Dawn

By Monnie

Welcome back folks, I'm home from vacation and settled in, ready to wrap this bad boy up. I know, I know, you'll miss it and everything like that cough but I think it's right. I'll be writing an epilogue, but I will not, I repeat, I will not post it unless I get favorable responses for me to do so. And if I were feeling daring, I'd say I have to get 20 reviews saying so, but I'm not today, so, let's just shoot for twenty, shall we? Please? Pretty please? Leave a review... tell your friends to leave a review. Tell your friends to tell their friends. It's like a chainletter, but better because I get some feedback out of it! Now, what can be a better reward than that?

Mmkay, the song I use in this chapter (which I discovered after I'd started my story and fitted perfectly, thank you very much) does not belong to me, but to Evanescence, or Amy Lee, or whoever wrote it. Thank you, and boa noite.

I had half of this whole thing written and saved on my computer, but the fucker that is Microsoft Word somehow lost it. I am this gestures close to typing everything in notepad just to spite it. Anyway, if it's not as glamorous as you thought it would be, it's because I'm trying to recall everything from memory.

And I'm dedicating this to Chris again, because of how patient and loyal and awesome she's been even though she's secretly cutting me out. ;) But I'm scrappy, so it's all good.

= = = =

Chapter Fifteen – Something to Live For (Before the Dawn)

Meet me after dark again and I'll hold you

I want nothing more than to see you there

And maybe tonight

We'll fly so far away,

We'll be lost before the dawn...

"So, he gave his life up for the two of you?"

"Yeah."

"That's courageous of him."

"I know." Monica looked down at the faded photograph she held in her hand, and let out a deep sigh as the lump in her throat grew larger, her own days starting to number themselves. Her thoughts couldn't stop circling back around to the very same question: Was she next?

= =

Chandler kicked the wall for the eighteenth time, wondering what would go first; his foot or the wall. He assumed the wall would win, but it was still worth passing the time to make up for the pain his very best friend put himself through. He pounded away with his fist again, and again, and again, until his skin broke and he left bloody handprints on the cement. As he watched the stains dry and flake away with the harsh wind, he let out an empty sob for all that he'd lost.

But it was only empty because of what he'd gained.

Somebody called his name around the front of the block. He cleaned himself up quickly and strode around to the front, to see an uptight young soldier at the front door. Chandler was saluted by him, and with an air of cynicism, Chandler asked him his name.

"Steinham, sir. Private Michael Steinham."

Chandler froze. "Wha – Michael Steinham?"

"Yes, sir. Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem." He folded his hands behind his back. "Tell me something, Private. Have you ever been married?"

"Yes, sir."

"Aha – and have you ever cheated on your wife?"

"No, sir." He responded with a note of suspicion.

"Good, good. Are you still married?"

"Sir, I don't think this –"

"Just answer the question," Chandler snapped.

"No, sir. I'm not."

"Very well. You had something for me?" He promptly changed the subject. The private snapped to attention.

"Ah yes, sir. It's this." He handed him a clipboard. "I don't know what it's for, and if I did, I wouldn't be allowed to tell you anyway. But my superiors told me to inform you that you're working tomorrow's shift before you'll be relocated."

He lost his breath for a moment.

"I'm – I'm being relocated?"

"Yes, sir. That's all I know."

"What-what is –" he looked pointedly down at the clipboard he held.

"Like I said, I don't know." The private shrugged, "but just between you and me – it looks like some sort of employment list." He gave Chandler a lopsided grin, and then shot back up into militant posture, saluting him, and striding away. Chandler stumbled into the cabin and collapsed onto his straw bedding, his hands running through his hair.

"I'm being relocated?" He repeated, still unable to believe his own lips.

= =

"Leaving?" Monica repeated, unable to believe what she was hearing.

"Mm-hmm, to a steel mill just outside the town."

"How-why...?" She merely blinked at him.

He shook his head. "I wish I knew."

She sighed and lost herself in thought for a moment. "Are you the only one going?"

"No, there're tons more going – there's a whole list here." He showed it to her.

"All officers?"

"No, most are prisoners. Phoebe is on the list."

Monica looked up. "Am I?" The look of pain and anguish that crossed Chandler's eyes told her what she needed to know. "I see," she whispered, and Chandler slipped his arms around her.

"I don't know what to do, Mon."

"Well, neither do I!" She suddenly became very bitter. "I'm the one losing my love and my best friend, here. Let's just focus on anything but that, shall we? I'm the one being left in the cold, alone, to face the music by myself. Doesn't that matter? Or are your problems just too significant? God forbid you have to leave all this shit behind." She spat.

Chandler grabbed her by the arm. "Mon – Monica, listen to me!"

"No! I don't care what you have to say, you self-centered --"

"MONICA!" He took her shoulders and shook her gently. "Listen! I know you care – and I care about you –and I care that I have to leave you behind alone. I feel sick at the thought of you not being under my care, but you have to listen! There's nothing I can do! Do you want me to go out and get myself killed for you to have the chance to go? Is that what you want?! Do you want me to sacrifice everything for you? Because God willing, I'll do it. I LOVE you, Monica. And if you can't see that, then you're blind to the truth; or maybe you just can't see at all."

Monica broke down and fell into his arms, her pain pitifully expressed through her tears.

= =

There was a certain uplifting emptiness that Chandler felt when he sat down at those small tables. He flipped through the clipboard and stared at the names in front of him. What was this list for? He looked through everything. Every single name. He could not find Monica's name anywhere. But why? Why wasn't she being relocated? Whose doing was this?

