by Jane Brittan
Milanković goes to her chair and plumps the cushions before she sits down. On her desk is a plate of assorted chocolate biscuits. I notice a couple have been nibbled and put back.
She smiles and on her teeth I see traces of chocolate.
She says in Serbian, ‘Sanda. Welcome to Zbrisć.’
‘Where’s my friend? What have you done with him?’ I try not to raise my voice.
‘Your friend.’ She says the word carefully, rolls it in her mouth. ‘He’s safe.’
‘What am I doing here? You can’t keep me here. I want to see him.’
‘You are going to stay here for a while Sanda, so you need to behave yourself. We do not like bad behaviour at Zbrisć.’
‘What for? Why am I here?’
‘This – this is bad behaviour, asking questions all the time.’
‘Look, I’ll behave when you tell me where my friend is and where my parents are and why you’re keeping me here.’
She runs her pink tongue around her lips, hoovering up biscuit crumbs like a snake. ‘Your parents are in the country.’
‘Can I see them?’
‘No. Not now. Not yet.’
‘Where’s Joe?’
She shakes her head slowly and reaches into a drawer for a packet of cigarettes. ‘No.’
‘What does that mean, no? I want to know where you’ve taken him.’
She settles into her chair and eyes me with interest; lights a cigarette and sits back in a curl of smoke.
‘They were right. You are trouble.’
‘They spoke to you? About me?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s easy. You will stay here and you will behave yourself. That’s all. No more questions.’
I start to protest but she waves me away and I’m shunted out of the room to the sound of her coughing.
I cannot process what is happening to me. I cannot see in front of me or behind me.
The woman says, ‘Come with me.’
We go back down the corridor and stop at a large doorway to a kind of dining room. It’s like the school lunch hall, only not. For a start, it’s freezing. At the opposite end on the outside wall, a gaping hole lets in a rush of icy wind. Someone has tried to patch it with bits of floorboards nailed across it and what look like bin bags. On top of the sour smell of shit that follows us everywhere, there’s a smell of rotting meat and vegetables.
Something runs across the floor in front of us as we move towards the smell: a rat.
It’s the first time I get to see some of my fellow inmates. All girls, in various states of undress, and it’s difficult to tell the age of most of them. All of them are quiet apart from the odd squeak or howl. They queue at a counter where two women in head scarves and filthy aprons dole out the bread, and they move forward with their eyes fixed on their feet.
As soon as the girls are given their bread, they squirrel it under their arms and carry it away like a precious bundle. I’m pushed into the queue and they move back to accommodate me. Other than that, no one seems particularly interested in me.
The person in front of me is behaving strangely – now and again spasms run through her body and her arms shake. She’s finding it hard to take the bread they offer and I realise they’re teasing her. The larger of the two women holds out the bread, waits for her to compose herself enough to get it and then pulls it away again. They shriek with laughter as the poor girl tries to grab the food.
Then I hear her say softly, ‘Molim? Please?’
There’s so much sadness and dignity and humanness in those words. On an impulse, I snatch the bread from the old witch and give it to the girl. She looks at me and for a second I see the person she might have been. She’s small but I figure she’s about my age. A shock of short dark hair and violet eyes. She shuffles away quickly to eat the bread. I watch her go and move up to the counter. The crones are furious. One takes the bread intended for me and with fleshy fingers, she breaks it in two. Half rations.
As I take it, I look her straight in the eye and say, ‘It was worth it.’
I turn and walk over to one of the high windows that line the wall making the room even colder. I want to see what I’m up against and how hard it would be to escape. As I bite into the dense earthy hunk of bread, I look down through the bars on the yard below: beyond the high wire perimeter fence, there are pine forests, and way off in the distance, snowy mountains. It’s a clear day and the peaks sparkle in the high wintry sun. It gives me a sort of hope that there is a world outside where I might be wanted after all.
In the yard, there are a couple of mangy dogs tethered to a concrete post near the fence and a small outbuilding with a lightning sign on it in white paint which I guess to be the generator for the orphanage. As I watch, a young boy struggles across the yard. He’s carrying two buckets that look almost as big as him and probably weigh more than he does. I’m struck, firstly, by the fact that he’s wearing flip-flops and the temperature outside, if the temperature inside is anything to go by, must be around freezing; and secondly, by the fact that he’s a boy which means there are boys here. Which means Joe may still be here, still close. Lost in thought, I chew on the bread.
Someone pinches me gently on the elbow and brings me back into the room. The girl I helped at the counter is standing next to me. In her hand she holds part of her bread. She points to me and gently gives me the bread, like some kind of religious offering, then steps back and watches me with red-rimmed eyes. I know what it means.
She’s probably hungrier than I’ll ever be. The bread is life or death to her and she’s giving up half of it for me. And that gesture, like the sun on the snow, like thinking of Joe out there, gives me hope. My eyes fill with tears and I nod to her,
‘Hvala. Thank you’
10
The girl smiles and it transforms her. She studies me intently, says something under her breath, and then I realise she’s noticed my odd eyes.
I smile back and point to my chest: ‘Sanda,’ I say, ‘My name is Sanda.’
