The Survivors

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘He was really shocked when you smacked him one.’

  ‘We sorted him out,’ I grinned at his tense face.

  ‘You sorted him out.’

  ‘You watched my back.’

  His smile was so wide it set his lip bleeding again.

  Today I will kill Oskar Scholz.

  Are you shocked?

  I am. The thoughts in my head are on fire.

  I stood stiff and chill at the window and watched the sun rise. It nudged its way lazily above the horizon and spilled gold all over the streets of Graufeld Camp. Its grey soulless buildings were transformed into some kind of paradise. Which of course is what it was. Without Graufeld most of us DPs would be dead. However much we loathed the place. However much we railed against the control the Allied powers exerted over our lives. They were our saviours and this was the Eden they had built for us.

  I rested my forehead on the cold pane of glass. It did nothing for the heat in my brain. Nothing would rid me of that except the white powder. Rafal was to be my scout. Izak was to be my proxy. It was all arranged. The girls were not to leave each other’s side on pain of . . .

  I was going to say death. On pain of death. But today there is too much death in my head to allow for more. So instead of death, I say on pain of my wrath. They both stared at me big-eyed and nodded obedience.

  When it was only just light and the curtain was still drawn around my bed, I set to work.

  The twist of newspaper under my mattress.

  A brown-glass bottle of Hanna-concocted vodka.

  A tiny teaspoon.

  A cork.

  I scooped up a tiny portion of the powder on to the spoon and tapped it into the bottle. I shook it, then peered inside. The powder had vanished.

  ‘How much, Mama?’

  I jumped. I’d thought Alicja was still asleep.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly.

  We both stared at the bottle but there was no answer to be found there.

  ‘It’s very strong,’ I murmured. ‘The powder.’

  ‘Put in more, Mama,’ She was leaning over the edge of the top bunk, her golden hair escaping at wild angles, her concentration intense. ‘Just in case.’

  I breathed in. Aware of what I was hearing from my own child, I kept very still, my gaze fixed on her.

  ‘I could stop now. Right now.’

  She slid off her bunk in her thin white nightdress with the embroidery that Alzbeta had sewn on it. She removed the bottle from my hand.

  ‘I’ll hold it. You pour more in,’ she whispered.

  I poured.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  When it happened, it happened swiftly.

  Rafal came running, cheeks flushed. ‘He’s there!’

  ‘How many with him?’ I asked.

  ‘Three men.’

  I expected the shakes. A dry mouth. Gut twisting. But I experienced none of these things. I was calm and breathing freely. I had been over and over it so many times in my head. The same way I used to run through every single move when I was laying gelignite charges under railway lines or inside the exhaust pipes of the Mercedes 170 staff cars, so beloved by Nazi officers in Warsaw.

  ‘Izak,’ I said.

  He was at my elbow.

  I took his damaged face between my hands. I could see the fierce determination in his jet-black eyes, feel the heat making the shiny scars throb beneath my palm.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Izak.’

  ‘I want to do it.’

  His vehemence took us by surprise. Usually he was soft spoken. But we all knew he had lost his whole family to the gas chambers and the officer who gave that order would most likely be another from the same mould as Oskar Scholz.

  I didn’t kiss him. I shook his eager young hand. And I gave him the brown bottle.

  ‘Quick, Rafal. Tell me.’ I gripped his arm.

  ‘You were right. They’re sitting outside, playing poker.’

  ‘Describe it.’

  ‘They’ve found themselves stools. Four of them. Their table is a cardboard box. Scholz has his back facing this way, so he can’t see me.’

  ‘That’s excellent.’

  I pictured them, seated outside Hut W in a shifting patch of sunlight, dealing the cards. Smoking. Checking their hand. Placing their bets. Shoulders tense.

  ‘What are the stakes?’ I asked.

  ‘Half-cigarettes.’

  I nodded. ‘Izak knows what to do. He’ll be all right.’

  But it was myself I was reassuring. Me who needed to believe it. Rafal and I had sat with Izak yesterday and taught him poker for six hours straight. He wasn’t much good at it but he now knew how to play and what to call.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ I said again.

