by Anna Ellory
I wouldn’t believe it was me. I touched the mirror several times thinking it was an illusion. Feeling your own shaved head and seeing it are two very different things. My eyes were hollow, the red of blood on my cheek bringing out the green so I looked almost demonic.
The older lady is called Wanda, her hands work as fast as her mouth and she had a bandage for my face. She cleaned and hugged Hani – who couldn’t understand a word. She too was mesmerised with her reflection and studied the place where her teeth had been.
Wanda introduced us to Stella, a little girl, no more than seven or eight. She still has most of her baby teeth, two gaps at the front. Stella sleeps in a bunk with a young woman, ‘Bunny’, who I do not think is her mother. Bunny hums all night to keep her dreams soft.
‘Bunny is silent. She hasn’t spoken since they brought her here,’ said Wanda.
Then there is Eugenia, who comes across as cold, but may be just hardened by life here; she has been here a long time. Two years! She must be in her mid-twenties, as I assume Bunny is, yet Bunny looks like she could be no more than a teenager, or she could be into her late thirties. I kept looking at her for clues, but the kerchief on her head, the bleak, dark space behind her eyes and the fear make it hard to place her in age. She looks like someone who has seen too much.
Hani and I have no blanket and only one bowl between us, we have nothing to offer, but to Wanda this doesn’t seem to matter. She is so kind. We are grateful. I’m not sure if we would have been made so welcome if Wanda had not taken us both under her wing. Wanda seemed enchanted with Hani’s beauty and her innocent look of being unable to understand all that goes on around her.
Hani and I are invited to sleep in the top bunk. I have a thousand questions passing through my mind, but I feel overwhelmed by the kindness. My face throbs from the blow and Hani and I are lying down wrapped in each other’s arms. The first time I have lain down in many weeks. It feels so nice, I cry. The first time since I left you. My eyes heavy from tears, dry and hot. I rest.
These women, this place. For Miriam, there is no point of reference for all she is reading. She cannot imagine it, yet she is reading it. And millions experienced it.
‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ Miriam says to her father. ‘You cannot blame yourself. You didn’t do this.’ She raises the letter. ‘This is . . . Maybe there aren’t words for this.’
HENRYK
It was the 10th of April 1944. A Monday. The last time I saw Frieda.
We had been arrested two days after all laws ceased and one man oversaw an entire city.
Our journey started on the Schildhornstraβe in Berlin. I was sure we were going to be shot, right outside the flat Emilie and I had been hiding in. But we were told to walk instead. The sun felt like ice as it emerged through a deep fog, blurring the edges of my vision.
We walked for hours, all familiarity behind us. Stopping only for more houses to be emptied of their occupants. As Hagelstraβe turned into Fontanestraβe, we stayed on the road, lined with tree stumps and burnt-out army vehicles.
A procession of footsteps chattered, a train moving on its tracks. The houses that lined the streets had been boarded up. All doors and windows were blocked, yet there was scattered glass on the ground. People attacked from above and within. Behind the facade of empty, derelict houses, people hid and prayed, thankful that today it was not them. I, too, had believed I was safe within the confines of four walls. But those walls had come down and I was out in the open with nothing but Frieda by my side. Surrounded by officers marching along the pavements, we became part of a throng of people under siege.
Ahead of us someone had fallen.
‘Schwein!’ a male voice barked. To my left an officer swept diagonally towards an elderly man who had collapsed over a suitcase. The officer, in perfect green uniform, gleaming boots, spat on him.
‘Du faules Schwein.’ He struck the man on the back of the head. One blow that propelled the man forward, his hat fell off and a shower of white hair emerged from under it as his face impacted on the case. I moved with the crowds and looked down at him. Frieda pulled me on, averting her eyes. I turned and she grabbed my arm harder, but I moved towards the man against others passing me.
Frieda held back.
‘Zurück in der Reihe,’ the officers shouted to me, but there was no line to return to, there was only the hobbling mass that bumbled along.
Away from the fallen man.
