get around. It’s crazy they think I can’t drive.”
He swallowed hard, moisture in his eyes, and for a moment, Abby froze in fear, afraid he might cry. She had no idea what she might do if he did.
“You need to talk about it, Dad,” her mother said. “You’re like a ghost, hiding in your room all day, and when you do come out, you’re moping, but you don’t show any real emotion. You’re like a stone.”
Her mother turned away from them, her voice cracking on the words. “And Abby...she’s just like you, holding everything inside. I mean, I haven’t seen her shed one tear since GG died, and they were closer than any of us combined! They shared everything.”
Abby opened her mouth to protest, but the knife twisting in her heart had plunged too deep.
Her mother pointed at him. “My whole life you were like a statue, so unfeeling, no emotion. I know you went through hell, but you can’t shove it all inside forever. And now the one person who taught me it was okay to express how I feel is gone, and you...you won’t talk to me. You won’t talk about it at all! Instead, you’re off doing who knows what.”
“Mom.” Abigail stood and reached out to her, but her mother stepped away, wiping her eyes. “Maybe you should—”
“I know Gloria is dead.” Her grandfather’s voice cut the tension like a steel blade—calm and smooth yet razor sharp.
Abby turned. His turbulent eyes stared back at them, his face creased in grief.
“The one woman I loved in this world is gone. After the war, when I met her, she became everything. She was all I had. And it was enough, but now she’s been taken from me, too. Do you know how that might feel?”
He stood on shaking legs, slightly hobbled over from the arthritis that filled his knees and back—remnants from the physical strain on his body during his time in the camps.
His lips trembled as he pressed them together like he could force back all his emotion. Blinking, he reigned in the moisture in his eyes. A part of her wanted to go to him, to wrap his frail body up in her arms and shield him from her mother’s frustration, her sadness. Because her feelings weren’t his responsibility, and if Abby
disagreed with anything her mother said, it was that her grandfather had a right to cope in his own way, even if that meant shelving his grief. She knew what it was like to want to wrap your feelings up and place them on the highest shelf. Was that really so wrong? Why did he have to—she have to—grieve in the way her mother thought appropriate?
But this wasn’t Abby’s war, so she kept quiet.
Abby stood, the buffer between two of the people she loved most, having no idea what to do or say to alleviate the tension circulating in the space between them. It was all she could do to ignore the lump in the back of her own throat.
“Dad...” her mother said, but when she reached out to him, he turned away.
“No amount of talking about it will bring her back. No amount of dredging up the past will change anything. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to my room. Unless that’s not allowed,” he added, the dig hitting its mark as Abby watched her mother’s face crumple.
Silence ensued as Abby dropped back into her seat, trying to work through their argument in her mind, trying to find a resolution to ease her mother’s tension. But her thoughts only circled back to one thing. Her grandfather had been in Newberry, and there was no way that was a coincidence.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
What a crap day this was turning out to be.
Abigail stared at the big fat red “F” circled on the top of her Calculus test, and her stomach dropped. Worse than the “F” was the little note written in the corner: See me after class.
Abigail glanced around the room at her classmates, hoping no one noticed. How could she flunk a test? She may not be a straight A student, but she’d never gotten an “F” before.
Her cheeks reddened as she glanced to Kaden. Turning back to her own paper, she crammed it into the depths of her bookbag where she hoped to never acknowledge its presence again. It had only been a week since her grandmother’s wake, the day she received the first letter, yet her life seemed to have turned upside down. Seven days and she had, thus far, failed to uncover anything valuable, and now she had failed at calculating the nth roots of a complex number as well.
