The Daughter's Tale

by Armando Lucas Correa

  “It’s late, I should get to the kitchen,” was all Amanda replied. She was grateful for Bérénice’s warning, but there was no way she was going to change her plan. Saturday was in three days: they wouldn’t change the guards until the following week. Nothing would happen before then. Nothing could happen. She glanced nervously at her friend, and hurried off.

  “Amanda!” shouted Bérénice. Amanda came to a halt; for a moment the two women were face-to-face. Silently mouthing the words, Bérénice added, “I’m sorry,” and turned back to the yard.

  There’s no reason to be. Don’t feel sorry for me. Nothing’s going to happen, Amanda wanted to tell her. She rushed into the kitchen. It was Bérénice who had no way out, she thought. They would all be deported, maybe even before the guards were changed, if that in fact happened. She could hear Bérénice’s sad voice as she mouthed those words, and could sense the compassion her only confidant felt for her, this woman hardened by experience who was a true friend. But Amanda couldn’t be dissuaded by any compassion, or by feeling sorry for herself, nor could she hasten her plan.

  “Everything will work out,” she told herself, momentarily blinded by the steam in the kitchen.

  She began peeling potatoes, but was so caught up in her thoughts that she stabbed the palm of her left hand with the rusty knife. Rather than react to the pain, she stopped to observe how the blood was gushing from this red fountain in her hand. She smiled: she was still alive. Slipping the rudimentary metal blade with its wooden handle into her apron pocket, she walked calmly over to the sink. Seeing the blood, one of the other women came over, took her hand, and held it under the tap.

  “All we need is for you to get ill,” she grumbled. “Another two have already caught tetanus in the kitchen. This is a really bad start to the day, really bad.”

  Amanda stared at the open wound under the stream of cold water, watching how the color changed from red to purple. The knife had cut as far as the muscle, maybe even a nerve. She had lost all sensation in her hand, and was glad. It was a sign: she had become immune to pain; no one could harm her, much less a feeble, rusty knife. A burning sensation shot up her arm and she almost passed out.

  “I think you should rinse off your hand with some hot water if you don’t want to die of an infection.”

  She couldn’t understand why they were helping her, moving her around the kitchen like a puppet. She let them do it, fascinated, her mind distant but at the same time pleased she could confirm that her body was no more than simple matter, alien to what she in essence was.

  Crowding around her, the other women rubbed salt in the wound and began to bandage her hand with a length of greasy cloth.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll recover,” the impromptu nurse reassured her, seeing her blank gaze. Amanda smiled: how could she explain that she was prepared to receive whatever blows came her way, that she no longer felt pain, that nothing could make her happier.

  Feeling her wound pulsing to the rhythm of her heart, she left the kitchen in search of Bertrand. Spying him in the doorway to one of the guard posts, she approached cautiously. When he saw her, he gave her a threatening glare. Ignoring this, Amanda walked around to the side of the hut.

  “I need to see you tonight,” she said serenely, when she was only a few steps away from him.

  She had dared invade enemy territory; she was no longer afraid. She felt as if she were on a higher level, from where she could control Bertrand, Bérénice, anyone who stood in her way. She had nothing to lose.

  Bertrand folded his arms in disbelief. His look seemed to say: “How dare you?” Turning his head toward her, he began to mutter something incomprehensible. Amanda thought he must be cursing her, and interpreted that as a sign of weakness. She realized she was able to get under his skin, to approach him even if he forbade it, even give him an order. If she so wished, she could get him stripped of his rank, make them give him menial tasks. And yet, it suddenly occurred to her, what job could be worse than the one he was condemned to perform now? Who on earth wants to keep watch on somebody else’s enemies? she wanted to say to him. She felt sorry for this man who had agreed to help her.

  She raised her wounded hand to her chest to ease the throbbing, then made her way back to the kitchen, certain that she had the insatiable Bertrand under her control.

