weeks I may lose the ability to speak all together. Fortunately, there's little reason to speak out loud and no one inspects our throats or voices, but this loss of my voice is reason to be selected should an SS notice it.
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''I heard what you were saying," a nurse says to us quietly. "We'll bring you something from the hospital. Saturday, after roll call."
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"Thank you." Danka smiles.
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It is Saturday night. We chew our bread slowly waiting for the nurses to come. "Thank you for being so concerned," I tell Danka.
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"I can't let you get selected," she tells me. "We have an oath." I smile. We do have an oath, but it never occurred to me before that she's just as committed to my survival as I am to hers. "I have to go watch the door." She gets up off the bunk, slipping downstairs to wait. I watch her, amazed. This is my baby sister. When did she grow up?
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We are deep into the night when four nurses arrive at my bedside. Silence is imperative; if any of us are caught we will all be shot.
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The nurse in charge pulls a needle out of her pocket. "I am going to inject you with strychnine," she whispers. "Give me your arm."
5
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"It'll be okay, Rena." Danka strokes my brow. "You're brave. You can do this." I try to look confident for my sister but cannot muster any feeling but fear. It is her eyes that are full of confidence and courage, and I lean on her strength, fighting the urge to panic.
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The needle glimmers. Her firm hand is cool on my skin as she prepares for the injection. The needle penetrates my flesh and immediately there is a burning fire raging through my body. My muscles spasm as I lurch to scream, but their hands hold me down, pressing firmly on my mouth. The pain is excruciating. I try to re-
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 | | 5. "At one time strychnine was used as a tonic and a central nervous system stimulant, but because of its high toxicity (5 mg/kg is a lethal dose in the rat) and the availability of more effective substances, it no longer has a place in human medicine" (Bartlett, 534).
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