‘Henryk.’ Frieda had caught my arm again, she was looking at the officers as they were watching me. No one stopped, they kept pace, all eyes forward. The officer brushed his fingers across the rim of his hat, before stomping on the man’s back.
‘Aufstehen,’ he screamed, red-faced, then looking at his comrades he laughed and they laughed along with him. I paused.
‘Henryk,’ Frieda whispered on tiptoes, touching her lips to my ear. ‘Please.’
The officer stepped away and the fastening popped as he took out a pistol from its holster.
‘Aufstehen!’ He motioned with the pistol for the man to get up.
‘Bitte warten,’ I shouted and pushed Frieda away. I placed myself between the old man and the officer. ‘Wait.’ I bent down. ‘Wait,’ I said again, more to myself this time. Hovering my body over the man, he smelt both damp and old. His coat was too short and his forearms poked out of the sleeves, his feet clad in house shoes, barely soled. The suitcase was made of beaten leather, the stitches frayed at the edges. I was focused on the suitcase, waiting for the shot. Waiting. But it was Frieda who reached me first.
‘Come sir, please,’ she said, placing a hand on his back. ‘They will shoot us all.’ She picked up his hat and wedged it on his head.
‘He is fine,’ she said, looking at the officer with the pistol still pointing at us. ‘Please lower your aim, this man just needs help.’ At her words, I lifted the man to his feet. Placing both arms over my shoulders and all his weight on my back. Frieda picked up his suitcase.
‘Nein,’ he said so close to my ear that it startled me. He pulled free of my arms and slouched back to the ground.
‘Nein!’ he shouted, grabbing his case back from Frieda and holding it to his chest like a shield. The officer repositioned his pistol and aimed it at the man.
‘Die Juden,’ the officer said, shrugging his shoulders as if it couldn’t be helped. I pulled Frieda to me and we turned away as a shot rang out. We shrank from the noise and hurried ahead, getting lost in the crowd. The buzzing in my ears did nothing to dull the mocking bell of laughter from the officers.
We raced along, keeping pace. I held her into my body, our combined heat amplified as we ran from what we had seen. Eventually we slowed with the crowd, she placed her arm around my own and walking became less cumbersome.
Once our hands had cooled together Frieda spoke, reverting to French to allow our words a whisper of privacy.
‘What do we do now?’
‘What can we do?’ I said, shaking my head in defeat. She looked at me quizzically then dropped her hand from mine.
She watched the people mill around us and for the rest of our long walk I was just as disconnected from her as they were.
MIRIAM
She moves on to the next letter. They hold answers, but as Miriam reads she becomes lost in a sea of words, in a world so removed from her own that she easily forgets the questions.
Henryk,
The first day waking in Block 15 was blissful. The sun shone and we were greeted with ‘hellos’ and ‘sweet dreams?’ Rather than shoves and shouts. The roll call was long but the sky was blue and optimism filled Hani and me. Now that we have been allocated a block we can work and this lifts our spirits more. Women work, they get on, it is what we do and Hani and I have become part of the ‘sand team’.
The others in the block are not part of a work detail. They are known fondly as ‘the Rabbit Girls’. From what I can gather they are human guinea pigs, women experimented upon. There is an aura of protection around them from th
e women. Hani and I look quizzically at each other, not really understanding.
Bunny does not leave her bunk at all. Bunny, Wanda and Eugenia sew and knit for the war effort while Stella plays outside with the other orphans.
But, I am keen to move and feel blood pumping through my body. Sedentary and stiff over the past weeks, moving will be a blessing. It will be good to feel part of something.
HENRYK
We woke together under the bridge of Gleis 17, numb, into a cacophony of fear. Roused with one command. Men to the right, women to the left. There were no children here. We were a flowing tide about to hit a jagged cliff edge that would send us in two different directions.
No individual wanted to move, yet we were all forced forward. It wasn’t until the doors of the wagons slid open and I saw there were already people in there, I knew it was over. They must have been locked in the wagon overnight, shut away like cattle, but they didn’t run or try to leave their wooden cells. When daylight seeped in, their faces peered out at us, afraid, curious, bleak.
