Vénissieux Camp
August 27, 1942
Irma Goldberg had been in the infirmary at the same time as Justus, but they had not spoken. She was eighteen years old and in all sorts of pain, none of it physical. Her face reflected the distraught state of her heart. When Dr. Adam saw her, he suspected that the girl had lost all interest in living.
The young doctor took a seat beside her. Irma was beautiful, angelic even, if not for the constant grimace.
“Doctor, I don’t want to be deported. I don’t have anyone left. It’s pointless to face the terrible journey ahead all alone.”
“Life is generous and opens up a way out.”
“You know that’s not true. You deal with death every day. You’ve seen it in the faces of newborns, in the eyes of a young woman on her wedding day, on the purple lips of an old man who just wants to rest. You of all people know that life is a fickle traitor. I want to be done with mine. It may be an offense to God, and I know that you’ve been trained to save people, not to help them die, but that’s all I want.”
Dr. Adam’s eyes pricked with tears at the desolate words, and he swallowed hard.
“You’re asking me to do something I can’t do. My conscience . . .”
Irma turned away and let her tears fall silently, soaking the coarse, stained pillowcase where before her hundreds of heads had suffered alone and hundreds more would after her.
“Please,” she whispered. “I’m begging you.”
Dr. Adam stood. He wanted to get out of there and plug his ears to the sound of that young woman’s voice, like the cry of a drowning soul in a stormy sea. A few moments later he returned with a pill.
“I can’t put you to death, I’m sorry. But if you take this pill, you’ll be so sick that they won’t be able to put you on the transport. After that, we’ll find a way to get you out of here. There’s always a way.”
“I don’t want to die, Doctor; I promise. But I don’t want to live in a work camp. I’m just not capable of it.”
“I can promise you they won’t deport you with this,” he said, handing it to her.
The young woman observed the pill in the palm of her hand for a few moments. It was long, thin, and pink, with a tiny inscription. Irma wondered how something so small could save her life. She also wondered if the doctor was tricking her. Since losing her family and being on her own, Irma had known very few people of goodwill, so few who were kind and trustworthy. Finally, as a small act of faith, Irma cocked her head back, dropped the pill into her mouth, and swallowed it with a gulp of water. It scraped her throat, and she thought she could feel it going down her esophagus.
Dr. Adam had waited patiently during the process. He said, “Now lie back and rest before it starts hurting. But don’t worry; it isn’t going to kill you.”
Irma thought that closing her eyes and not waking up would actually be a gift. Sometimes life was so difficult that disappearing into sleep was the only option for something akin to happiness.
The doctor walked away, and Irma’s mind slowly started to detach from her body. She felt a peace that had eluded her for months—years—and was convinced that she really was dying, or perhaps being reborn. It was never entirely clear if death was the end of something or just the beginning of something else.