Max

by Sarah Cohen-Scali

  Third possibility: Bibiana was sent back to Ravensbrück. And if she’s not dead yet, it won’t be long.

  Or else…

  Or else, there could be a fourth possibility, one that doesn’t relate to the Sister’s code language, but to my own. Bibiana is the Lady of the Lake. She has returned to the magic waters where nothing can ever harm her again. All I have to do is drink from the goblet of immortality and I’ll be able to join her there. But when? The Reichsführer Himmler’s search parties had better hurry up and find that damn goblet.

  Why did Bibiana decide to rebel? When she was gobbling the papers, did she think about me, even for an instant? Why did she introduce me to the feelings of hand in hand, hugs, laughter, chasing games and then abandon me?

  I’m angry with her. Too bad if she’s been killed, after all!

  I need my mental picture of her to join up with the others in the back of my dolichocephalic head, in the mixed-up compartments of my brain, the ones that are gradually heading for oblivion. I’m young, so it should be quick. But in the meantime…

  I’m suffering.

  Especially because Lotte has put me on dry rations—she’s sticking to her theory that my stomach-ache is due to some kind of diarrhoea. Rice, steamed carrots and quince jam. Not only is it disgusting, but I feel even worse, because I’m totally constipated. My belly is rock-hard from all the accumulated shit that can’t get out. In the toilet just now, I let loose a series of farts so deafening it sounded like machine-gun fire. If there were living creatures in the toilet bowl under my bum, they’d never have survived such an asphyxiating attack of gas. Despite the pain, the idea makes me laugh. They should launch me from a plane over an enemy target: my exploding gut would cause as much damage as a bomb.

  I’m still laughing as I leave the toilet, and then sadness overwhelms me. I get dressed in my Polish-child costume of rags and put myself to bed. I rub my nose in the stinky sweater full of holes and the filthy pants; I breathe deeply and I feel better. I can pick up Bibiana’s smell in a few spots.

  Lotte tells me to do some drawing to distract myself. It’s more so that I leave her in peace to file her index cards and write up her reports. ‘Oh, that’s so pretty!’ she says, glancing at the paper I’ve scribbled on. She has no idea what the picture means: the horizontal lines of black crayon are her. Dead. And the big blobs of red everywhere are her blood. Because she got shot in the head.

  I can’t sleep at night. It wasn’t the same when I was driving around with the Sister, or out walking with Bibiana. I’d come home tired and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. But there’s a lot of disturbance in the house. Doctor Ebner comes back late with Herr Tesch and other important people, and they never stop talking, arguing. There’s often shouting from the study.

  And the SS officers get together in the dining room and put on really loud music. Sometimes I sneak out of bed and have a look. They’re all drunk, because of the schnapps, and surrounded by lots of women. At first I didn’t understand what they were doing, but then I did.

  Some evenings, the women arrive all dressed up, with lots of make-up. They eat masses of things you can’t find anywhere in the country now (sweets and chocolate), they dance with the officers, laugh, drink lots of schnapps themselves, or champagne if it’s there, too. Afterwards, they take off their clothes, or stay just in their panties, or bra. Or just their stockings and high heels. They lie down on the rugs, or on the table, right in the middle of the dinner plates that haven’t been cleared away, or on an armchair or couch. Or else they stay standing, leaning against the wall, and that’s when the officers come and put their dicks inside them. It looks like that makes them laugh more than the alcohol. When they push their mouths onto the officers’ mouths, their lipstick get smeared all over their faces, as if they’re bleeding. Those women are German. They’re prostitutes, whores. They’re paid to have sex with the officers.

  On other evenings, the women are Polish. I can tell because they’re dressed like peasants, they don’t wear make-up, they don’t dine with the officers, they don’t say a word and never laugh. Quite the opposite. They don’t drink either, or sometimes the soldiers force them to swallow a big slug of schnapps and they nearly choke. And when the soldiers’ dicks go inside them, some cry, or scream; others grit their teeth until it’s over.

  The whores have sex with the higher ranked officers, and the Polish women with the ordinary soldiers. The whores shout, ‘Yes, yes!’ And the Polish women, ‘No, no!’ The soldiers rape the Polish women.