  The other three children echoed my words. Rafal had hung around the camp’s poker tables for weeks, drawn like a foolish moth to a particularly brutal flame, but Rafal was big and strong and noticeable. I couldn’t take the chance that Scholz might have seen him with me. Whereas little Izak? No one noticed him. He was part of the background, part of the greyness of the camp.

  Rafal became my eyes and ears. My runner. I couldn’t risk going anywhere near the game myself. If Scholz spotted me, he’d know immediately that something was up, and the same was true of Alicja. We had taken up position on the dirt strip down the side of Hut N. I daren’t go closer, so Rafal came and went. Back and forth between Hut W and Hut N, which meant I received my news in bite-size pieces.

  Izak was hanging around. Scuffing his feet. Watching the poker game.

  How does he look? Like a kid looking in a sweet shop window.

  He has moved closer. Crouched on the ground.

  Who is winning? Scholz. He wins every hand.

  One player threw down his cards. Abandoned the game.

  Izak is talking to them. Shows them his cigarettes.

  He’s in.

  He’s playing.

  He’s losing.

  Scholz cleans out Izak. Pockets his winnings.

  I am not breathing. I change our set-up. Rafal remains in sight of the game and Alzbeta becomes the runner, so that we miss nothing now.

  I have our stories ready. They may just bury Scholz and leave it at that. But if the police get involved and come after Izak, he is to say he stole the vodka bottle from under my bed. To him it was vodka, nothing more. His stake in a poker game. If they then come after me – which they will – I will readily admit that I put arsenic in with the alcohol and kept it under my bed. Ready for the day when I couldn’t go on. When the darkness opened up and swallowed me.

  The Polizei would buy that. Suicides in Graufeld were not uncommon. Scholz’s death was an unfortunate accident. Yes, I’m sorry, sir, that the bottle from under my bed caused his painful death but I could not have foreseen it. Izak is innocent. I am—

  ‘Mama! Look.’

  Alzbeta was haring towards us, arms flying in a panic at her sides. Her mouth open in a silent scream.

  ALICJA

  Alicja knew at once it had gone wrong. Alzbeta was shaking in Mama’s arms. Her words wouldn’t come out straight.

  ‘He . . . lost.’

  ‘It’s all right, Alzbeta,’ Mama soothed. ‘Izak was meant to lose.’

  Alzbeta’s head was trembling. ‘He . . . drank.’

  Ice fingers crept around Alicja’s heart. ‘Who lost? Who drank?’

  ‘Izak put the bottle. On the table.’ Alzbeta’s teeth started to chatter. ‘They all played poker. But . . .’

  Mama held her gently. Waiting for more. But worse than my friend’s panic was Mama’s stillness. Like the statues in the convent. Her cheeks as white as marble.

  ‘But he lost.’ Alzbeta forced it out.

  ‘Izak lost?’ Mama asked.

  ‘No. Scholz. Lost.’

  The moan that escaped Mama was like a cry from the grave. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Scholz didn’t win. It was the first game he lost. The man who won was old. He snat
ched the bottle.’

  ‘Did he drink any of the vodka?’

  But Alicja knew. They all knew.

  Alzbeta was nodding over and over again. Alicja put her hand on her friend’s cheek to make her stop.

  ‘What happened? Quickly.’

  ‘He opened the bottle really fast. Started to drink. His old eyes were huge. Like they were going to pop. But,’ she dragged in a whooping breath, ‘Izak threw himself at him and knocked the bottle.’

  ‘Did he get it?’

  ‘It smashed. On the ground.’

  Mama was uncurling her arms from around Alzbeta, but she pressed bloodless lips to her forehead. ‘Stay here. With Alicja.’

  Alicja took Alzbeta’s hand. It was as boneless as jelly.

  ‘Where’s Izak?’ Mama whispered.

  ‘He ran.’

  ‘And Rafal?’

  ‘He’s still hanging around there. To see what . . .’

