No Going Back

by Anna Patrick

  ‘Thank you.’

  Bauer gave her a nod of sympathy and called the guard.

  Three weeks later, he sat in his boss’s office alongside the newly promoted Friedman, as they discussed their case load with Fuchs. Eventually, they reached the closed cases and the one that Bauer was dreading: Paciorkowska, Marta Antonina.

  Discussion was brief and centred on investigations in Warsaw where there was no discernible progress.

  ‘Perhaps our colleagues are not as diligent as we are here in the Central Government,’ said Fuchs, as Friedman preened himself.

  ‘No,’ said Bauer, wondering if he dared suggest Friedman pursue the investigation himself, but Fuchs pre-emptied him declaring they had more than enough to keep them busy here.

  ‘And the prisoner?’

  ‘Send her to Ravensbrück.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure the SS guards will appreciate some new pussy,’ said Friedman and laughed with as much enjoyment as Fuchs.

  ‘You’re not laughing, Inspector Bauer. Perhaps you don’t share our sense of humour?’

  Friedman’s tone was pleasant enough, but he didn’t fool Bauer. The man resented his recent, strenuous workload and with his promotion confirmed regarded himself as an equal.

  ‘No, not at all. I was just wondering how my brother-in-law would react to the joke.’

  Both men stopped laughing. Obersturmbannfuehrer Hoffmann had a fearsome reputation and was a figure of considerable importance in the Central Government and the instrument of Bauer’s transfer from Berlin to Krakow. He wasn’t a man you messed with.

  ‘But on balance, I’m sure he would find it hilarious,’ said Bauer, laughing and giving Friedman a friendly pat on the shoulder. All three men laughed together, but a point had been made and they all knew it.

  ‘Well, that’s enough business for one day. Now why don’t we all celebrate your promotion Friedman and the first drink is on me.’

  ‘And the second on me. Where do you propose? There are a few things I need to clear up and then I’ll go straight there.’

  With the location agreed, he headed for his office where he locked the closed cases files in his desk and pocketed the key.

  At the Luxus Bar on Burg-Strasse, the drinking continued for most of the night with Bauer matching them drink for drink but always losing the contents of his glass so that by the end of the evening his drunkenness was pure show. With a display of brotherly love for his colleagues, for Hitler, for the whole German race, Bauer extricated himself from his fellow drinkers and headed home.

  The next morning he was at the office bright and early. He requested plenty of coffee and made much of the headache that followed such a marvellous evening’s drinking and then asked Brigitta not to let anyone disturb him.

  Unlocking his desk drawer, he pulled out the files and placed Marta’s on top. He took the transfer order form and filled it in. To avoid arousing suspicion, he continued with all the closed cases files, filling in the forms as appropriate.

  ‘Remind me, Brigitta, does Criminal Director Fuchs need to countersign these?’

  ‘Inspector Bauer, that drinking session really didn’t do you any good. Leave them with me. They do require a countersignature, but as it happens Criminal Director Fuchs was rather late in today so I will sort these out with his secretary and get them signed and stamped.’

  ‘Thank you, Brigitta, you are a Godsend, and if you organise some more coffee, I shall declare you a veritable angel.’

  Friedman didn’t appear in the office at all which pleased Bauer. He saw Fuchs as the man was heading home.

  ‘You must have hollow legs, Bauer. How on earth did you get into work so early?’

  ‘I don’t know about hollow legs, but my head has been pounding like a big bass drum for most of the day.’

  ‘Mine too. I’m going home to sleep it off and I suggest you do the same.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  The next morning Brigitta brought all the files, countersigned and stamped and placed them in front of Bauer who produced a small box of chocolates from his desk drawer and presented them to his secretary with a flourish.

  ‘These are for you for being so solicitous yesterday when I wasn’t quite myself.’

  ‘Och, you shouldn’t have, Inspector Bauer.’

  But his gesture filled her body with pleasure and she blushed as she left clutching her gift.

  He flicked through the files, found Marta’s and checked the transfer document. All was in order.

  ‘These can go now.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. I’ll send them straightaway.’

  ‘Thank you, Brigitta.’

  Ravensbrück

  1944

  17

  The convoy rumbled on. Inside the prisoners huddled together. Marta made her peace with the prickly Rachel. She sensed the woman didn’t like her but didn’t understand why or what she could do to change her opinion. It was the same wherever she went; there was always someone who took exception to her and the unfairness bewildered her. What had she said? What had she done? She never had this trouble with male companions. It was a mystery when she made friends easily and inspired loyalty to match her own.

  They stopped for hours at a time, but couldn’t see out. Where were they? How long would they have to wait? The guards had distributed chunks of bread before they left Krakow, but how long was it meant to last? Marta took a bite and chewed it into a mushy pulp.

  There was no water; the sun heated the carriage and sapped their energy; some fainted and others moaned until the guards told them to shut up or they would close their mouths for ever. The thirst never left them.