She seems puzzled and hesitates a while, as though she’s trying to remember something. Then, quietly, almost in a whisper: ‘I’m Andjela’
‘Andjela,’ I repeat.
I take her hand. It’s cold and sticky and bare as bone.
I’m facing the door and I see a warder striding towards us. Quickly, I shove the bread back at her and turn away to the window. I look back to see my new friend being hustled out of the room, cowering and shaking as before. I go after her but I’m stopped at the door by another warder.
Soon after that, a bell rings. I take up my place again by the window and watch the weary procession of kids, old and young, file out of the room. Afterwards, I hear the sounds of doors locking and unlocking, and the odd strangled cry that seems to be part of the ugly music of this place.
I want to see Andjela again. We’ve made a connection – it’s not much but it’s something. I look over at the kitchen staff in the back behind the counter, and I see one of them, the one who tormented Andjela, stuffing her face with a large pastry.
As I go to leave, I spy a small loaf left on a table. I snatch it up and stuff it under my top. One of the warders comes in then and calls me out into the corridor.
I’m shown into a room with high arched windows. There are perhaps twenty beds with rusting frames, all occupied by girls of varying ages. The girls watch me with unblinking eyes. One scratches herself constantly, her arms and legs red and blistered.
I close my arms around my body just to feel I have a body. Skin and bones. Elbows and knees. I need to remember who I am. Then I find my voice:
‘Andjela? Where’s Andjela?’
No one responds. In the nearest bed, a small girl clutches her knees up to her chest and rocks back and forth. I offer the bread I’ve stolen from the kitchen. She flashes her eyes at me and grabs it.
I say, ‘Where is Andjela?’
I wait while she eats. I can see the bread mashed into dough in her mouth. She jabs a finger in the direction
of another door at the end of the room.
This leads to another dormitory: the door to the corridor is closed and there are shutters at the windows. In the feeble light, I can just make out a coil of bodies on a corner bed. One of them raises her head as I enter. Even in the gloom I recognise her at once.
I cross to the window and gesture for her to join me. After a pause, she comes over. Under little rakes of light that seep through the shutters, I ask her in Serbian, ‘Are you OK? I was worried.’
She stiffens. Her eyes dart up at me and then over to the door. ‘Yes, yes, I’m all right.’
‘Andjela,’ I say, ‘it’s OK. I’m your friend. I’m not going to hurt you.’
She looks at me carefully and then says slowly, ‘Who are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
She’s about to say something more when the door is opened abruptly and a long shadow is cast across the floor. She slides down against the wall and covers her head.
Right then, I decide that when we get out of here, she’s coming with us. But first, I need to find Joe. I need to get into the boys’ block, and to do that I need to get outside. I’m going to have to be patient.
I spend the days that follow waiting for my chance. I watch the yard, the gates and the fence all the time. I think about home and Mum and Dad; about me: what I was, what I am and what I might be.
And I think about Joe.
I think about our journey here, what we said to each other, what he did for me and what he was for me, and I take every word and every look and I fold them into myself until they’re part of me and he’s part of me.
It’s weird, but in this place that seems so closed and hopeless, I have found a sort of hope. Maybe it’s the freedom that comes with being locked up: when nothing seems possible, in a way everything is.
Andjela and I see a lot of each other. I move myself into her dormitory and no one seems to mind. I make sure always to save a little food for her. As a way of passing the time, I’m teaching her to speak some English. I scratch out a picture on the wall and I say the English word and she says it after me. Late at night, lying restless in my cot, I hear her softly sounding the words like a mantra in the cold room: ‘Boy. Girl. Me. You. Mother. Father. Brother. Sister. Friend. Friend. Friend.’
One day I draw a picture of two girls holding hands, both thin with spiky hair and round eyes. I write our names in charcoal over the images. I clasp my hands together and say, ‘Friends.’
‘Friends.’ She touches my face with timid fingertips, draws back and points at my eyes.
‘Eyes,’ I say, ‘oči.’
‘Eyes.’ She looks at me intently and says, ‘Sister.’
‘No. Friend, Andjela. Not Sister.’
‘Sister,’ she repeats. She gently takes the charcoal from my hand, and draws another figure on the wall.
She indicates the eyes on the figure and says it again: ‘Sister.’
11
Before we have a chance to talk further, one of the warders comes into the room, looks about her and summons me to follow her. I get to my feet, leaving Andjela kneeling by the little charcoal pictures of the three girls.
I’m taken to the kitchen, given a rusting peeler and sat on a low stool beside a mountain of potatoes and a giant pot. My fingers struggle with the blunt instrument and large potatoes are reduced to marble-sized balls with most of the potato staying on the inside of the peel. From time to time, one of the kitchen staff leaves her gossiping at the counter, and comes and stands over me with her arms folded. I ignore them and eventually the job is done. My fingers are bleeding and my back is sore but I’m pleased with my efforts. I also manage to pilfer two little cakes that have been thrown away. I’m just thinking about how I’ll give them to Andjela when one of the women shambles over and motions to the door.
