Prologue

AUSCHWITZ-BIRKENAU, 27 JANUARY 1945

Emilia heard the shouts of men as she leaned heavily against the rough wall. Coaxing the baby into the world, she strained to stay upright. She squinted in the dim light, instinctively knowing something wasn't right when the infant didn't cry as she cut the cord then turned him over, feebly patting him on the bottom.

She fought tears, looking down at him, her fingers so frigid from the cold she could barely move them. Smoke clung to the air, the barracks around them still smouldering.

‘What's wrong?' the exhausted mother whispered, still lying flat after the exertion of labour.

There was a noise outside, more shouts, but Emilia ignored them even as her legs trembled. The Nazis were gone, but who knew if these men who'd arrived were any better than the guards who'd fled in the night and set so much of the camp alight before they'd left? She refused to be frightened, she'd faced death too many times now to fall to her knees; all she cared about was saving the little life in her hands, because he had a chance to live when so many others had not. He was already a survivor, and she would not let him die, not now. But he was so tiny, his body fraught from lack of nutrients, and his mother likely incapable of feeding him, if she survived at all.

She glanced to her left, as if expecting Lena to be there, waiting to take the baby so she could attend to the mother. Lena is gone. She had to tell herself sometimes, remind herself that Lena existed only in her memories now, memories that swirled at times and tricked her, like dust in the air creating illusions that she had to fight against believing were true.

She patted the infant's back more firmly then and carefully scooped her finger into his mouth, gasping in relief when he finally cried, but as she went to lift him to the mother, lying on top of the crude stove, her legs still parted, Emilia realised she was now slumped over and silent.

‘No!' Emilia croaked.

Blood coursed from between the woman's legs, a sign in these primitive conditions that she was only minutes from death unless Emilia could act quickly.

The calls outside continued, and Emilia listened as a man spoke loudly in a language she couldn't understand. But then he called in Polish. And as hope lifted inside her, he said the same words in English. He was repeating the same words in different languages.

‘We are the Allies. We are not here to hurt you.'

The accent was strong, but the words were clear. Emilia shuffled to the door, her bare feet aching on the snow-covered ground as she stepped out, wishing she could go faster, seeing soldiers wearing thick olive coats, mounted on ponies as they rode through the camp. Some of the remaining prisoners had come to the doors of their huts, those who'd been too sick to leave with the others who'd been marched from the camp, their skeletal bodies hunched as they stared out. If these soldiers killed her, so be it; at least she'd tried.

‘Help!' Emilia cried, her throat dry, lips cracked and painful. She still carried the baby, tucked in her arms and barely making a sound. ‘Please, help me!'

The alarm on the soldier's face closest to her was obvious, and he yelled something to his men. He was Russian, she recognised the dialect from others she'd met in the camp. When he turned to her, she saw the sadness in his expression, and when she followed his eyes, she could see that he was taking in the naked newborn in her arms and her blood-soaked apron and ragged skirt. Or perhaps it was her stick-like arms and sunken face that alarmed him most.

‘I need water, and towels,' she croaked.

‘We will get your supplies,' he said, dismounting and passing the reins of his horse to another soldier as he followed her into the barracks. ‘Let me help.'

She thrust the baby into his arms and scurried back to the mother, taking her pulse and then reaching for her knife. For so long, it had been the only tool at her disposal, the one thing that no one had taken from her. The bleeding hadn't slowed, and Emilia knew she barely had time to save her; even if the conditions were better it would be difficult. But for the first time since she'd started delivering babies at the camp, this infant had the chance to truly live, which meant she wasn't going to let this mother die on the stove, not when mother and son had a chance to survive together, not without doing everything in her power.

‘What is your name?' the soldier asked.

From the corner of the room, hidden by shadows, came a raspy reply.

‘Her name is Emilia,' Aleksy gasped, as he shuffled forwards on spindly legs barely able to hold him, his cough telling Emilia just how sick he'd become. ‘She is the midwife of Auschwitz, and without her, hundreds of babies would have died.'

Tears started to fall down Emilia's cheeks as the hot water arrived, as she sterilised her knife and lifted it. Because of me, hundreds of babies never had the chance to live. But bless him, Aleksy only reminded her of the lives she'd saved, not the ones who'd perished because of what she'd been forced to do.

Her legs shook, barely strong enough to hold her as she prepared to save a life. Aleksy wasn't able to help her, so sick he could barely make it across the room, but the soldier beside her cleared his throat.

‘Tell me what to do,' he said.

Emilia nodded and gave him instructions, using a towel to stop the bleeding, wishing she had more at her disposal. By the time she was finished, as she completed her final stitch using cotton they'd painstakingly unthreaded from a blanket months earlier in case of emergencies, Emilia was starting to wobble. Strong arms caught her and cushioned her fall as the ground rose to meet her, the first kindness ever shown to her by a soldier at the camp since she'd arrived.

‘Rest,' he said, when her eyelids fluttered open. ‘I will bring you food.'

He placed a warm jacket over Emilia, the soldier's own jacket, and she folded herself into it as a familiar form crawled closer to her. He had a threadbare blanket clutched to his shoulders, his cough rattling as he collapsed beside her.

‘We're going to make it,' Emilia whispered, as Aleksy's breath wheezed in and out of his chest. ‘Don't give up, you need to stay alive. You can't die on me now, Aleksy, I won't let you.'

She found a strength she didn't know she had and moved the jacket to give him some extra warmth, holding his hand while they shivered beneath it. They were both so small now, so skeletal, that it was easily big enough for them both.

Aleksy didn't say a word, but his fingers tightened around hers. It was all she needed – to know he was still alive. That there was still hope.