Paper Stars

Chapter 34

34

The Red String

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On the night of April 25th, Daniel and I had fallen into a fitful sleep. A few nights prior, Benjamin had regained consciousness long enough to insist on sleeping in another bunk, for he feared that we would catch his illness if we stayed so near to him. Though we had objected, he was adamant in his insistence, so in the end we could only agree and pray for the better. Daniel seemed anxious and frightened without his brother by his side, and I’d often wake at night to see the youth crouched by Benjamin’s bunk, just clutching his sleeve and watching as he struggled to breathe. It broke my heart.

The barracks were cold that night; I looked on blankly as my breath escaped my lips and formed crystalline clouds above my head. It swirled and twirled in frigid arcs, like ballet dancers. It did not feel like my breath: it felt like somebody else’s. Nevertheless, I was almost asleep until I heard him coughing. It was louder and harder tonight—a ragged and abrasive sound filled with holes—and I gathered myself, rolled over onto my side and slithered over to the edge of the wooden bunk. Daniel murmured something in his sleep and frowned slightly as I pulled my hand away from his slumbering grip. Ever since Benjamin moved, the boy would lie very close to me at night, often reaching out for me or clinging to my arm while he slept. I never pulled away from him, because these rare, unconscious displays of vulnerability reminded me so much of Hanna that I simply hadn’t the heart to deny him any small solace that I could provide. Thankfully he did not wake as I disengaged myself and leapt down onto the cold wood ground.

Benjamin was curled into himself on the bunk several yards away—his eyes were closed, the skin under them purple and angry. His cheekbones, made prominent by hunger and sickness, framed it all:

A brave, broken boy encrusted in grey and white stripes, two long scars etched across his face. His identity. My identity.

I knelt down beside him, reached out and set my hand upon his trembling shoulder, and he stirred slightly. “Benjamin,” I murmured. My voice sounded strange—perhaps it was the lump in my throat. “Benji, please wake up.”

His eyelids fluttered, but they remained closed. I then leaned forward and kissed him, and he finally blinked awake. At first his eyes were glassy, muddled—as if he was trying to remember who I was. But after a moment, his face lit up and his mouth turned into a smile. There was blood in his teeth.

“Hey, Blackbird,” he rasped.

I pressed my index finger against my lips. “Hush, don’t talk. Scoot over; I’ll sleep with you tonight. You shan’t freeze, not on my watch.” He protested at first, though I waved him away. “Don’t be stupid, I’ll be fine. You did the same for me, so don’t try to be a hero anymore. Okay, Superman?”

He at last shifted to the side so I could lie down next to him, and when I did, I sunk my face into his shoulder, gripping at the fabric just to make sure he wouldn’t slip away from me again. He body felt frail against mine and his chest was moving up and down in painful, scratchy breaths—he would often exhale and pause for a long moment, like he was trying to remember what to do next. As though he were forgetting how to breathe.

 “You have a fever: you shouldn’t talk anymore,” I enjoined, to which he laughed weakly.

“Bossy as usual,” he said, though I could hear the labour in his voice. He was smiling at me in a way that was surely meant to be reassuring, though all I could see were glazed, red-rimmed eyes and skin hanging limply across his bones: opaque and grey, no longer the light olive that it used to be. His voice was hoarse and his lips were turning blue…tuberculosis had taken its toll, and there was absolutely nothing that I could do.