Mapping the Bones

by Jane Yolen

  * * *

  • • •

  Later, with all their heads shaved, they looked entirely foreign to one another. Chaim thought they seemed like little wizened gnomes out of one of the old stories Papa used to tell. Gittel especially seemed changed, her braids and the fringe of hair that had disguised her broad forehead gone.

  Gittel began to giggle, pointing her finger at Chaim. Sophie picked up the laughter, carrying it in the unwieldy bucket of her fear.

  “Yes,” Manny told them. “That’s the usual reaction. Laughter to hold back the tears. Laugh now, children. There will be little to laugh about from now on. And when you are done laughing, I will send for the Head Swine to tell him that you are ready.”

  “Does he know you call him that, Manny?” Gittel asked as her giggles subsided.

  “Probably,” Manny said, touching his right ear, then his right eye. “Everyone listens in, and everyone spies—and everyone tells things . . . for a price.”

  “Not us,” Bruno boasted.

  Remembering Bruno and the stolen candies, Chaim doubted that.

  “We all have a price,” Manny said.

  “What is your price?” Sophie asked, staring up at him.

  “I am a barber. A good barber. I had my own shop in Lublin.”

  “We lived in Lublin,” Sophie said, her voice soft.

  “Maybe we were neighbors once,” said Manny. “Now we are neighbors again. Perhaps I cut your papa’s hair . . .”

  She gave him a hug.

  Manny smiled, but it didn’t make him look happy. “Now I do this. My price was a pair of glasses so I could see to do the shaving of heads and cutting of hair without injuring anyone. My price was staying alive. One day. And one day more. And now I go to tell the guard to tell the Head . . .”

  “Swine!” the four said together.

  “To tell him you are ready,” Manny ended. “Forgive me.”

  “For what?” Gittel asked in a hushed voice.

  He took off his glasses, and his eyes looked ancient. “For anything that follows, my new young friends.”

  Gittel Remembers

  All the time in the ghetto, all the time in the forest, I didn’t consciously remember the food Mama used to make when we were in our old house.

  But at that first meal in the labor camp—I hesitate to honor it by calling it that, for it was gray, gritty, tasting of old age, mold, rust, and waste products—all the breakfasts Mama used to make for us came back in a rush of memory. They never left me the entire time we were there.

  The strong smell of coffee every morning, deep and sharp. Each Sabbath, when Chaim and I were allowed to have our own coffee cups, filled with highly sweetened coffee and, of course, more than half warmed milk.

  Sometimes we had a fried pastry with pockets of jelly Mama had preserved—blueberries from the forest, strawberries from the fruiterer, as well as apricot jams she had purchased at the grocery store.

  Oh, and not to forget the freshly squeezed fruit juices, plus hot porridge with butter on top oozing into its pores.

  Then a soft-boiled egg served in its own little cup that you tapped at the top with a teaspoon until the shell broke off and the treasure inside—the golden yolk—oozed down over the sides.

  Accompanying the egg, a roll, cheeses—some soft and spreadable, some hard and chewy.

  Papa would eat a bit of smoked fish, too, but only he liked it.

  I can never eat that much at breakfast anymore. It’s as if my belly remembers what my mind refuses to—the sorts of things we were forced to swallow at the Nazi labor camp.

  24

  They were quick-marched to another low building, this one with cleaner windows, though nothing could make it a welcome presence.

  Chaim kept running his hand over his shaved head, which felt as if it belonged to someone else. Each time he caught sight of Gittel, he realized that without hair to distract an onlooker, they really looked very much alike.

  The heavy-lidded man who led them to the ammunitions shop was the same one who’d brought them to the barber. He pointed to the door.

  “In there!” he ordered. It was as personal as a grunt.

  “What are we going to do—” Bruno began.

  “You ask too many questions, little meddler,” the man said gruffly. His heavy German accent somehow made everything he said more threatening. “I’m keeping my eye on you. Remember the chimney.”