  Mama was leaving. But her limbs were moving in a different way, the same way she moved in the forest when they were fleeing from the Soviets in Poland. Head forward, alert, tense. A wolf on the hunt. Alicja felt the hairs on her head rise and she wanted to cling to her, to hold her back. Mama turned her head to look, and Alicja saw something in her eyes she’d never seen before. A darkness. A night shadow. She started to shiver.

  But when she blinked Mama was smiling. Her eyes were sky blue again.

  ‘Take Alzbeta back to our hut,’ she called. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back.’

  Alicja believed her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  ‘No, Klara. Stay away.’

  It was Rafal who had stepped into my path, arms outstretched, barring my way.

  ‘Don’t go down there. You mustn’t be seen.’

  I was going to push past him but something stopped me. Rafal was different. He seemed larger, more solid. He’d grown older, not just his body, but his mind too. This was not the Rafal of an hour ago. Murder does that to you. It changes you.

  ‘What happened to Izak?’ I asked quickly.

  ‘He’s gone. Back to your hut. That’s where you should go.’

  ‘And the man who drank some of the vodka?’

  ‘He’s on the ground. Sick as a dog.’

  ‘Alive?’

  He nodded. ‘So far.’

  ‘Have the medics been alerted?’

  ‘Yes. They’ll take him to hospital.’

  We looked at each other. There was a connection, an understanding between us that hadn’t been there before. We both knew what the other was going through, and I rested a hand on his broad shoulders. I couldn’t help wondering if they were strong enough for this. I had asked so much of him.

  ‘Come with me, Rafal. Thank you for what you did today. I told Izak to break the bottle if it fell into anyone else’s hands, but he will need our help now. He respects you.’

  He could not resist a faint smile and we turned to retrace our steps, when two large British Army soldiers suddenly materialised on each side of me.

  ‘Mrs Klara Janowska?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come with us, please.’

  How did Colonel Whitmore know that it was me?

  I had expected this. But not this fast. The poisoned man was not even in hospital yet.

  Had Scholz pointed a finger at me?

  I prepared my face as I was marched towards the Administration building. Shock. Innocence. Distress. All on view for Whitmore to see. The distress was all too real. How could it have gone wrong? How could that poor man have won the vodka bottle and poured poison into himself by mistake?

  How?

  Unless Scholz knew. Unless he lost on purpose. No, he couldn’t know. He couldn’t. It wasn’t possible.

  Guilt gnawed at me. I wanted to rush to the sick man’s side, to hold his hand and cry ‘I’m sorry’. All I could hope for was that Izak smashed the bottle before it had done more than touch the victim’s lips. My own lips were dry and numb. Scholz, if you are—

  Wait.

  The soldier had marched me past the entrance to Administration and round towards the rear of the building.

  ‘Wait!’ I dug in my heels and came to a halt. ‘Where are we—?’

  But they were skilled at their job, well practised in the art of control. Without breaking stride they each took an arm and propelled me forward, my feet barely touching the ground.

  ‘Stop! I thought Colonel Whitmore wanted—’

  My words died in my throat. In front of me parked at the back of the building was an army truck. I wouldn’t have taken any notice of it, just another of the military vehicles that buzzed in and out of the camp. This one was the usual khaki green. A canvas cover. A wooden door on the driver’s side of the cab.

  A wooden door?

  I blinked. Since when did British Army trucks have wooden doors? Then I saw the emblem on it and that was when the fear hit. Like a grenade in my chest. I struggled to free myself but the soldiers’ grip on my arm was an unbreakable one.

  ‘No,’ I shouted, trying to tear my arms loose. ‘There’s been a mistake.’

  They ignored me.

  ‘Let me talk to Colonel Whitmore at once.’

  The driver in the cab of the truck leaned out and nodded to two uniformed men who were leaning against the truck, watching me with interest. But their uniform was not a British Army one, any more than the truck door was a British Army one. My eyes travelled once more to the emblem on its side, drawn to it irresistibly the way a person is drawn to the edge of a cliff. It was a red star. The symbol of the Soviet Army.

  They had come for me.

  The Russians took over.