I should have held her tighter. I should not have let her go. I should have found a way to prevent what happened next. But to hold her would be to break her. The ribbon of terror unravelled in me. I knew it would slink into her, and she had to remain strong, for we were both going on.
Alone.
Shakespeare said that for those who love, time is eternal, and he is right. There is an endless sense that wherever she goes I go too. As long as I live she lives within me. I wish I’d said that to her.
But I didn’t.
What I said was, ‘Your hands are cold.’
Those were my parting words.
She smiled. Her hands slipped from mine as fingertips reached, finding only air. I stumbled and was forced to look away as I knocked into someone. I turned and when I turned back she was gone.
MIRIAM
‘Rabbits? Experiments?’ She looks at the next letters, on tiny scraps of paper as thin as tissue, they have rolled over themselves and she struggles to keep them flat. ‘What did they do to them?’
Henryk,
We work, we eat the tiniest food, enough to keep us alive, but only just, not enough to satisfy any hunger. Wanda has found us another bowl so Hani and I no longer share. This means we get to eat more now. I still mush Hani’s bread, it is getting harder to stop before I swallow the full amount.
The sand eats at my skin. It is senseless work to break the spirit. We move sand and it moves straight back. My hands hurt too much to write and I have run out of paper.
Dad grunts, shivers and then shakes. Tremors grow like a wave through the entire left side of his body, becoming more violent as Miriam stands. But just as she is about to get the midazolam, the tremors slow and he shivers again, teeth chattering.
‘Hold on, Dad,’ she says, adding blankets and smoothing his cool hands.
‘So cold,’ he mutters, and she lies on the bed with him.
‘I’m right here,’ she says as his body relaxes. Night seeps in through the window, an unwelcome presence in the room. ‘I’m right here,’ she says again, but fear crawls up her legs, and the oppressive dark makes her think of him. If he’s back, then he’s back for her.
They are running out of time. Just like Frieda ran out of paper. Yet there are more letters, and she feels a sense of dread forming word by word, letter by letter; this cannot end well.
‘I’ll find out what happened, but please, please stay. Just a little longer. Please.’
As his snores fill the room, she slips out of the bed, gets another letter from the pile and reads in the small light of the lamp.
I traded my bread for a long, thin pencil and I write to you in the safety of the bunk. The ‘rabbit girls’ are ignored by our Blockova, an intimidating woman of size and voice, yet she doesn’t attack in spite. She doesn’t need to. You only need to show the whip to a beaten dog.
The ‘rabbit girls’ are mainly ignored by the women too. Some offer Bunny and Wanda any additional bread they have saved or stolen. Others make playthings for Stella, from a small sheet of cotton a doll is created, which brings a smile to a young face.
Bunny and Wanda offer sewing and mending, creating pockets on the inside of uniforms is Bunny’s speciality. Her fingers are so nimble. I am entranced by them as they work.
I am safe with these women.
I feel exhausted by my day, the routine, the expectation that I may be shot or injured, beaten or moved into holding cells or punishment blocks. Women dragged away, screaming to no avail. We all stand and watch and are thankful that today it isn’t us. Friends do nothing. Yet, when the woman returns, so emaciated it’s impossible to know how she still breathes, her ribs pushing out from skin, her friends wait with soup, bread and warmth.
I write at night, my eyes tear and sting from trying to write by only moonlight. Wanda snores, Bunny and Stella curl into each other, Bunny humming. Hani is wrapped over me as I write, lying on my side, squeezing as many words as I can on to one sheet of paper for you.
I hope we can burn them together to forget the past and pave a way for the future.
Occasionally Eugenia’s head pops out from the middle bunk and we talk. She tells of the Allies, talks of liberation and the other ladies in the camp and how they are making small moves to try to save themselves and others. Regular transports take prisoners away. Some believe to a sanatorium, Eugenia thinks it is to death. She talks of names added to this list and how hard some women work to get their names, or those they love, off the list. It seems the Blockova has control of the blocks and sends names to the guards who form the lists. One way or another, the women leave the camp.