  I watch all this very carefully. It’s interesting to know how babies are made. Because some of this intercourse will produce babies for sure. Watching up close while people have intercourse will increase my knowledge quota and develop my thinking processes. No one will ever be able to spin me tales about babies arriving in baskets delivered by storks, or any other such nonsense.

  Is that how I was conceived? With a blonde German whore who took off all her clothes to let the Aryan’s dick enter her? Was she drinking schnapps and laughing, or was she crying and gritting her teeth?

  I hang around the house for days on end, spying on the whores and the soldiers, which means I stay up late, so I’m tired enough to sleep most of the next day. Time passes faster this way.

  But I’m soon bored again. Once you’ve seen one couple having sex, seeing it over and over adds nothing. It’s always the same. And, anyway, I never see Bibiana among the Polish women, even though I keep looking for her. She must really be dead. I’ll have to get used to the idea.

  I notice that, once they’ve finished their business with the women, some soldiers drive off in the middle of the night. I wonder where on earth they could be going at that time? I’m so curious that one night I stow away in one of their cars.

  It’s not a car; it’s more like a van. I haul myself up onto the tray covered by a tarpaulin at the back, and wait. It feels like forever. Then I see two SS soldiers leaving the house. They can’t walk straight; they’re drunk and dishevelled. While they chat, they button up their flies clumsily and straighten their uniforms, before climbing into the front of the van. They both light cigarettes and I get a desperate urge to cough. But at least the smoke masks the horrible odour of the schnapps.

  A few minutes later a Sister climbs in with them. I’ve seen her a few times before. She’s the oldest and ugliest of them all: very tall, thin, with long, sinewy arms like tentacles. Her chin is square and covered with a fuzz of brown hair, like a man. Her deep black eyes are mean: the eyes of a shark.

  The driver starts the van. The swaying doesn’t help my nausea from the smell of the schnapps and the smoke. When my belly starts to gurgle I worry it will give me away. The bumps only make things worse. We must be on one of those potholed country roads. I try to hang on so I don’t vomit, and so I don’t end up rolling like a sack of potatoes from one end of the tray to the other.

  I gradually get used to the discomfort of this impromptu trip, which, fortunately, doesn’t last long.

  After a few kilometres, the vehicle stops. The soldiers and the Sister get out. I deduce that they are trying to make as litle noise as possible, because they extinguish the headlights, shut the car doors carefully, and walk on tiptoes, without speaking. As they didn’t notice me hiding, as soon as they’re far enough away, I lift up a corner of the tarpaulin.

  We’re in front of a house; I recognise it immediately. It’s one of the last ones Bibiana and I visited. (Did they cut open her stomach to find the address?) Flanked by the two SS soldiers, the Sister approaches the door in silence. Then she raises her hand, and gives the signal with a nod of her head.

  Off they go! One of the SS soldiers breaks the door down with a mighty kick, and that’s the end of the silence and the tiptoeing around. I can hear doors banging, furniture overturned, things smashing, the SS soldiers’ boots pounding around as they yell out orders, and soon the ear-splitting scream of a woman drowns out everything. It’s the mother of the household. The cries of her c
hildren follow instantly. The house lights up: one window, then another and another, like fairy lights. And I watch as, behind the glass, shapes like Chinese shadows come and go, running, twisting and turning, fighting. I stay crouched in the van, motionless, wide-eyed, my mouth hanging open, fascinated by the spectacle.

  Now I understand.

  So I’m witnessing one of the kidnappings of Polish children that are orchestrated by the Gestapo and the Brown Sisters. I must have had a sixth sense when I chose this van. I finally get to see the next stage in ‘Operation Buddies’. And I deserve to, after being one of the main stars all these months.

  The two SS soldiers rush outside, each holding a boy by the hand, while the Sister is carrying a little girl in her arms. She’s got her wedged against her hip like a parcel so the little girl is lying horizontal, her head below her feet. The mother, who hasn’t stopped howling, hurls herself outside and runs back and forth, trying to rescue one or other of her boys. She grabs the hand of one, the hair of the other, but no sooner has she touched them than they’ve slipped from her grasp—she can’t fight the soldiers who shove her back. So she tries to rescue her little girl, who is reaching out her arms, sobbing. She manages to catch up to the Sister, who isn’t running as fast as the soldiers, but the Sister slaps her, shoving her away violently, and the woman collapses to the ground.