Crowds and crowds of sticklike prisoners slithered from their blocks, clutching themselves, and shaking as they approached the lines of people. They whispered their own name, and were accepted or denied to board the nearby train. People he recognized were shunned; cast away from this chance for freedom. He saw the devastation in their eyes. He knew he had that very look in his own, and he knew what the cause was for it. There he watched them turn away. Most were taken by the SS down to the ovens after that. These deaths, though, weren't just hundreds killed at once. They were taken.

One by one by one.

= =

She had to break the news to her somehow.

"So, you're not going to be going with me?" Phoebe's eyes filled with fear for the first time since she'd told her sister's story.

"No, sweetie." Monica took Phoebe's hand and squeezed it tightly, fighting back her own surrender. "But Chandler will be there with you."

"Chandler's going?" She looked up and saw Monica nod encouragingly, though she looked like it was forced more than anything. She looked devastated. "Why aren't you going with him?"

"Because I'm not on the list."

"But permission never stopped true love, did it?"

"Life and death puts a pretty big stopper in love."

"Not true love." Phoebe corrected.

"I wish I could go with him, Pheebs – I really do. But it's just too hard – there are so many risks with me sneaking out without leave. I just – have to face it, that's all."

"You're giving up?" She asked, incredulously, "Just like that, you're giving up? After all you two have survived together? That's ridiculous!" She shook her head.

"C'mon, Phoebe, you believe in karma, right? That's what's happening here. Maybe this is just a sign that Chandler and I weren't meant to be."

Phoebe shook her head yet again. "You've got it backwards. I'm a firm believer in karma, you have that part, but I'm an even stronger believer in fate. And I think you two are destined to be together, and that means you ought to be fighting. I see it in your eyes, Monica. You love him."

She took a long, shuddering breath. "I do."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

= =

Two older men.

A sick, weak woman.

Eight children.

Three more women.

Five nearly lifeless men.

One orphaned child.

Why such poor workers? Families, couples, groups, children; the sick, the weak, the old – they all boarded this train to their better chance at life, and Chandler would be leaving with them. But his better chance at life was staying put where she was.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe they weren't being shipped off to freedom – maybe they were being led to their death as it was. Maybe death was their freedom.

Chandler shivered in the heat of the day.

= =

"Take my name."

"WHAT?!"

"Take my name." Phoebe repeated, after they'd sat in silence for many thoughtful moments. She looked her friend in the eye, stone still.

Monica had still not grasped the concept of her offer. "And do what with it?"

"Go with Chandler."

Her breath hitched. "Phoebe, I –"

She put a hand up to silence her. "Don't say you can't do it. I know you can."

"But I –"

"No, Monica." Phoebe interrupted her sternly. "You can. You love him, and you're going with him."

"I can't leave you behind, Phoebe. That's just – it's just not fair."

"No, it's not. But you can't do anything about it."

"But, you're the one who's supposed to go, Phoebe. You deserve to go."

She rolled her eyes, and took Monica's hands in hers. "Don't you get it? I'm telling you to go. You're not going to change my mind. Listen to me. You have more reason to leave than I do. The love of your life is going that direction; don't you wanna be the one beside him? You've been lucky enough to make it this far. Why would you give up and separate now? I don't have anything going for me there, or here, or anywhere. I'm dying, baby. Don't you see it? I've barely got enough strength to get out of bed in the morning. But you, Monica, you have a reason to fight. Someone worth living for. And you're gonna live. I just know you're gonna live. That, just that chance is something worth dying for." She took a long breath. "I finally get why Joey did what he did. Now's my chance. Let me do it for you. Let me be that savior I've always wanted to be, for you. Let me help you live, Monica." She paused. "Let me – let me help you love."

She could do nothing but weep and clutch her friend's hands as she made the choice of a lifetime.

= =

"Emilian, Cyryl." The man mumbled.

Check.

A woman's voice. "Markus, Lucja."

Check.

"Leoda, Prakseda."

No check. Turned away. These cries were becoming faint in his ears.

"Wita, Witus."

Check.

"Buffay, Phoebe."

Check.

Phoebe...?

Chandler looked up and met two ice blue eyes. Those didn't belong to anyone but...

"Monica..." His mind screamed at him, and he knew his expression softened. He watched her put a finger to her lips, and pull her cloak tighter around her.

He nodded, and checked the rest of the list with a smile on his face.

= =

"Welcome to the mills! I am your employer, Schindler. I'm sure we'll speak at some point." He put his hands behind him and gestured towards a large building. "We have hot soup waiting for you inside. Your beds should be turned down and warm for you by the time you're finished eating." The tall businessman spoke with a smile on his face. He looked genuine enough. "And another train with workers from our nearby Auschwitz will be arriving very shortly."

"Hey," a young man elbowed the man next to him, "you've got a sister in there, right?"

He nodded solemnly. "Yes, yes I do."

"Maybe she'll be on the next train."

"Maybe..."

Ross Geller closed his eyes and said a prayer for deliverance.

= =

The boxcar was ice cold, but he didn't care. He was going to see her again. He didn't know how, or when, but he was going to see her.

Sleeping on the floor of the train, a ruffle of golden brown hair caught Monica's attention in the pale light, and she sought it out, entwining her fingers with his for dear life.

Dear, dear life.

She cried what tears she had left to cry, mourning the people who were not as blessed and fortunate as she to live this long. All night she grieved. For the men whose wives were stolen from them, and had no one to hold in the twilight. For the women who left salted stains on their wooden beds for their unborn. For the elderly couples who laid among the rancid flames to save their sons and daughters. For the children who were lied to and led away from their families; the families who knew and understood the truth that their last goodbye was really their last goodbye.

For the millions of final words, and final breaths, and final moments.

For the heroes fallen to bring these hands together in the dark of night.

= = = =