  Bruno visibly shrank under the man’s gaze.

  Smiling grimly, Chaim thought that Bruno must not have remembered Gregor’s warning about being a troublemaker. But isn’t that what Bruno always does—make trouble?

  The man opened the door but didn’t follow them in.

  They were met instead by a woman dressed severely in black, who looked like an unpleasant schoolmistress. She stood rigidly, glaring at them, her hands behind her back as if grasping something tightly. There had been a teacher just like her in Chaim’s second grade in Łódź, Mrs. Stein. She’d constantly made him repeat himself, which only made him stutter more. Suddenly those days that once he’d thought so difficult seemed like heaven. He reminded himself that he’d survived the ghetto, the forest days, the slaughter of Karl Vanderer and his companions. This is just an old woman dressed in black!

  She greeted them with a voice that sounded like chalk screeching down a blackboard, but in perfect Polish. “When you address me, you will call me Madam Szawlowski, and only to answer questions. Do you understand?” The way she spoke was like a bad Victrola recording, automatic and without warmth. “Otherwise, no talking. Be silent as stone!”

  One by one, they nodded, Chaim last of all.

  She continued, “Do not touch anything until you have been instructed! And never talk back. Listen and learn. Otherwise things will go horribly for you.”

  Given there was nothing but a small table under a far window in that entry hall, Chaim thought such a welcoming speech seemed unnecessary, if not downright stupid. But of course, he said nothing. Why waste his words? Especially after her warning.

  But Bruno had no such curb on his tongue, which always seemed to lurch ahead of his thoughts. “There isn’t anything in here to touch,” he said.

  Quicker than Chaim would have believed possible, Madam Szawlowski brought a riding crop from behind her back and slapped the end of it hard across Bruno’s mouth. It was almost as if she’d been waiting for some reaction other than strict silence. A cobra waiting, indeed hoping to strike.

  “Be silent, you stupid Jew child,” she said to Bruno, but it was meant for all of them. The mark of the crop blushed a sudden bright red on Bruno’s cheek and lip. Astonishingly, it drew no blood. “You will not be told again.”

  Bruno was smart enough this time neither to whimper nor to raise a hand to his brutalized mouth, though tears threatened to fall from his brimming eyes.

  The hush in the room was now electric. Chaim felt it sizzle like a wire fence around them. None of them dared move until they were told to do so. Even blinking might be forbidden. He forced himself to keep his eyes wide open.

  “You may say, ‘Yes, Madam Szawlowski,’” she instructed them.

  They said it together, their voices trembling, though Chaim only mouthed the words. It was his one small rebellion.

  She smiled at them, though it was more like a snarl. “We here at the camp believe hard labor is a productive way to teach outsiders like you Jews proper habits and personal discipline. Too long you have lived frivolous lives.”

  Chaim thought of the little girl dead on the Łódź street. Thought about his mother sharing one small square of chocolate with the family every two weeks. Thought of Mr. Abrams being hauled down the stairs. Thought of Karl, killed in the forest, flies gathering around his open mouth.

  Nothing frivolous there.

  “This is the Führer’s smallest labor camp, but i
n terms of production, the best. Three times we have won the award for most products made here. Only fifty of you young Jews working in two factories, seventy-three Jews altogether, and yet we have three medals from the Führer.” She smiled, and it seemed to Chaim that she had more teeth than a shark.

  After a deep breath, she continued. “Do you have any coins, hairpins, rings? Anything metal. Or matches?”

  The questions about metal did not seem to make sense at all. But nonetheless the children all shook their heads.

  “We don’t want any explosions in the workroom,” Madam Szawlowski said, pointing with the riding crop to a door behind her.

  At the word explosions, Gittel and Sophie looked over at Chaim, their eyes wide. Usually he was the one who needed reassurance, but this time the two girls looked terrified.

  He shook his head almost imperceptibly, pursed his lips. Enough to warn them. Enough to calm them. But not enough to be beaten by Madam. That was something he could do.

