Dysentery had turned me inside out by then and I was in the infirmary.
By the time I saw my first Soviet soldier, Stutthof was nearly empty, since the Germans had evacuated most of the internees weeks before, marching them towards more secure territory and leaving only the sick behind.
In a way, I came back from the dead, too – as a ghost haunting his own life.
I’ve always believed I survived because of meeting Erik and taking down his story. It’s the only answer I have for why I am here and six million others are not. I’m aware that my explanation doesn’t make logical sense, but we all know by now that logic is not God’s strong point.
As soon as I had the strength, I made my way back to Johann’s house and dug up The Warsaw Anagrams. I learned from neighbours that he’d been executed the evening I’d been captured.
Lately, I’ve begun to cling to my memories of Johann when I begin to believe what the Nazis tried to prove to us all – that anyone can be made to betray those they love.
I moved back to Warsaw and opened a printing house again. Occasionally, I’d show The Warsaw Anagrams to the people I trusted, but Christian friends didn’t want to read about what the Nazis and their Polish helpers had done to their one-time neighbours, and the handful of Jews who’d returned were too fragile to revisit the past.
Erik and I wrote his story and it helps me pass my days easier knowing that we did it together. And I think the very act of reading is important – it means we have a chance to participate in a culture that the Nazis couldn’t kill.
Knowing you have done one good thing – no matter how small – is a comfort that no one can take away.
I like the tingling in my fingertips when I choose the type for the books I print. I like to have ink stains all over my hands. I like to invent words for the new language Erik wanted us to have.
Herzsterben – the death one feels in one’s chest on pushing away a starving beggar.
I try to live without expectations. I try to accept people as they are. I try to celebrate waking up every morning.
Zunfargangmeyvn – a connoisseur of sunsets; someone who has learned to savour what others take for granted.
And I try to live in a world where the most soft-spoken people win all the arguments.
Noc die Zweite.
The name of my dog. He’s a wiry dachshund who sleeps in my bed, his snout next to mine, and his snoring eases me into my dreams.
I try never to go to sleep without him. Too many memories await me if I enter the darkness alone.