  Her tongue was a riverbed in a drought: fissured, pitted, cracked. Her skull tightened like a vice, and she hallucinated: Ludek appeared before her and she smiled in surprise; he morphed into her mother and she whispered ‘Mamusiu’ and reached out, but as her hand touched the wire, she disappeared and the disappointment overwhelmed her and she sank into blackness.

  How long had they been travelling when the train screeched to a final halt? They heard dogs barking and women’s shrill voices shouting and cursing.

  She saw the white fangs of snarling dogs and the dark uniforms of women guards armed with thick sticks and rubber clubs which they used with grim determination on anyone too slow or too hesitant. There were several rows of five women ahead and she joined a new row. Shouts, curses and blows continued nonstop until they gave the order to move.

  Bedraggled and stiff, they marched at the double through the outskirts of the town of Fürstenberg. It was early in the morning and most of the inhabitants were in their beds. Marta’s eyes darted from side to side as she looked at the pretty houses and saw a church in the distance. The momentum of the march and fear of the consequences of falling behind kept them going step after step until they reached their destination. They had arrived at Ravensbrück concentration camp.

  Iron barred gates opened onto a sandy arena, the Appell-platz. Vast grey walls surrounded the whole camp; electric fencing trimmed the perimeter walls; skull and crossbones placards vibrated in the breeze creating an eerie wail. Wooden, single-storey barracks formed a grid alongside the main street, the Lagerstrasse. A tannoy system hung on poles.

  They lined up again. The air warmed under the sun’s rays. A woman in the front row fainted, then another.

  A prisoner stepped forward from the ranks and called out ‘Permission to speak, Frau Oberaufseherin.’ The chief woman guard stopped mid-stride, jerked her head back and played with the whip in her hand. The silence was palpable. Marta held her breath and waited for the thrashing to begin.

  ‘Permission granted’ issued from the black crow’s mouth.

  ‘The women have been without water for four days and nights. Water will stop them fainting and make them more useful to the glorious Third Reich. Thank you, Frau Oberaufseherin.’

&
nbsp; The prisoner spoke in cultured High German, bowed and stepped back into line.

  Inspired by her courage, other voices whispered ‘water, water’, but the head guard shouted ‘silence pigs’ and hit out at anyone who stood near her. She kicked those who had fainted to get up and back in line.

  With order restored, she issued instructions. A runner, dressed in prison stripes and wearing an armband, ran off. Minutes later the prisoners watched precious water slop out of buckets onto the ground. An order given, they crowded round, some dipped their hands straight into the water, others waited for the ladle; all drank greedily as the water revived their bodies and spirits.

  The camp stood in the middle of pine forests and lakes, a place of recreation for German families, and Marta breathed in the scented air. Then she noticed more of the camp’s inmates: some waited outside a building; others pushed a handcart loaded with, Mother of God, they looked like corpses; no, she must have hallucinated that; others dragged a strange contraption with a long hose. They were the living dead: grey drawn faces without colour or expression; heads bent down; dirty grey striped dresses hanging off them; skeletal arms and legs; strange bulges where you would expect stomachs or chests.

  The blood drained from her face and her scalp prickled with a new fear: she wouldn’t survive this.

  A commotion to the rear of the new arrivals distracted her. An SS officer dragged a woman by the hair and flayed her with his whip. All around the dogs launched themselves on their leashes in a frenzy of snarling, growling, and barking.

  Nobody moved until the woman lay bloodied in the sand. He held aloft a packet of cigarettes and observed his audience.

  ‘I forbid you to smoke. Anyone caught with cigarettes knows what to expect.’

  A woman moved to help her friend up.

  ‘Leave her there.’

  Marta drifted to the edge of a barrack. She scanned her surroundings, bent down to rub her ankle moving it forward to form a barrier with her other leg while she buried her own packet in the dirty coloured sand behind her.

  She would follow the rules; she would not give them an excuse to punish her.

  They ordered the prisoners into a building to the right of the iron gates. ‘Quickly, quickly’ rang in her ears as the guards ordered them to strip, leave their clothes in piles, run to the showers. There was shouting and cursing, shoves and slaps to keep them moving, disorientated and compliant.

  Vile men, SS Officers with no sense of shame, wandered up and down, assessing the women’s attributes, laughing and mocking. One of them used his riding crop to caress a young prisoner’s breast then drew it down over her stomach to part her labia. Her face bright red, she stared into the middle distance; the officer slapped his thighs and roared with laughter. Another prisoner shaved her head and removed her pubic hair with speed and haphazard scissoring. She looked like a skinned rabbit. He lost interest and looked for another victim.

  Marta hurried through every foul, debasing action with jaw-clenching anger. How dare they treat women like this? Didn’t they have mothers, sisters, girlfriends, wives? The stripping, the searching, the showers and every humiliation put her senses on alert. Now her mind was resolute: she would survive this and she would remember every detail of what they had done to her and to all the others.

  Someone handed out uniforms: grey drawers; grey shirt style jackets; striped cotton dresses; headscarves or head bonnets; clogs. They did not bother matching the clothing with the prisoners. Some wore dresses too large, others too small. They set about swapping their mismatched clogs but there was so little time.