  On Wednesday night as she made her way to the corner of the shed, she was surprised by a cold shower of rain. She wanted to be sure that Bertrand would be staying in the camp for a few more days at least, and that there wouldn’t be any other changes that could endanger her plan. She didn’t expect any guarantees, she simply needed to make sure. By now she wouldn’t have been able to think of an alternative anyway.

  She sought refuge in the corner they had made their own, and closed her eyes to wait, trembling from the cold and remembering every one of their encounters, every caress, every promise. She was roused from her daydreaming by a warm hand wiping her wet brow.

  “If you stay here you’ll catch pneumonia. What happened to your hand?” said Bérénice, without waiting for her to reply. “I don’t think he’ll come in this rain. It’s very late. Lina has a fever, you need to return to the hut.”

  Amanda did not react immediately. She had been worried by Bertrand’s absence, but was sure it had been due to the rain. She knew that although her rose essence perfume bottle was empty and her hair was less shiny than when she had arrived in the camp, she was still attractive to him. Besides, there were the jewels she had promised him. Jewels that also meant salvation for him.

  She hurried off after Bérénice. Entering the hut, she ran over to Lina and placed her cold hands on the back of her neck to bring down the unwelcome fever flushing her daughter’s hollow cheeks. She felt her daughter’s stomach, which was soft, and like the good doctor’s wife she was, listened to her chest. No inflammation, no constriction.

  “It must be just a cold, the fever will break,” she told Bérénice, who was still standing beside her, looking on. Amanda took her friend’s hands in hers. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “I could see something was wrong, so I came over to see what was going on. She seemed delirious: she was talking about somebody called Maman Claire,” explained Bérénice.

  “She’ll be fine, you’ll see. Go and get some rest,” said Amanda, settling down beside Lina.

  27

  On Thursday morning, Amanda hurried to the kitchen, hoping to bump into Bertrand. Only two days now for everything to come together. Frau Meyer offered to look after Lina, as she had done in the past with Viera. If the fever got worse, she would come and tell her. They both smiled sadly, remembering her earlier promise in Hamburg. Amanda saw in this coincidence a desperate token of good luck.

  She was about to enter the kitchen when a hand gripped her by the wrist. Bertrand had run the risk of touching her, but this wasn’t a caress.

  “The rain never stopped,” he excused himself tersely. She smiled inwardly, without looking at him. “It’ll be Saturday night, as we arranged. Make sure your friends bring what you promised.”

  He spoke these last words with his back already turned. Amanda stayed motionless in the kitchen doorway for a few seconds. He didn’t look back at her, but strode off, as though being there had been nothing more than an involuntary detour.

  Almost forty-eight hours to go before her daughter was free again, and this time for good. The goodbyes had begun.

  Neither she nor Lina, and especially Lina, belonged in this place. They had been brought here by mistake, the result of a decision Amanda now bitterly regretted. Julius had prepared everything to save his daughters, and she had betrayed him. With the best of intentions, and certain that she was doing the right thing, but still she had betrayed him. It was her duty to correct that mistake.

  At dusk she looked for the remaining two pages from the mutilated book to write a last letter to Viera. She was certain her daughter would read it someday. Perhaps in a year, or even a decade, that wasn’t so important. The letter
would reach its destination, together with the others she had left with Claire. Her daughter would know she had always loved her, and that it was precisely that love which had led her to abandon her. And Viera would come searching for Lina, because in this last letter she intended to include all the information she needed to find her sister once again.

  She had already written the heading on one of the sheets of paper. In Claire’s house she had only had enough energy to begin with the date, at a time that now seemed far distant. Next to the drawing of the flower she could recognize her own handwriting: “Summer of 1942.” She decided to set aside that one, which would be her last goodbye, and use the other sheet.

  This was her lucky day. She smiled contentedly when she saw the Impatiens balsamina, the small garden balsam with tiny petals, lanceolate leaves, and flexible yet resistant stems. “Keep the soil moist. Don’t overwater. Avoid very cold temperatures.” She read the instructions very carefully, attempting to memorize every phrase. She tried to remember all the flowers in her previous letters.