  “Now you follow me,” Madam Szawlowski was saying. “Remember, touch nothing until you have had your instructions. And you”—she pointed the crop at Bruno, who shuddered and shrank away from her—“I am watching you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  They followed Madam Szawlowski through an inner door to a very large room filled with machines manned by children, some of whom Chaim recognized from Barracks 3 and breakfast. The machines were making ratcheting and squeaking noises. They spat out grease, which sounded like a small rain as it hit the walls, the floor. One machine even groaned as if protesting its usage. Or its age.

  There was much tumult in the room, but the workers were silent.

  Beside the silent children, two grown women worked at their own separate tables. They were wearing gray dresses and heavy aprons, pockets bulging. One of the women looked up as they came in and studied them intently, as if measuring them for shrouds. Then she looked away. The other paid no attention to them at all.

  From his quick glance, Chaim realized that Manya’s work consisted of filling a small iron casing with some kind of gray powder. He wondered what it was, then remembered the word, munitions. He guessed that was short for ammunition. Bullets, perhaps, for guns or cannons.

  Or bombs!

  Miserably, he realized that they would be working for the enemy. Not to help their own people, but to further destroy them.

  Over the noise of the machines, Madam Szawlowski said sternly to the other women, “I have four more Jews for you to train. Keep an eye on the small boy there. He’s a troublemaker if ever I saw one. He’ll need the whip more than once, I’m sure.”

  And then she left, the door closing silently after her.

  The woman who had not even looked up at them stood. She was pregnant and just beginning to show. Putting her right hand to the small of her back as if it—not her front—ached, she walked slowly, carefully toward them. She still had the shadow of Polish beauty about her. Her hair was in long blond braids tied together on the top of her head like a crown. There was a blush so perfect on each of her cheeks, Chaim guessed it had been painted on.

  He assumed the two women weren’t prisoners. They wore clean and tidy uniforms. And they had all their hair.

  “I am Madam Zgrodnik,” the pregnant lady said. “We are conscripted to work here, not prisoners like you Jews. You will address me accordingly.”

  Sophie and Gittel said immediately, “Yes, Madam Zgrodnik,” and were rewarded with a tight smile.

  But Bruno and Chaim were late in their responses, and Chaim’s especially couldn’t be heard. Madam Zgrodnik frowned, the lines so deep across her forehead, she suddenly looked like an old lady.

  “Please, Madam Zgrodnik,” Gittel dared, pointing at Chaim, “my brother doesn’t speak.”

  Intrigued rather than angry, the woman turned to Gittel. “Not at all?”

  “Hardly at all, Madam,” Gittel said, sweetening her voice and pushing her daring even further with a little curtsey. Though where she’d learned to do that, Chaim had no idea. Probably from some book. “He speaks at most five words in the morning, five more in the afternoon. He’s been a miser with his words since he was a child.”

  “Ah, that’s good. He’ll not make much noise. Madam Szawlowski doesn’t like noise.”

  Chaim thought, So that’s why she’s left this room!

  “But, wait,” Madam Zgrodnik said. “Is he stupid or just . . .”

  Gittel dropped another curtsey, this one more practiced. “Please, Madam, he came silent out of the womb. But he is very smart.” She put her hand up to her mouth in case this had been thought an insult and quickly added, “May your blessed state remain a happy one.”

  “I think you will do,” Madam Zgrodnik said, nodding. “Come. Girls ahead, boys after, and I shall show you what must be done. Pay attention. I shall not say it twice. After that, you will not speak directly to me, nor to Madam Grenzke there. You will speak only to the head girl, Manya. She’s a Jew just like you. You will not speak to her in your Jew language but always in Polish so we will know there are no secrets.”

  Gittel and Sophie nodded, and after them Bruno and Chaim, though Madam had already turned her back on them, expecting them to follow.

  Which, of course, they did.