  When the soldiers make it to the van, they lift up the tarpaulin and drag the boys in next to me—I’m hidden at the back so they can’t see me. The Sister hangs on to the little girl, and slaps her hand over the child’s mouth to stifle the screams. It’s a close call, but in the scramble no one notices me, thanks to the children’s mother. She’d managed to stagger to her feet, dazed after the slap from the Sister, and drag herself over to grab on to the edge of the van. One of the soldiers is smashing her hand with his gun. She doesn’t let go, even though her hand is pouring with blood. He keeps on hitting her, as if he wanted to break her bones. The other soldier is busy holding back the children, who are trying at the same time to help their mother climb in the van, and to avoid getting hit by the gun.

  The mother collapses to the ground a second time.

  The tarpaulin falls in on us and the van takes off.

  The mother keeps on screaming and screaming. Once we’re far enough away, we don’t hear her anymore.

  That all takes scarcely a few minutes.

  The two Polish boys recognise me; they even remember my name. The false one I used with Bibiana.

  ‘Maciej! Maciej! You’re here, too? Where are they taking us?’

  I can just understand what they’re saying. I’m proud they recognise me. That means they’re my buddies. That also means they’re not kids I had a fight with or beat to a pulp while we were playing. Or perhaps, given the urgency of the circumstances, they’ve chosen to forget and don’t resent me anymore…And I think I remember their names, too. The smallest one, the one trembling like a leaf—I can hear his teeth chattering—is Andrzej. Yes, that’s it! And the other one, his older brother, who is panic-stricken and asking me all the questions, is Jacek.

  ‘Yes, yes, they took me, too,’ I reply. Which is a lie, of course, but he won’t know, especially as I remembered to put on my Polish-child costume before climbing into the van. ‘But I don’t know where they’re taking us,’ I add.

  That’s the truth.

  ‘Mamo? Mamo?…Bibiana?’

  Jacek has an amazing memory. I take a breath. ‘Ona nie zyje,’ I reply.

  She’s dead. The truth again. I lower my head. I’ve got a stomach-ache thinking about Bibiana, about all the suffering she’s caused me recently. Jacek pats me on the back to comfort me. He suddenly feels a whole lot better. His mother has just got a broken hand, she’s not dead, he’s counting on seeing her soon. I sulk a bit longer—I’d made such an effort to forget that damned Bibiana, and here’s Jacek making me think about her, here she is haunting me again. Finally, I raise my head and tell Jacek that I’m pleased he and his brother are with me, that they make me feel better. More of the truth. Tonight is by far the most excitement I’ve had since the beginning of my short life. It’s much more fun being with buddies than endlessly watching soldiers having sex, or moping in my bed by myself.

  Reassured for the moment, Jacek and his brother snuggle up with me and the three of us hug each other.

  The Sister soon turns round to check, curious that it’s so silent in the back. I hide behind Jacek, which proves to him how frightened I am, that I am in the same boat as them. As soon as the Sister has her back to us again, we continue our whispering.

  I reassure my new buddies, jabbering away as best I can in Polish, that there’s nothing to worry about. Even if I don’t know where we’re going, I’m sure everything will be fine. And it’s true: they should be happy! They’ve been taken away from their miserable lives so they can become true German children. It’s wonderful; they are so lucky. Unfortunately my vocabulary is too limited to explain all this in Polish, so I just keep a big smile on my face, which seems to keep them calm. They stare at me with their big—blue—eyes full of tears. Their little sister up the front seems to have calmed down too, as we can’t hear crying anymore, just her loud hiccups.

  We drive a bit more, then the van stops again and the same thing happens. A house. A door broken in. Screaming. Smashing. And more children join us. And more. Until there’s no room in the van.

  With every new lot, there are tears and screaming, but Jacek and I manage to reassure them. At the end of the trip, when we arrive with all the other vans, only the children in our van get out without crying and line up quietly on the orders of the Sister and the soldiers who’ve been waiting for us.

