"Attack!" The wind grabs the order with a hiss. The girl freezes, paralyzed between fear and confusion.
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The dog rushes past us, snarling. The girl's hands fly to her face. I move in front of Danka. "Don't look."
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He lands on the girl's chest, driving her into the ground. Her screams lacerate the sky, rending the breath from our mouths, splitting our hearts apart. We cannot cover our ears. We cannot breathe.
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The screams, oh God, those screams. There is no sound on earth as horrible.
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I glance, just once. Her bloodied arms flail the air. The dog reaches her throat. Cemented before my eyes, never to rest, is her spirit as it departs, separated from her body by a dog's jaws on her neck.
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There is no silence like this silence . . . empty . . . silent.
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The reverberation of death. I turn over the earth. Danka follows my lead. The girls next to us lift their shovels. Nobody breathes.
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We work harder than before. As fast as possible we shovel, almost hysterical, faster and faster. Our muscles ache. Our ears weep with the echo of her screams. Only the sounds of the dying are immortal in Auschwitz.
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The dog pants. The wind whips her cape. The wardress pats his head. He licks his paw. "Good boy." It begins to rain. We shovel faster and faster.
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"Halt!" Jarred, Emma motions for two of us to carry the body into camp. The girl looks like a little spider somebody squashed underfootso thin, so fragile. I take her arms. They are not cold. They are sticky. We march. With every step I take her head flops against my back. With every tap of her head, every step I take, her screams tear my soul. I tighten my grip, afraid that I may drop her, afraid that I might damage her further, afraid . . .
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There is no silence in my head. There is only screaming.
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