The Choice

revive her. e SS have gathered near the door, near the last evening
light, to eat their rations. Sometimes they’ll throw a scrap of food at us
just for the pleasure of seeing us grovel. I go to them on my knees.
“Please, please,” I beg. ey laugh. One soldier holds a wedge of
canned meat toward me and I lunge for it, but he puts it in his mouth
and they all laugh harder. ey play with me like this until I am worn
out. Magda is asleep. I refuse to let it go, let her down. e SS break
up their picnic to relieve themselves or to smoke, and I slip out a side
door.
I can smell manure and apple blossoms and German tobacco. e
grass is damp and cool. On the other side of a stucco fence I see a
garden: small lettuce heads, vines of beans, the feathery green plumes
of carrot tops. I can taste the carrots as if I’ve already picked them,
crisp and earthy. Climbing the wall isn’t hard. I skin my knees a little
as I shimmy over the top and the bright spots of blood feel like fresh
air on my skin, like a good thing deep down surfacing. I’m giddy. I
grab the carrot tops and pull, the sound like a seam ripping as the
earth releases the roots. ey’re heavy in my hands. Clumps of dirt
dangle from the roots. Even the dirt smells like a feast—like seeds—
every possible thing contained there. I scale the wall again, dirt raining
onto my knees. I picture Magda’s face as she bites into the ĕrst fresh
vegetable we’ve eaten in a year. I have done a daring thing and it has
borne fruit. is is what I want Magda to see, more than a meal, more
than nutrients dissolving into her blood: simply, hope. I jump to earth
again.
But I’m not alone. A man stares down at me. He clutches a gun.
He’s a soldier—Wehrmacht, not SS. Worse than the gun are his eyes,
punitive eyes. How dare you? his eyes say. I’ll teach you to obey. He
pushes me down to my knees. He cocks the gun and points it at my
chest. Please, please, please, please. I pray like I did with Mengele.
Please help him to not kill me. I’m shivering. e carrots knock against