The Choice

en Christmas came, but our liberators did not. And she died the
next day. I believe that her inner voice of hope kept her alive, but
when she lost hope she wasn’t able to keep living. While nearly
everyone around me—SS officers, kapos, fellow inmates—told me
every moment of every day, from Appell to the end of the workday,
from selection lines to meal lines, that I would never get out of the
death camp alive, I worked to develop an inner voice that offered an
alternative story. is is temporary, I’d tell myself. If I survive today,
tomorrow I will be free.
We were sent to the showers every day at Auschwitz, and every
shower was fraught with uncertainty. We never knew whether water
or gas would stream out of the tap. One day when I feel the water
falling down on us, I let out my breath. I spread greasy soap over my
body. I’m not skin and bones yet. Here in the quiet aer the fear, I can
recognize myself. My arms and thighs and stomach are still taut with
my dancer muscles. I slip into a fantasy of Eric. We are university
students now, living in Budapest. We take our books to study at a café.
His eyes leave the page and travel over my face. I feel him pausing
over my eyes and lips. Just as I imagine liing my face to receive his
kiss, I realize how quiet the shower room has become. I feel a chill in
my gut. e man I fear above all others stands at the door. e Angel
of Death is gazing right at me. I stare at the Ęoor, waiting for the
others to begin breathing again so that I know he is gone. But he
doesn’t leave.
“You!” he calls. “My little dancer.”
I try to hear Eric’s voice more loudly than Mengele’s. I’ll never forget
your eyes. I’ll never forget your hands.
“Come,” he orders.
I follow. What else can I do? I walk toward the buttons on his coat,
avoiding the eyes of my fellow inmates, because I can’t stand the
thought of seeing my fear mirrored there. Breathe, breathe, I tell