  It was short and sharp. I was seized by fists that were not shy of inflicting pain. They bundled me towards the back of the truck and I fought to breathe.

  ‘Sergeant!’ I screamed at the retreating back of the British soldier. ‘Sergeant, fetch Colonel Whitmore quickly.’

  The one with Brylcreemed hair glanced over his shoulder at me and pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Sorry, love, but he’s the one who signed the transfer form. It’s the colonel’s decision.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fetch my daughter. In . . .’ My mind went blank. I couldn’t think. Didn’t know my own hut. My own name.

  The Russians hoisted me into the back of the truck.

  ‘Alicja.’ I dragged her precious name out of the blackness swirling inside my head. ‘In Hut C. Let me say goodbye to her, please, please, let me—’

  The Russian soldier, the one with a face like granite, elbowed me in the throat and I went tumbling to the floor of the truck. He leaped in behind me, agile as a mountain goat despite his Tokarev rifle. He yelled something at me in Russian, something I didn’t understand, and the engine started. We were driven at speed to the camp gates and waved straight through.

  ‘Alicja!’ I screamed as the huts dwindled to nothing behind us.

  ‘Fucking hell, Klara, you too? The Russian shitheads have us both.’

  I wheeled round. It was Hanna.

  Why?

  Over and over in my head. The same question. Jerking and crashing. Why did Colonel Whitmore hand me over to the Russians? It could only be because Scholz had betrayed me – despite our deal. I’d always known he would.

  Bastard. Stinking lying Nazi bastard son of a whore. I should have killed him earlier. Much earlier. But I tell you, it is not easy to kill someone in cold blood, not someone you know.

  The truck jolted us. Shook our bones and rattled our teeth. The road – wherever it was heading – was rough and potholed. Cratered by bombs, torn up by tanks. Only our Russian guard with his granite face appeared not to notice. He sat on the bench opposite us, shoulders hunched, picking his teeth. His rifle slung across his knees, his eyes barely blinking and focused on us.

  Hanna sat slumped beside me on a bench, handcuffed to my wrist. Our bodies touched wherever they could, our arms, our hips, our thighs, her foot hooked around mine. Seeking comfor
t from each other. Her white sheet tunic was slick with sweat. We spoke little after our first cries of surprise and bafflement. Neither of us had been prepared for this abrupt banishment.

  ‘Alicja and Rafal won’t be alone. Davide will take care of them,’ I assured Hanna. ‘Until we come back.’

  But she scowled. ‘And who will take care of us?’

  I took her hand in mine. We didn’t discuss the skincrawling horror that lay ahead. Or the fact that we would not be coming back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Graufeld Camp

  DAVIDE BOUVIER

  ‘Davide! Davide!’

  The scream hurtled into the office. Davide leaped from his chair and Captain Jeavons abandoned his telephone call. Klara’s daughter came racing through the door, arms flailing, tears streaking down her cheeks. Something molten erupted inside Davide’s chest as he went to her and placed his hands on her small shoulders to calm her.

  ‘Alicja, what is it?’

  ‘Taken . . . they’ve taken . . .’

  She was gasping and sobbing. The words jammed in her throat. Her whole body was shaking so hard he feared her birdlike bones would crack.

  ‘Taken what, Alicja?’

  He said what not who. Willing it to be a what.

  ‘Taken her.’

  There was only one her.

  He lowered his face to hers and spoke in a quiet voice. ‘Do you mean someone has taken your mother?’

  She nodded. Violently.

  His first thought was Oskar Scholz. Dear God, what was he doing to her?

  ‘Where has he taken her? Did you see? Where? Tell me, Alicja. Be quick.’

  ‘Away. Out. There.’

  Her hand shot out towards the window, her fingers stabbing at the air. The impact of what she had seen seemed to kick suddenly in her stomach and she lurched forward, bent double. Her tears streamed straight down to the floor, darkening the boards. It was heart-rending to watch. Davide gathered her into his arms and she buried her face in his shirt, the way his daughter used to.

  ‘Bring her back. Bring her—’

  ‘Who took her, Alicja? Was it Scholz?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Soldiers.’