What about now?”
Yes, I said. No, I said. And then, No and no. Because I wanted to compromise his experiments. I wanted to make them as meaningless as I was.
Mengele didn’t suspect a thing. He shone a light into my eyes, and I was grateful for the momentary blindness, because his face was so close to mine, and the smell of him was in my nose. It was scrambled eggs and cruelty, and my stomach rumbled against my will. He spoke over the rumbles, as if hoping to disguise the proof that he, too, was in possession of a body that answered to the normal demands of digestion.
“How has your day been, Pearl?” He asked this merrily, as if he could have been any of the people we passed by on our way home from school—the postman, the butcher, the florist, the neighbor—his inquiry innocent and casual.
“It hurts.”
“Your day hurts? What a funny thing to say! And here I thought Stasha was the only comedienne.”
On the other side of the room, Nurse Elma snorted.
“Pain has its reasons,” Mengele said.
And then he gave me a piece of candy and commanded me to enjoy it. I carried it, fully wrapped, beneath my tongue for safekeeping. This was something of an effort because my tongue felt like dust and my head was swimming and my mouth was full of aches. Still, I managed to preserve this sweetness all through the ride back to the Zoo. Once in the yard, I spat the wrapped candy into the dust and watched the Herschorn triplets fight over its possession.
I didn’t know whose side to be on anymore.
Stasha’s injury made spying on her easier. She wore a mound of gauze over her now-bad ear, and she was in such a sleepy haze that I was able to read her blue book under her very nose as we both lay in our bunk.
October 20, 1944
Doctor keeps vials in a box. They are marked War Materials, Urgent . I know that there are vials with my name on them, with Pearl’s name on them. He is careful not to mix them up. He is careful in most things concerning organization, but I am beginning to wonder about his skills as a physician.
And then she woke and caught me reading; she huffed a little, but she was too weak to care much about my intrusion. Nonchalant, she simply adjusted the white petals of the bandage at her ear.
“You know that you can’t do anything about Mengele,” I whispered.
“Zayde wouldn’t agree with you. He thinks I can do anything I decide to. Ask Zayde, he will tell you.”
“How will I do that?” I asked. For once, I made no attempt to conceal my scorn about her illusions, all the strange beliefs she clung to so desperately that they’d begun to course and flex through her like medicine.
“I’ve been writing Mama and Zayde letters,” she said. “I can add that part in.”
She grabbed her book from me and rummaged around in her pocket for a pencil.
“Why are we pretending, Stasha?”
“Pretending?” She lowered her voice. “You mean, about Patient? Of course I’m pretending that he’s fine. Any doctor knows that you don’t tell sick people that they’re sick. That only worsens their condition. They give up hope. Their bones start to fold in on themselves and before you know it, their lungs—”
“I mean pretending about Mama. About Zayde.”
“Why wouldn’t they be well? We’re doing everything Uncle has asked of us.”
And then she launched into her usual absurdities, saying that whenever a needle plunged into us, Mama was the recipient of extra bread. Whenever a sample of tissue was taken, Zayde was allowed to swim in the swimming pool with the guards. She insisted that she’d been more than able to manage these negotiations with Uncle. Now that she’d sacrificed her ear, there was no way that he could choose not to take care of the two of them.
I decided to say nothing about the piano I’d seen cross the yard—such proof of our loss, and all they’d take. This was not merely a charitable approach—it was also that I could not believe it still myself.
“Why not a
Yes, I said. No, I said. And then, No and no. Because I wanted to compromise his experiments. I wanted to make them as meaningless as I was.
Mengele didn’t suspect a thing. He shone a light into my eyes, and I was grateful for the momentary blindness, because his face was so close to mine, and the smell of him was in my nose. It was scrambled eggs and cruelty, and my stomach rumbled against my will. He spoke over the rumbles, as if hoping to disguise the proof that he, too, was in possession of a body that answered to the normal demands of digestion.
“How has your day been, Pearl?” He asked this merrily, as if he could have been any of the people we passed by on our way home from school—the postman, the butcher, the florist, the neighbor—his inquiry innocent and casual.
“It hurts.”
“Your day hurts? What a funny thing to say! And here I thought Stasha was the only comedienne.”
On the other side of the room, Nurse Elma snorted.
“Pain has its reasons,” Mengele said.
And then he gave me a piece of candy and commanded me to enjoy it. I carried it, fully wrapped, beneath my tongue for safekeeping. This was something of an effort because my tongue felt like dust and my head was swimming and my mouth was full of aches. Still, I managed to preserve this sweetness all through the ride back to the Zoo. Once in the yard, I spat the wrapped candy into the dust and watched the Herschorn triplets fight over its possession.
I didn’t know whose side to be on anymore.
Stasha’s injury made spying on her easier. She wore a mound of gauze over her now-bad ear, and she was in such a sleepy haze that I was able to read her blue book under her very nose as we both lay in our bunk.
October 20, 1944
Doctor keeps vials in a box. They are marked War Materials, Urgent . I know that there are vials with my name on them, with Pearl’s name on them. He is careful not to mix them up. He is careful in most things concerning organization, but I am beginning to wonder about his skills as a physician.
And then she woke and caught me reading; she huffed a little, but she was too weak to care much about my intrusion. Nonchalant, she simply adjusted the white petals of the bandage at her ear.
“You know that you can’t do anything about Mengele,” I whispered.
“Zayde wouldn’t agree with you. He thinks I can do anything I decide to. Ask Zayde, he will tell you.”
“How will I do that?” I asked. For once, I made no attempt to conceal my scorn about her illusions, all the strange beliefs she clung to so desperately that they’d begun to course and flex through her like medicine.
“I’ve been writing Mama and Zayde letters,” she said. “I can add that part in.”
She grabbed her book from me and rummaged around in her pocket for a pencil.
“Why are we pretending, Stasha?”
“Pretending?” She lowered her voice. “You mean, about Patient? Of course I’m pretending that he’s fine. Any doctor knows that you don’t tell sick people that they’re sick. That only worsens their condition. They give up hope. Their bones start to fold in on themselves and before you know it, their lungs—”
“I mean pretending about Mama. About Zayde.”
“Why wouldn’t they be well? We’re doing everything Uncle has asked of us.”
And then she launched into her usual absurdities, saying that whenever a needle plunged into us, Mama was the recipient of extra bread. Whenever a sample of tissue was taken, Zayde was allowed to swim in the swimming pool with the guards. She insisted that she’d been more than able to manage these negotiations with Uncle. Now that she’d sacrificed her ear, there was no way that he could choose not to take care of the two of them.
I decided to say nothing about the piano I’d seen cross the yard—such proof of our loss, and all they’d take. This was not merely a charitable approach—it was also that I could not believe it still myself.
“Why not a
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