There is one more rattle. A final gasp. Her breathing stops.
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I cannot let go of her body. As if I were falling upon the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, I rock and weep. My heart howls.
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It is time to go to work, my internal clock warns me.
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Laying Gizzy's cold body gently on the ground, I kiss my hand and place it upon my cousin's brow. "Good-bye," I whisper before stumbling away through the snow. The tears stick to my cheeks, freezing instantly; they are bitter, tasting like the day we left Mama and Papa behind. Mama waves in the distance. I stare at the fences, the wires, the towers, but Mama is there, waving to me from beyond this prison. "Help us, Mama. Please. Gizzy's dead." The wind confiscates my words, abandoning them to the growing darkness in my heart. Pain and light. But her lantern's golden glow bobs across the roads and hills of Poland, and I know she's waiting for us to come safely home.
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Danka stands before me. Her eyes reach deep into my soul, shaking it back from its silent sorrow. She knows. I say nothing. She leads me toward Emma. I cannot stop trembling, but her hand squeezing mine feeds me the courage to continue.
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"March out!" We tramp through the snow, out of the gates of hell, to work.
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It is Sunday but there is no rest today; it is shaving day. We strip. "Remove your numbers from your jackets so they can be attached to your new uniforms!" There is some excitement over the announcement. It's been approximately nine months since we put these clothes on, and longer since they've been washed. We gladly dispose of the stench and scratchiness of the woolen jackets and pants, hiding our underwear to retrieve later. We are shaved and disinfected for lice. We huddle closely together for warmth, while stamping our bare feet.
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In line we wait, naked and freezing, for blue-and-gray striped dresses. We pull these rough, uncomfortable uniforms over our
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