Eugenia promises news that the Allies are on their way. Russians or Americans will liberate the camp, and soon. Neither of us believe this to be true. There is no liberation and to believe in an end to this is folly. We continue as we do: we work to survive. It is so nice to talk, to communicate like women. We talk and talk until one of us falls asleep. I feel richer in my heart talking to Eugenia.
I place my letters in the folds of the straw mattress and pray they will still be there on my return.
I have Hani’s warm body around me and this moment is squandered in sleep. It is my time to dream, to think, to give thanks for all that I have. There is no God, there is only soup. I am, with my pencil, making a mark on the world, however insignificant. I exist. They cannot eradicate me.
16
MIRIAM
As Miriam reads, a sense of hopelessness invades her. These women believed that something would be done, that other people would save them. She tries to sleep, but sees a silent woman tucked up in blankets sewing pockets and seams, everyone broken or battered. In comparison, her own troubles seem pitiful.
She dozes off just before dawn and dreams of snakes. Long, worming snakes in her stomach, weaving in and out of her skin. She grabs and pulls at them, but she cannot catch them. Smooth and sleek, they just slip back into the skin and writhe inside.
Miriam wakes as her nails dig into her stomach. She jumps up, fetches the scissors from her mother’s drawer and takes them to the soft warm skin of her tummy. As soon as she sees red lines the internal snakes shrink and dissolve to the dreams they were.
She is disturbed by a knock at the door, and opens it just a crack, then enough to see Eva on the other side. Eva, with her hand up, poised to knock, paused in motion. Dressed in a deep-blue cardigan, grey-black trousers and heavy boots. Her coat and bag are cradled over her arm, with Lionel by her side.
‘Your intercom isn’t working,’ he says, sweat slick on his forehead. ‘Don’t suppose you know why?’
‘Umm . . .’
‘This’ – he looks to Eva, who remains silent – ‘this lady, here, couldn’t get in when she buzzed. Had to walk all the way up here with her, you know. To be safe in these times.’
‘Thanks, Lionel.’
‘While I’m here, let’s have a look at this, shall we?’ He manoeuvres his bulk past Miriam and lifts the int
ercom phone. ‘Well, petal,’ he says, levelling her with his gaze. ‘It’s unplugged.’ He places the plug back into its socket and gives her a glance that says ‘don’t do that again’, before tipping his hat at Eva and walking away.
‘Would you like to come in?’
‘Actually, I was wondering if I can talk to you,’ Eva says, looking straight at Miriam, her gaze strong. Miriam covers her stomach with freshly washed hands. ‘I may have been a bit . . . forceful at the library the other day.’
‘Forceful?’
‘I just wasn’t, well, it’s very difficult to trust people.’
‘I understand.’ She opens the door wider to invite Eva in. ‘I suppose I have been privileged, I don’t know what it was like on the other side of the Wall.’
‘Have you been reading the letters?’
‘Yes, the rabbit girls . . . It’s horrific, that this happened and—’
‘You didn’t make it to the library yesterday,’ Eva interrupts her.
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Did you get my note?’
‘Yes, and thank you for the letters too. It’s quite a story, but I don’t really know—’
‘Can I buy you a coffee? The shop at the end of the street?’ Eva interrupts again.
She thinks of her father resting and nods. ‘Coffee would be lovely, let me just tell Dad.’
The coffee shop is open, the inhabitants laughing, talking. Living. Miriam walks in and the smell of Christmas invades her senses. She softens in the warm glow of cinnamon and coffee beans.
Eva finds a seat at the back of the shop in front of a large, open window; even though it is early, the view from the window is grim and dark. The breeze is a welcome chill to the hot fuzz of people and coffee. Miriam orders a coffee in a large glass with cream and cinnamon sprinkles; a small biscuit and long spoon are placed in front of her.
She orders Eva the same and scans the room before perching on the edge of her chair. She wishes Axel could just be there. Just there. Because if he’s there, he cannot be everywhere. Miriam fidgets, looks up and jumps at the slightest noise or movement from the people around her. Within minutes her body is tense and aches, confined within the chair.
