Free Alexander Altmann A10567 by Suzy Zail

boy in line to strip and shake his clothes out. The boy had thin arms and bow legs and his knees shook as he peeled off his trousers and shook them out.
    The commander picked up the carrot that had fallen from the boy’s pocket.
    “Turn around,” he said, a smile tugging on his lips.
    The first strike of his whip left a red welt on the boy’s back. The second split the boy’s skin. He roared with pain like an animal caught in a trap but the commander didn’t stop, not until the boy’s back was slippery with blood.
That could’ve been me
, Alexander thought.
    The commander disappeared into a shiny black car and two of the stablehands ran for a stretcher. They dragged the boy onto it, threw his clothes over his naked body and carried him to Auschwitz. The rest of the Horse Platoon followed in single file. Alexander’s feet hurt. He longed for his bunk and the anaesthetic of sleep. But when the Horse Platoon stopped so the guards could light their cigarettes, the prisoners had to stand. Alexander peered at the boy on the stretcher. His clothes were wet with blood and his face was pale.

    The familiar clash of cymbals signalled Alexander’s return to Auschwitz. The sky glowed pink as the band welcomed the Horse Platoon back with a rousing march. Soot drifted through the air and settled on Alexander’s striped shirt, dusting his shoulders with black ash. No one talked about the sweet-smelling embers that fell day and night. Alexander wouldn’t have minded so much, if remembering the dead meant picturing his sister riding her tricycle or sitting at the kitchen table eating butter biscuits. He wished he could remember her anywhere but on the cattle train, hungry and scared and tugging at his sleeve. He swept the ash from his shirt. He’d had nothing to give her. Not even a kind word.
    He heard the familiar cry of “
Mutzen ab!
” and turned to face Herr Hoess. The kapo shouted, “Twenty-seven prisoners and one dead returning to camp,” and the men lugging the stretcher laid it down before Hoess’s scribe. The boy’s shoes had already been stolen and his cup pulled from his belt. Alexander looked at the boy’s empty eyes and wondered whether he could face another day in the camp. He’d seen men in Birkenau run at the electrified fences and thought them weak. Now he wondered if perhaps suicide wasn’t an act of courage.
    “Another dead?” Hoess smiled at the kapo appreciatively. “Good work.”
    Alexander walked through the deserted square, relieved to have missed rollcall. Isidor had told him on the long walk home that dinner at Auschwitz was a slice of bread, a sliver of sausage, a teaspoon of margarine and, on a good day, a piece of cheese. Alexander felt sick to his stomach but the spoonful of soup he’d swallowed at lunch hadn’t filled the gnawing hole in his belly, so he stepped over the dead boy who’d been dumped by the door to line up for dinner.
    “Welcome home.” The Rat swung the door open. “I hope you boys aren’t hungry.” He bent his lips into a smile. Alexander scanned the dormitory. In the middle of the room, a bread knife lay on a wooden board scattered with crumbs. The air smelled of sausage. The Horse Platoon had missed rollcall but they’d also missed dinner.
    Alexander stalked to his bunk. In Košice he’d done everything he could to avoid being trapped indoors. Outside meant open skies, endless fields and the possibility of escape. Inside, he’d felt caged. Now he
was
caged. If there was a means of escape Alexander would have taken it, but there was no escaping Auschwitz. He swore silently and tore off his shirt. If he wasn’t going to get fed, he may as well get clean, he thought, taking off his boots and tramping to the shower. His fingernails were black and his mouth was dry and tasted foul. He stepped under the cool stream and showered off the sweat and horse hair. He held his face up to the needles and kept it there, happy that it hurt. He’d spent the day caring for a