  * * *

  • • •

  First, they were taken into a bathroom, one room for both boys and girls but with cubicles where they could change.

  The cubicles had walls but no doors.

  Four school uniforms lay folded on a shelf, and Madam Zgrodnik pointed to them with her right hand, her left hand on the small of her back.

  “You will each take a uniform. You will wear it every day, but you will not sleep in it. You will sleep in the clothes you came here with. You are to keep the uniforms clean. Is that understood?” She began to turn. “Oh, and wash your hands and faces. You’re disgusting.”

  There was a momentary silence, until Gittel realized a response was necessary. “Yes, Madam Zgrodnik,” she said brightly, with the other three stuttering the same words after her. Then Gittel added, “Do you need to sit down, Madam? May I get a chair for you?”

  But the woman waved her away impatiently. “I will not stay in here with you. The stink is too much for me. Don’t be long, else Madam Szawlowski will not be pleased. And one must always please Madam Szawlowski.”

  Chaim thought there was a hint of unexpressed anger in her words. But before he could consider it more thoroughly, she’d gone through the door, sailing as if she were a great ship, her small, rounded belly like a prow leading the way.

  They were left alone.

  “Do you think . . .” Sophie began.

  Gittel put her fingers to her lips. Touched her right eye and right ear, the way Manny had done after shaving their heads. Then put her finger to her lips again. “One must always please Madam Szawlowski,” she said sternly.

  All three stared at her, then one by one they nodded, Sophie adding in a chirpy voice, “Of course.”

  They picked out uniforms—the boys had long pants; the girls had skirts. Gittel chose the smaller of the two girls’ uniforms because Sophie was so much taller than she. Bruno snatched up the bigger uniform even though he was half a head shorter than Chaim and held on to it till Chaim glared at him wordlessly. But the glare worked, and Bruno gave the larger uniform to him without complaint.

  None of the uniforms fit them very well, but they fit well enough.

  “The important bits are covered,” Gittel pronounced, which made them all giggle.

  Chaim felt uncomfortable getting dressed in the same room as Gittel and Sophie. Yet they’d already slept side by side on the ground for weeks. They’d seen one another in all stages of uncleanliness as well. Privacy had long since been thrown out the window. But they still all had a shyness with one another. So he turned his back as he dressed, averted h
is eyes. Once in the uniform, he came out of the cubicle with his other clothes folded carefully and held under one arm. The others did the same.

  Suddenly Chaim remembered the barrels of herring and how much their old clothes at the time had reeked after that wild carriage ride. In the clean uniform, he was suddenly aware of how much his other clothes now stank. About as bad as the herring without the excuse of the fish! Thinking that way almost made him laugh out loud, so he put his hand quickly over his mouth, caution now an old habit.

  If it was a poem, he thought, I could call it “Three Ways of Looking at a Herring.”

  But Sophie, who was now fully dressed and out of her own cubicle, saw the merriment in his eyes.

  “How can you laugh at a time like this, in this place. This . . .” She wouldn’t—or maybe she couldn’t—name it.

  “Herring barrels!” he said, grinning. He held up the old clothes to his nose, sniffing in an exaggerated manner.

  At first, she looked confused. Then she got it. “Not as bad as that!”

  At the same moment, the other two came out of their cubicles and glared at Sophie and Chaim, who were grinning like bald monkeys.

  “What’s going on?” Bruno asked.

  But Gittel, with a quick downward movement of her hand as if she had a riding crop clutched in her fist, sobered them up fast.

  They marched solemnly out the door, though Bruno had to run back quickly because he’d left his old clothes in the changing cubicle. He returned with them bundled together under his arm.

  Chaim thought, He may be sorry about that later. The Madams might not like him to treat even old clothing in such a casual way. Then he mentally scolded himself. If there is a later. At that moment, rubbing a searching hand over his shaven head, silently aware of the stubble beneath his palm, he couldn’t have guaranteed any of them would be alive by day’s end.