  “Where the hell did you put that knife!”

  The shout startled her so much she jumped off the bed and dropped the sheet of paper onto the floor. She scrabbled on her knees to retrieve it in the darkness. Lina awoke in terror.

  Holding it once again, Amanda got to her feet to confront the woman from the kitchen.

  “We’ve been looking for that stupid knife everywhere. You’ve had us checking every shelf, every corner since early this morning. Do you think we’re fools? We’re sick and tired of your airs and graces. You deliberately cut yourself so that you could keep the knife.”

  Silence. Insults couldn’t touch her, shouting didn’t worry her. The woman lowered her voice, stressing every word.

  “Don’t try to deny it. Give me back the knife. Right now.” She grabbed Amanda’s bandaged hand and brought it up close to her eyes to inspect it. “Anyway, from what I can see, you’ll end up rotten like those other two.”

  “Oh, that knife! It’ll turn up,” replied Amanda, in the tone of someone who has completely forgotten the incident. “I think that when I cut myself, the handle came off. I passed out, so somebody must have picked it up . . .”

  “We’re not all going to suffer on your account, do you hear me? Make sure that whatever’s left of the knife reappears,” growled the woman, striding out of the hut.

  Bérénice came over to Amanda.

  “The knife got lost, end of story. Make sure you hide it. One of these days we’re going to need it,” she whispered in her ear, before returning to her bed.

  Lina’s hacking cough echoed through the hut once more. Amanda made her more comfortable and sat beside her.

  “She didn’t want to eat anything all day,” Frau Meyer told her. “If the sun shines tomorrow, it would do her good to get out.”

  Amanda went back to her letter in the darkness. She didn’t need any light to shine on what she had already thought of writing to Viera. Her hand didn’t shake; there was no time for tears or nostalgia. She couldn’t linger over expressions of love or lengthy farewells.

  This letter would not have a date or begin like the others: “My little Viera . . .” All she wanted was for the two sisters to find each other again. When the war is over, you must come to France, to Haute-Vienne, and look for the Duval family . . .

  “You’re a very courageous woman,” said Frau Meyer, who was still standing beside the bed.

  Amanda laughed wryly to herself and patted on the back the woman who had protected both her daughters.

  “What else can we do? Our destinies don’t belong to us anymore.”

  “But you’re going to save Lina. I know it. She’ll get over this fever and go out to play.”

  “It’s not the fever I have to save her from, Frau Meyer. The fever is nothing.”

  “I know, dear Amanda, I know . . .” she said, stroking her brow gently and kissing her on the cheek. “Your eyes are beautiful and still full of life; but she is hope.”

  They were close to the window. They both stood in silence looking out at the night. In that brief moment, which for them was endless, they felt free.

  28

  On Friday evening, Amanda rushed back to the hut. Pulling out the battered suitcase, she took out the two small candles and held them to her chest. Closing her eyes, she began to say a silent prayer. Frau Meyer followed her. It was the Sabbath.

  The two of them went to the window and waited for the sun to set. Before darkness fell over the camp, they placed the candles next to each other in the center of windowsill and took each other’s hand, sharing the moment. They struggled to light the candles with a match. The quivering amber glow from the flames brought a touch of color to their faces and lit up their timid smiles. Little by little a group of women gathered silently around them. Lina crept out of bed and went over to her mother as the two flames spread a golden glow over the gray of the hut. Amanda could make out the reddish hair of one woman near her, the deep blue of Lina’s eyes, the freckles dotting Frau Meyer’s wrinkled cheeks. A few minutes later, they raised their hands to their faces and began to move them in circles, palms over their eyes.

  Shielding Lina’s head, Amanda began a prayer in Hebrew that only her daughter could hear properly, but which the whole group followed.

