Auschwitz: November 1944
When the Russians got within striking range for their planes, the lights went out. For the first time in nine months Méret saw darkness.
One morning early in November she awoke and vomited. When she could lift her head she made out Magda in the half-light, hanging over the side of her bunk, pale and sweaty with a trickle of vomit on her chin.
“You, too?” she said.
The door burst open, SS banged in, women leapt to their feet and stood at attention.
“Aufstehen! Get dressed and muster outside. All of you. Macht euch fertig! Get ready to leave! Schnell! Schnell! Raus!”
Driving them out of the door and into the cold of morning, an SS Unterscharführer turned back, saw Méret and Magda struggling into their clothes—Magda doubled over, one arm flailing to find a sleeve in her cardigan.
He cupped Méret’s chin in one hand and lifted her face.
“Can you walk?”
“I . . . I . . . can. I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
He let her head fall, called out to his men, “Not these two. Leave them behind.”
She heard Magda mutter, “This is it. The final fucking selection. Too ill to travel. It’s the gas for us.”
The Unterscharführer said, “Krankenbau!”
Infirmary.
She fell back on the bottom bunk.
Half an hour passed. A train pulled away from the ramp.
The ever-present buzz of Auschwitz, the life inside the machine, dropped to a murmur. The clatter of boots, the screams of women died away—even the bells and whistles seemed lessened. For the first time in nine months Méret heard something like silence.
An hour passed. An infirmary orderly in stripes appeared.
Méret slipped off the bed to the floor.
The room was a mess, clothes abandoned, sheet music scattered, instruments overturned, a double bass knocked from its stand and looking slaughtered.
He hoisted her to her feet, an arm around her shoulders. Braced himself when she buckled at the knees.
“Krankenbau,” he said gently.