lives. I watched his hand waver between one box and another before imposing a hesitant check mark.
“Now tell me,” he asked, “which of you came first?”
“This matters?” Stasha had never been fond of this question.
“To him, it all matters. My sister Magda and I, we don’t know who came first. But we say that I did, just to please him. So tell me, Pearl, who was first?”
“I was,” I admitted.
As Twins’ Father and I continued with the details, Stasha directed her questions to Dr. Miri, who was waiting to collect the finished paperwork and deliver it to the laboratory. Dr. Miri was a beautiful doctor—like a lily, people were fond of saying, a solemn and thoughtful kind of flower. She reminded us of Mama a little, with her dark hair and too-big eyes and crooked mouth, but she was more doll-like, and the expressions that crossed her face often struck me as very strange because they were so distant, so far away. They were not unlike the expressions one might have while underwater watching disturbances occur on the waves above.
Even more remarkable than Dr. Miri’s beauty was the fact that Mengele allowed it to remain untouched. Most of the beauties who entered Mengele’s view emerged from it much changed, as he could not bear admiring them. He put beauties on one of two paths—the Ibi path or the Orli path. If you were on the Orli path, you might be beautiful on the day of your arrival, but on the very next you’d be given a disguise; Mengele would puff up your belly and swell your legs to sausages, or he’d turn your skin to wax and set it to run with sores. If you were on the Ibi path, you could go to work in the Puff; you could lean from the window and flutter like a rare, colorful bird and listen to the madam negotiate your price with the men knocking at the door. Dr. Miri’s path, the path of a Jewish doctor respected by Mengele, was the rarest one of all.
Orli and Ibi were Dr. Miri’s sisters. She didn’t see them much. If a person wanted to make Miri cry, all he had to do was mention Ibi and Orli. Mengele did this from time to time, whenever he found her work in the laboratory unsatisfactory or wanted to compel her to do things she did not want to do. I would come to witness such exchanges frequently in the days ahead, but on that first day, there was only Dr. Miri, standing there, waiting for our file.
“When do we leave?” Stasha asked her. A pause hung in the air.
“There are plans for that,” Dr. Miri said finally, after exchanging a look with Twins’ Father, the kind of look that adults use when approaching delicate subjects that they’ve approached many times before and still have yet to resolve. “We’ve started the plans but we don’t know—”
She was saved from answering when a woman appeared in the doorway with her infants in her arms, two bundles swaddled in gray cloth, their faces tucked away from view.
Sometimes, when twins were still babies, their mothers were allowed to live in the Zoo alongside them to serve as nursemaids. Clotilde was one such mother. Everyone knew who Clotilde was because her husband had killed an SS man; he’d seized a pistol from the guard, issued a fatal shot, and led a flicker of an uprising. Three SS were felled before the end of this siege, and care was taken to ensure that the hanging of this rebel was witnessed by all. But instead of inspiring fear, his death bred a hero’s tale. Her children would always have that legacy, Clotilde was fond of claiming, but their father’s fame was apparently of little comfort to the babies. They whimpered and kicked their tiny feet against their dingy wrappings, as if to protest their patriarch’s violent end.
Stasha drew close to Clotilde and tried to inspect the bundles. I was afraid she would ask to hold the babies—she tended to think herself more capable than she really was—but thankfully, she remained interested only in her own questions.
“What do we eat?” she asked Clotilde, who
“Now tell me,” he asked, “which of you came first?”
“This matters?” Stasha had never been fond of this question.
“To him, it all matters. My sister Magda and I, we don’t know who came first. But we say that I did, just to please him. So tell me, Pearl, who was first?”
“I was,” I admitted.
As Twins’ Father and I continued with the details, Stasha directed her questions to Dr. Miri, who was waiting to collect the finished paperwork and deliver it to the laboratory. Dr. Miri was a beautiful doctor—like a lily, people were fond of saying, a solemn and thoughtful kind of flower. She reminded us of Mama a little, with her dark hair and too-big eyes and crooked mouth, but she was more doll-like, and the expressions that crossed her face often struck me as very strange because they were so distant, so far away. They were not unlike the expressions one might have while underwater watching disturbances occur on the waves above.
Even more remarkable than Dr. Miri’s beauty was the fact that Mengele allowed it to remain untouched. Most of the beauties who entered Mengele’s view emerged from it much changed, as he could not bear admiring them. He put beauties on one of two paths—the Ibi path or the Orli path. If you were on the Orli path, you might be beautiful on the day of your arrival, but on the very next you’d be given a disguise; Mengele would puff up your belly and swell your legs to sausages, or he’d turn your skin to wax and set it to run with sores. If you were on the Ibi path, you could go to work in the Puff; you could lean from the window and flutter like a rare, colorful bird and listen to the madam negotiate your price with the men knocking at the door. Dr. Miri’s path, the path of a Jewish doctor respected by Mengele, was the rarest one of all.
Orli and Ibi were Dr. Miri’s sisters. She didn’t see them much. If a person wanted to make Miri cry, all he had to do was mention Ibi and Orli. Mengele did this from time to time, whenever he found her work in the laboratory unsatisfactory or wanted to compel her to do things she did not want to do. I would come to witness such exchanges frequently in the days ahead, but on that first day, there was only Dr. Miri, standing there, waiting for our file.
“When do we leave?” Stasha asked her. A pause hung in the air.
“There are plans for that,” Dr. Miri said finally, after exchanging a look with Twins’ Father, the kind of look that adults use when approaching delicate subjects that they’ve approached many times before and still have yet to resolve. “We’ve started the plans but we don’t know—”
She was saved from answering when a woman appeared in the doorway with her infants in her arms, two bundles swaddled in gray cloth, their faces tucked away from view.
Sometimes, when twins were still babies, their mothers were allowed to live in the Zoo alongside them to serve as nursemaids. Clotilde was one such mother. Everyone knew who Clotilde was because her husband had killed an SS man; he’d seized a pistol from the guard, issued a fatal shot, and led a flicker of an uprising. Three SS were felled before the end of this siege, and care was taken to ensure that the hanging of this rebel was witnessed by all. But instead of inspiring fear, his death bred a hero’s tale. Her children would always have that legacy, Clotilde was fond of claiming, but their father’s fame was apparently of little comfort to the babies. They whimpered and kicked their tiny feet against their dingy wrappings, as if to protest their patriarch’s violent end.
Stasha drew close to Clotilde and tried to inspect the bundles. I was afraid she would ask to hold the babies—she tended to think herself more capable than she really was—but thankfully, she remained interested only in her own questions.
“What do we eat?” she asked Clotilde, who
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