  “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who distinguishes between the sacred and the mundane, between light and darkness—”

  A woman’s indignant voice interrupted her prayer. Amanda paused and kept her eyes shut, listening to the woman’s howl.

  “It’s your fault that France is suffering. We opened the doors to you! And now the Germans are making us pay!”

  Bérénice cast around for where the words were coming from. She paused when she discovered who had been speaking, and silenced her with a glare. Then she looked at the dozen women staring at her and glanced back at her friend, still focused on her candlelit prayer. Amanda raised her eyes and smiled at her, then moved away from the others, still concentrating on her rite, her face lit by the flickering light and the intensity of her prayers. She walked across the room praying to God on her behalf and that of her friend.

  “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t know you were . . .” Even the normally fearless Bérénice was at a loss for words.

  “I’m not from Alsace . . . You have no reason to apologize. For what?” said Amanda, taking hold of her hands.

  “Now I can understand what you and your daughter must be suffering. Where can you flee that you won’t be persecuted?”

  “We’re all in the same situation, Bérénice. Look what they’ve turned us into. I don’t think I can stand this a day longer.”

  Bringing her lips close to her friend’s face, she said in a heartwarming whisper: “Lina will be safe.”

  That night Amanda found it hard to sleep. She was watching over her daughter’s fever, laying cold hands on the back of her head and crooning lullabies just as she used to in those far-off days when they were still a family. She didn’t feel any nostalgia. She saw herself sitting at the table with Julius and the girls, but the image was so distant now that she could scarcely recognize herself.

  When she opened her eyes, it was the dawn of the seventh day. She woke with a start because she had fallen into a deep sleep. Turning toward Lina, she saw she was ghostly pale, her skinny arms dangling over the side of the bunk.

  “Come on, Lina, we have to wake up. Let’s get some sun,” she said, stroking her hair.

  Lina was drenched in sweat. Amanda tried to settle her in the middle of the bed, raising her head and pulling up her hair. She didn’t react. The mattress was wet with urine.

  “Lina!”

  Frau Meyer came over, lifted her in her arms, and took her over to the window so that she could get some fresh air.

  “Lina!” This time Amanda’s cry reached the whole hut. The women were observing what was going on, but were reluctant to draw near. Amanda fell to her knees and began to pray. She shook her head from sid
e to side, waiting for a reaction from Frau Meyer, some words of encouragement, but soon realized that the previous night’s intensity had been a farewell. She had no more prayers left, no more imploring gestures, no more hopeful smiles. Lina had succumbed on the seventh day.

  Just a few more hours, give me a few more hours, she begged, resting her forehead on the wet mattress.

  “I promise I’ll get you out of here. Just a few more hours, little Lina.”

  Sighing, Amanda remained on her knees for several minutes in a reverie where only she could take refuge. When she closed her eyes, she could feel her heartbeats and clearly saw Julius holding out his hand to her. He was wearing a white shirt buttoned to the neck, with the sleeves rolled up, and she recognized the brown leather belt he had inherited from his father. What about his smell, Julius’s smell? She took a deep breath to inhale it, but her senses failed her. The color had drained from everything around her as well; it had all gone back to a uniform gray. “It’s time to count heartbeats. Come on: One, two . . .” She could hear Julius’s voice like a distant echo. The words were repeated time and again, cascading over one another. “Julius! Julius!” she called out to him. Her voice mingled with his. A few seconds united outside time.

  “Lina! Lina!”

  The two candles had burned down on the windowsill. Against the light, she saw her daughter standing with a steaming cup in her hands. She was drinking and smiling.

  “Be careful, drink it slowly, slowly, your stomach’s been empty a long time,” Frau Meyer said out loud, giving Amanda time to recover from the shock. “Your girl is stronger than all the rest of us put together.”

  Lina left the mug on the windowsill and went over to hug her mother. “I think I wet the bed, Mama,” she said in her ear.

  You won’t be sleeping in this bed anymore, my child, Amanda thought, but did not dare say it.