- Christin Hunt
- Jan 27
Two lines. Two rows of bowed heads and slumped shoulders. Weary people stripped of
their humanity, stolen away from their futures, from their families, from their faith, from the foundations of all they knew. The woman standing in front of me shuddered, her shoulders trembling as she shuffled forward. I followed at her heels and looked around at the endless string of dusty people, wondering if the emptiness in their eyes was reflected in my own.
I stared at the ground, unwilling to take in the fear and the despair of the broken people
around me. The August wind scraped its talons across my skin, and I curled my body against the cold. My feet were dusty, with garish scratches ripping lines from my toes to my ankles. My shoes had been taken away. As had my brothers. And my parents. Along with every sweetness I had ever known.
And now I was about to lose the last part of who I was. More than anything else I was
terrified of where this line was leading me. For just a few more minutes I had a name. I had a future. I had dignity. Yet as the muted colors of the condemned and cowering progressed I was drawn closer to the end of who I was.
I swallowed a shuddering sob and scrunched my eyes tight against the reality that was
barreling toward me. With heaving breaths, I gathered my courage and whispered the only precious thing I had left. I am Rosie. I will never forget who I am. I have a story. I have a name. I am Rosie. I am Rosie. I am Rosie.
Looking up to the free, blue sky I breathed in deeply, only to double over, choking on the
grime and soot wrapped around the camp. My eyes stung against the smoke, and I blinked against the unbidden tears. From under the lashes of my downcast eyes I watched those at the front of the line peel off and retreat, returning with dragging feet to the yard, hobbling down the path between the two rows, the weight of their plight grinding their hearts into the dirt.
Some cradled their arms, transfixed by the jagged lines etched on their flesh. This thing
that was given to them, which served to rip everything else away. I felt my heart beat faster. In fear? In anger? Perhaps. But it was beating. And it was strong.
And I realized something which has since shaped my every moment: Even in the confines of capture, even in the grip of the Gestapo, even in the bowels of this decrepit pit of hell, even if my life were crushed, even if every breath were stolen from my lungs, I still had a choice. Even if I had nothing else, I could still choose this one thing: Hope.
I knew the choice I must make, and the depth of it burned a fire of resolve in my chest,
spilling forth in determined tears. Here, now, in this formation of broken people I would live. I would survive. I would escape. I would continue to hope.
And as that decision settled into my heart, making its home between the pain and the
sorrow, I noticed details. I saw the woman with intertwined fingers. I heard the child soothing himself with a lullaby. I felt the sun warm my freshly shaved head–that glorious, consistent sun which never burned out–and I noticed the numbers. So many numbers.
I watched the dejected people returning from the front of the line, inspecting their new
identity inscribed in ink, their skin pink and raw around the crisp lines on their forearms.
Those leaving my row were marked in a clumsy script, with shaking lines, sloppy ink,
and uneven spacing. Those from the other row were inked neatly, the numbers uniform and proud.
And so I lifted my head.
I filled my lungs with life.
And I ran to the other line.
In that moment after choosing hope I chased it down because I knew: I was going to
survive. And the life I lived would carry all the mountains I overcame including this brutal trial of having my name taken away in exchange for a number scrawled on my flesh.
And though it may sound petty, though it may be a little thing, this choice to change lines embodied hope for the future, hope for life, hope for freedom. I could not escape the numbers, but I could place myself in the line with the more talented tattooer. I planned to live, and I didn’t want sloppy numbers for the rest of my life. Someday I would find love, and when it came I wanted to be beautiful.
Claiming a place between two broken souls I stood tall, my spine straightening with
resolve, and I whispered a promise to my heart. I am Rosie. I will be fierce and unshakable. I am Rosie. I am not my number. I am Rosie. And I choose hope.
“And so, mayn oytserl, remember,” Rosie tucked a strand of her vibrantly red hair behind
her ear with gnarled fingers as she continued. “There is always a choice, even in the most derelict of dungeons. There is always hope. But it must be chosen and chased after. If you believe in hope you can continue to believe in your dignity. You can continue to believe in your future. You can continue to believe in who you truly are. You may not be able to escape the scars, but hope will shape which line you stand in.”
Rosie survived Auschwitz and was liberated after 3 years under Nazi affliction. She
traveled to America and married a man who loved her well. With great care she stitched her simple wedding gown, crafting sleeves that flowed to her elbows, showing off the number that helped shape her character and confirm her identity. The lines were still crisp and bold, and she was beautiful.
Author's Note:
About a year ago I came across this post on instagram, where a sweet gal was sharing a portion of her grandma's story. After reading that single post I wrote this short story. Though inspired by the real Rosie, this piece is fictional. But though it is only wrought out of imagination it is stitched together in awe and honor of those who lived the horror of WWII.