She picks up the enormous bucket of peelings in her red hands and gives it to me. I stagger under its weight towards the door. On the other side of the yard, I see two huge bins under a wooden lean-to. I need no further instruction, and, sliding in my boots on the icy ground, I pitch out with the bucket. One of the dogs looks up with lazy eyes as I approach.
It’s the first time I’ve been outside since the night we were handed over, and it feels good to breathe clean air after the rank stew inside. I dump the bucket and begin slowly transferring the waste into the nearest container. The bins are nearly full and there’s a light crusting of frost over the evil mulch inside. I startle at cawing overhead. Five crows land around me working their frayed wings and pecking at the ground waiting for me to leave.
I glance back at the kitchen. No one’s watching me. Looking up at the third floor, I’m pretty sure I can locate the window of the refectory where I first saw the boy. I’m standing exactly where he was and now I can see where he was going. There’s another wing of the building that I hadn’t seen before.
Checking behind me to make sure I’m not being watched, I take a sharp breath, pick up my bucket and stride purposefully towards the new block.
A door to the side of the block opens easily and I go in. The stench is overpowering, stronger than where we are. I almost gag and have to put my head outside and gulp in a breath.
Back inside, I take stock: the room is long and narrow with an arched ceiling. There are benches and tables stacked to the sides. There’s a door at the end.
The place is silent.
I force myself on, crossing the flags quietly, and try the door. It leads onto a corridor with small doors set in the walls. All are bolted shut. At the end, there’s a short flight of stairs which takes me to the first floor and more rooms. I keep on, head down, holding up the potato bucket at my chest, hoping that no one stops me. No one does. The place seems empty of warders. A small barefooted boy approaches, peers hopefully into the bucket and melts back into the walls. As I go, I call Joe’s name softly.
In the last room, I’m answered, a hoarse voice through the fug:
‘What?’
I start at the sound. As I peer into the murk, a familiar form materialises. I know him at once. I put down my bin and go to him. I try to hold him, to find him again. He smells sour, seems thinner. I can feel the grid of bones in his chest. He stands very still when I hold him, and his heart beats like a bird when you catch it.
‘It’s so, so, so good to see you! I thought – I thought … Oh fuck Joe. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.’
He looks down at me. His head’s shaved. He’s still Joe and yet altered. He shakes me off roughly, stands back and glares at me. I’m too shocked to be hurt. Then I realise we’re not alone: ghostly figures leave the walls and crowd in on us. I push the bin at them and they scrabble for the few potato scraps left there.
‘Joe? Joe? Talk to me.’ His eyes are hard. ‘What is it? Joe, please?’
‘Now you want to talk? I don’t understand you, Sanda. What’s going on? You ignore me for days and then you rush in like you haven’t seen me since they left us.’
‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’ I say.
‘Are you playing games with me? Are you deliberately trying to fuck with me?’
‘Joe, this is the first time I’ve seen you since they left us.’
‘Right.’
‘Joe, please?’
He relaxes slightly and frowns. ‘You’ve been here every day Sanda. I’ve seen you cleaning up, doling out food. I called you and called you. I stood there like a fucking idiot calling your name and you didn’t even look up. I went right up to you and you looked straight through me.’
I’m baffled. He has tears in his eyes and I know he means every word. I take his hands and I fold them over mine.
‘Joe, this is the first time I’ve seen you since that night. It’s the first time I’ve been out of the girls’ block. I’ve been trying to find out where they took you. You have to believe me … why on earth would I ignore you?’
He brushes a slug of snot from his nose and wipes his eyes, shakes his head. ‘She was just like y
ou. She had eyes like yours.’
‘Well, I know it’s unusual but I’m not the only one in the world with odd eyes. Joe, it wasn’t me, I promise. How could it have been? Believe me.’
He shrugs and looks away. ‘Whatever.’
‘Joe?’ And I say because I can’t not say it: ‘We have to get out of here. We … I can’t … I’m losing it Joe …’
He looks at me then and nods slowly. ‘I know. But it’s so weird. They really think I’m working for this Branko. They’re trying to get me to tell them what I know, where he is. I keep telling them I don’t know what they’re talking about.’
‘Your mum will have gone to the police by now.’
‘She won’t have noticed I’m gone. It was half-term wasn’t it? She’ll think I’m staying at a mate’s. If you’re pinning your hopes on her, you’re going to be disappointed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘That woman said something about me waiting here. Like something’s going to happen soon.’
‘Waiting?’
‘Doesn’t sound good, does it?’
He hangs his head. ‘No. And once they realise I’m telling the truth and I’ve got nothing they want, then I’m toast, and you – I thought you were – I thought they were going to …’
‘Don’t,’ I whisper. Gently I take his arm and pull him back with me against the wall where we’re in shadow. ‘All we have to do right now is get out.’
He shrugs and I pinch his arm. ‘Joe?’
He studies me for a while and then a kind of smile lifts his face. ‘OK. OK. What’s the plan?’
‘Well I don’t have one. I didn’t know I was even going to find you here.’
‘Well …’ he says, ‘the fence. Have you seen the fence?’
‘Yeah, it goes all round,’ I say. ‘It’s high and it looks pretty tight, what I’ve seen of it. Could we get under it?’