  I’m proud my buddies know how to behave. I’m proud of their trust in me.

  I’ve been in a Mercedes, in a van, and now I’m probably going in a train. So many new things in such a short time!

  We’re at the Poznan railway station.

  There are people everywhere. Soldiers with dogs, officers, Sisters, women in uniform. And children, of course, lots of children. The soldiers line us up in single file along the platform. There are trains on both sides. The sign on one says ‘Kalish’, on the other ‘Auschwitz’. I wonder which one Jacek, Andrzej and I will take. (We’ve done our best not to be separated.) While we’re standing waiting, I sense that Jacek and his little brother are getting nervous again. That’s normal: there are so many children and most of them are screaming and crying. Fear is contagious. And I must admit that, if I didn’t know I was safe, I’d be frightened, too. The soldiers, the dogs, the barking, the steam from the roaring engines, the soldiers bellowing orders, children crying: you can’t hear yourself think. And it’s a cold night. I don’t really feel the cold, and I’ve got on my sweater from my costume; even if it’s holey, it’s keeping me warm, whereas the others are in their pyjamas. (That’s normal, too: they were asleep when they were kidnapped.)

  The line is moving slowly, too slowly. I’m getting sick of waiting. Patience has never been my thing. I try to move out of the line but a soldier sees me and shoves me back into my spot, while a dog starts biting my ankles. What a nerve! I don’t mind the dog, but how dare the soldier. And he’s only got two stripes on his uniform: a lowly Rottenführer! When they find out that he’s had a go at Doctor Ebner’s protégé, he’ll get into big trouble. But I don’t want to come clean yet. It’s much more fun pretending to be a Polack.

  Stretching up on my tiptoes to see what’s happening at the end of the platform, I sigh with relief and nearly shout for joy. Doctor Ebner is there, along with a few women I recognise from meetings in the bombed-out house. I’m so pleased that, when one of the Sisters gives us a push to straighten up the line, I kick her hard in the shins. I’ve been dying to do that for ages.

  We inch forward. Each child stops in front of Doctor Ebner, who directs them to the right or to the left. Those to the right climb in the train marked Kalish, the others head for the one marked Auschwitz.

  It’s
a selection process. A very quick one, because Doctor Ebner doesn’t have his measuring instruments with him, or his case with the glass eyes and fake hair. As we move up the line, I can see that he is sending the blond, blue-eyed children to the Kalish train, and the brown-haired, scrawny kids to the other one. (In the scramble of the kidnappings, the soldiers and the Sisters just grabbed whatever kids they found. Brothers and sisters don’t always have the same coloured hair; but there wasn’t time to work out which was which.)

  I tell Jacek straightaway that I know the man with the bald head and round glasses, and that he won’t separate us, so not to worry. Even though he looks strict, I say, he’s really kind. I’d like to tell him that Doctor Ebner is my second father, after the Führer, that he brought me into the world and has never left me since, but it’s too hard to say all that in Polish. The only thing I’m worried about is that, once it’s my turn with Doctor Ebner, he’ll recognise me and the game will be up.

  But I’ve got a bit of time, the line is not moving fast and we’re near the end. I like to keep active—unlike Jacek and his brother, who just stand there, waiting their turn—so I jump up and down a bit, look around, and that’s when, over the general hubbub, I hear another noise.

  ‘Psst! Psst!’

  I turn to see a little boy waving in response to a call. Then he runs out of the line, quickly, quickly, over to one of the vans parked on the median strip near the entrance to the station. Neither the soldiers nor the Sisters see him. Only I do. From where I am, I can see his legs and his bum as he crouches behind the van. He waits a few seconds, then scampers off like a rabbit to the edge of the forest next to the station.

  What’s he up to? A few seconds later, I see a second child do the same thing, then a third, a fourth. ‘Don’t move, I’ll be back,’ I whisper to Jacek, and elbow my way to the back of the line. I take the hand of the little boy about to run off like the others, and I let him know that I want to leave with him. He hesitates, petrified, tells me to wait my turn, then nods and we’re off.