élet | lewandowski

one

1 // the first night

early may, 1944

—

The sound of crying is ever-present in the hollows of my mind. Mothers, sisters, and grandmothers sobbed and weeped over the losses of their loved ones—the separations from their husbands, their sons, their brothers, and, of course, one another. But what of myself, and what of my my family?

I don't know if I am lucky. I came with no one, and I have no one to lose—no one, of course, but myself. I ran away from home years ago, at the tender age of fourteen. It was a stupid and irrevocable act of rebellion, one which I so desperately wish I could take back. I'm used to being alone, but that is all. I'm not used to death, nor am I used to the nightmare that this war has become. All that matters to me now is my life. I am alone—and if I am to lose this life, absolutely no one will notice.

I decided to keep a diary for however long i'll manage to hide it. If someone is to find it, then they'll know that I once lived, and they'll know what I went through. But perhaps I'll survive to tell this story myself—God knows that no words could properly describe the insufferable conditions we've been put through. Whether I live to tell the story or whether it must be told through the pages of this diary, let it be known that I once existed, and let it be known that I fought for my life with every ounce of my being.

There are just ten girls from Eger who were placed on Block 36, and some thirty others that were already here. I concluded twelve from here in Poland, ten from Germany, four from Czechoslovakia, and four others from Denmark. I am among the the younger ones, nearing eighteen. The oldest looks to be twenty, going on twenty-one. She is Greta, and she comes from Germany. She's beautiful, or she once was—she hides her shoulder-length blonde hair under a scarf, as do I with my own, and her green eyes are hollow.

She told us that we were very lucky to have arrived here on Block 36. I wanted to laugh. Lucky—really? Lucky to be in a death camp, where every minute spent alive was nothing short of a miracle? According to her, the commander in charge of our block, Herr Lewandowski, is "very handsome", and doesn't beat or purposefully starve 'his' girls on purpose. His. Did we belong to him? It was difficult for me to find any of the commanders to be at least humane, but handsome? I was more likely to survive than I was likely to find myself attracted to any man who subjected me to the torture of Monowitz, and that in itself was not a light statement: my chances of making it through this war, even after not having been sent immediately to the crematorium, were low.

I have yet to see this commander, but from the bashful smile on Greta's face and the way their cheeks turned pink, it was clear that he treated her or any of the girls so "well" for one reason and one reason only, and that reason was unthinkable, unimaginable, and most certainly punishable by death.

"If you do what he says and don't argue with him, he's a very reasonable man." These were Greta's laughable words. "And you're very beautiful, Zsófia. You should use it to your advantage."

If beauty could save our lives, and if they could see beauty in any of us, then why would we be here? There was no beauty to be found in anyone you considered sub-human, and I wasn't naive. I didn't like the idea of it, not one bit. I might've once been beautiful before this mess, but I am not Aryan like Greta—and to them, I'm not even human. Being on my own since running away has taught me many survival skills, but there were things I'd done with men out of desperation that I never wanted to do again, certainly not with a Hitler-worshipping, scum of the earth Nazi.

I explained this to Greta, and she laughed. She promised me that the moment I laid my eyes on the commander, I'd realize just how wrong I was. In that respect, I hoped she was wrong. But she also promised me that she'd teach me her ways, and claimed that i looked like a survivor.

In that respect, I can only pray that she was right.

—

author's note

hello to anyone reading this! if you read the original élet through and through, you know that I completed this book a few years back. however, I unpublished it a couple months ago because some facets of it weren't sitting right with me. But, because a few people have asked and I have the time on my hands to do it, I've decided to put the story back up chapter by chapter (or a few chapters at a time).

why chapter by chapter? Because it'll be different than before! think of this as a revamping. The overarching plot will be the same, but there will likely be slight nuances, and it'll be edited far better than I could've written the story when I was 16. That said, please excuse all the update notifications, and I hope anyone still interested in this story enjoys the new version of it!

*DISCLAIMER*
for the sake of historical accuracy, this story contains graphic descriptions of death, sexuality/nudity, the holocaust, and other related subjects. the relationship depicted between a prisoner and a commandant is a complete figment of my imagination, and i recommend that anyone who isn't interested in such a plot does not read further than this. please feel free to offer constructive criticism, but also please do so in a manner which is respectful (and preferably through PM). :)