Mischling by Affinity Konar Page A

sashayed over to where I sat and poked the dimple we had in our chins. “I’m impressed that you have the strength to shiver.”
    I told her it was nothing even as the sensation continued. I knew they were pouring boiling water onto Stasha’s left eardrum; they were drowning her hearing forever—I knew this even though she did not scream.
    Seeking escape from our thoughts, I looked through the window and saw guards pushing a piano through the yard. I was quite sure it was our piano, the one we’d lost when we found ourselves crowded into the ghetto. We’d grown up together, that piano and Stasha and me. We’d learned to crawl beneath it. It could have been anyone’s piano, but I was quite sure that it was ours, and almost as soon as it appeared within the window, the guards pushed it out beyond the frame of my vision, and there was only a crash, a thud, a ruffle of keys, and a slew of curses.
    I wondered where they were taking it. If I would ever see it again.
    My vision of the old piano was then replaced with Mengele himself. He entered with his usual whistle. Mid-trill, he stopped and pointed to me, like a music teacher does when he’s looking for an answer.
    “Beethoven’s Ninth?” I ventured.
    “Ah, no, you are quite wrong.” It was a triumphant statement.
    I apologized for my mistake. I would have said that my hearing felt a bit compromised at the moment, but I decided it was best not to let him in on this mystery.
    “Can I have a second chance?”
    I’m sure he heard these exact words too often. He began to laugh, and Elma gave him a look of mock reproach.
    “Don’t be so cruel to the girl!” And then to me, she said, “You are right, of course. Sometimes our doctor here, he just likes to have a little fun.”
    “To put you at ease,” he said, nodding.
    “I believe it had the opposite effect,” Nurse Elma said. “Look at those pupils!”
    “It works with Stasha,” Mengele said. “That girl just loves jokes, doesn’t she? You—you are a bit more reserved, yes?”
    He removed his gloves and put on a fresh pair. He slid them on with the zeal of a boy suiting up for some sport, and then he held his hands up before him, in search of flaws. Finding none, he clapped a hand on my shoulder.
    “Your sister has to rest a bit,” he said. “Perhaps we should do something else to pass the time?”
    He always worded things that way, as if he were merely making a jovial suggestion.
    He and Nurse Elma consulted with each other for some minutes before arriving at a plan. I did my best to appear uninterested, but pieces of their conversation made their way to me. I heard talk of which was the stronger one, who was the leader, the superior subject, and then they returned to where I sat, so cold on my bench.
    “Something new this time,” he said finally, and with a smile. “Or new to you, at least. Your sister is already familiar.”
    He looked for a vein. He didn’t have to look far. I cursed my veins for making themselves so available.
    I don’t know what was in that needle. A germ, a virus, a poison. But I could be certain as I shuddered and a warmth shivered through me, hand in hand with a chill and a shake, that it would eventually overtake me. A stronger person might have been able to fight what that needle held, but I was not as strong as I’d been before we’d exited the cattle car.
    Satisfied, Mengele stood back and surveyed me. He cocked his head like a nasty parrot that once swore at me in a pet store. I hoped he would remain at that distance, but he drew up a chair and stroked my forehead so as to observe the fever that was quickly setting in, and then he took a little hammer and applied it to my joints. My legs and arms jumped at the urging of his hammer, and his face was a strange mix of amusement and intent. He scampered about me as I sat on the bench, the long, white sleeves of his coat falling over my nakedness.
    “Do you feel any pain?” he asked as he hammered. “What about this?