  They dressed and lined up to collect their triangles and numbers. No longer naked, Marta took control of her emotions, and listened. Each person gave their name to a camp administrator, a fellow prisoner who found it on her list.

  There was a pile of different triangles, but most received a black or red one, according to their crime of being an asocial or a political prisoner. Marta dreaded facing the other women with her back triangle. She had told no one her cover story, not even Danuta, and wondered how they would react. Her heart hammered away and her mouth dried up. Would there be other consequences of being marked out as a prostitute? Was this where Lady Fortune abandoned her?

  She wanted to survive, to return home to Ludek, but there were things she could not do and would end her life on the electric fence sooner than comply. Tears stung her eyes, and she swallowed hard. Don’t let them see you cry; be strong and ready for anything.

  She stepped forward.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Marta Paciorkowska.’

  ‘Polish. Red triangle. Number 44911.’

  A rush of energy surged through her body as she joined the other women. She could not believe her luck. She touched the P in the centre of her triangle and brought it to her lips before sewing the two pieces of fabric onto the arm of her jacket.

  A siren screamed across the tannoy system. The women lined up on the Appell-platz in rows of ten, hands by their sides, eyes to the front and experienced their first roll call. The counting restarted several times; it was a taste of things to come.

  At the end of roll call they had to pick up a wooden bowl, a drinking cup and spoon and head into the barracks designated for quarantine. Already traumatised by their reception into the camp, the women gasped and reached for each other’s hands as the guards pushed and shoved them into a stinking space already occupied by hundreds of women from previous transports.

  How could they call this quarantine when the overcrowding alone would cause diseases to spread rapidly?

  Wooden tiered bunks from floor to ceiling, jammed so close together you couldn’t walk between them. They could have relieved the crush of bodies but nobody sat or lay on them. As they edged their way along, they tried to orientate themselves within the barrack. They could see a central wash area with several basins and latrines; next to it was an area containing a few tables and stools, already occupied, and two sleeping quarters.

  Everywhere the women stood or sat or slumped in every attitude of weariness, resignation, hopelessness. Marta sighed. Fate had sucked them into a maelstrom of madness: a place where words were punctuated with slaps and punches; where piteous images, one after the other, seared their eyes; where rules were issued after they had already been punished for disobeying them; where prisoners were guards and guards were there to destroy them. Nothing here was normal.

  Someone tugged on her sleeve. She turned, and a smile beamed across her face.

  ‘Danuta! You’re here, how wonderful, I knew you were on the same transport, but I never saw you after we left. Mind you, I was crying so hard I’m surprised I saw anything at all.’

  ‘I know. I was the same, wondering all the while if I would ever see my friends again, if I would ever walk through Krakow again. I’ll never forget the way people called out to us to have courage and saying they would pray for us. They were so kind and brave, really; you could see the guards didn’t like it. Remembering their words kept me going on that dreadful journey. And now we are here, in this hellhole, and the journey feels like some luxury trip we were lucky to have. This dump is beyond my wildest imagination. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.’

  ‘No, you’re right, it’s beyond imagination. How did you get away without having your head shorn?’

  ‘I have no idea. Perhaps it was short enough already. I don’t understand the system here at all except it involves a lot of slaps and worse.’

  There was a shout for silence as a tall, robust woman wearing a green triangle, pushed a prisoner off her stool and stood on it. Two fierce looking prisoners, also wearing green triangles and carrying stool legs accompanied her.

  ‘Welcome to paradise,’ she called out in German and laughed manically, the helpers joining in.

  Then her face turned serious and threatening.

  ‘Learn the rules, my friend
s, and learn them fast. I am your block senior and these are my room seniors. We maintain discipline in this block and you will obey us or you will be sorry.’

  The room seniors banged the stool legs against the nearest table and made threatening gestures to the nearest inmates who stepped back in alarm.

  ‘The siren will go off at 4am, that’s when you will get up and you’d better be quick about it. Wash, use the toilets, make your beds military style. You will not use the beds again until night-time.

  ‘My room seniors will choose someone to assist them collecting bread and coffee for breakfast. You have one hour before the 5am siren sounds for roll call.

  ‘As you are in the quarantine block, you will not go out to work but you will work inside, keeping the block clean, keeping the washroom clean and anything else we tell you to do.’

  Thoughts were spinning in Marta’s head: hundreds of women using one tiny wash area, how would they manage? How long would their quarantine last? What work would they have to do when it ended?

  ‘There will be another siren for lunch when you will get our delicious soup.’

  The manic laugh reverberated round the barrack.

  ‘You will line up and hold out your bowls. You will clean your utensils after every meal. There will be more soup and bread for supper.’

  ‘Nobody is to leave the quarantine barrack except for roll call and nobody may come in except those on official business. You can identify them by their armbands.

  ‘Thank you, ladies, for your kind attention and now go about your business.’

  With the welcome speech over, the block senior stepped off the stool and headed for her separate quarters together with her room seniors; the two women swiped their clubs left and right but most of the inmates were quick to step right back.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Danuta, who only understood a little German. Others were asking their compatriots the same question and Marta translated.