Should they run? Susannah felt short gasps blow from her mouth as she waited, fixed to the spot, not knowing what to do. The staring contest continued for what seemed like minutes. Then she gathered her strength and started walking towards the boy, that clear water splashing further up her legs the faster she walked.
Then she stumbled on a slippery stone and almost fell down.
When she looked up the boy was gone.
She scanned the scene, the glimmering stream stretching to the horizon contrasting with the dark shade of the clusters of trees on either side.
Had she dreamed him? Had it been a vision?
For a moment her throat felt dry, her breathing shallow like the stream she stood in. With a start she turned and began running back towards her brother, his eyes still transfixed.
‘Hurry!’ she cried out, pausing only to pick up their shoes as she ran into the wood. There were no more words, just puffs and pants and footfall breaking the forest silence as they raced back, matching each other stride for stride, to the safety of the milking shed.
There Susannah looked behind, then all around them, scanning the horizon, searching for any human form.
There was none.
‘Don’t tell,’ she whispered to Jacob, who said nothing in reply but whose face almost bled with panic. ‘And don’t cry,’ she said to him. ‘It will be all right.’
She tried to give him a brief hug, and he resisted. ‘I don’t cry anymore,’ he said.
She nodded to him and they took a few more minutes to recover their breath before going into the shed, behind the bales of straw, and up the staircase.
As they entered the room, Father gave them both a suspicious glance, and opened his mouth to speak.
Another voice got there first.
‘Is there any bread left?’
Father turned to see Helena swiping the hanging blanket aside.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I gave the last of it to Jacob for breakfast. I’m sorry if—’
‘But it was supposed to last all of us until Saturday.’
‘Well, there was only one slice left; we didn’t think it was worth keeping . . .’
Susannah didn’t hear the rest. Her mind was racing with thoughts of the forbidden contact she’d just experienced. She lay down on the thin straw mattress with Jacob and kept her eyes firmly shut, praying Father would not ask where they’d been.
She was lucky; the argument about the single slice of bread seemed more important.
Two days later, just as the sun’s first rays were lighting up the single window in the room, Susannah was woken by the sound of engines – at least two of them – drawing to a halt outside.
She opened her eyes to a shadow in front of her face.
‘Stay in bed,’ Father whispered. ‘Don’t say a word.’ Then to the side, ‘You too, Jacob. Don’t make any noise.’
Susannah shot a glance to Jacob and placed a single finger to her lips. He nodded back to her. He understood.
But Susannah wanted to speak; she wanted to say it a thousand times, to shout it and scream it into those evil corners of the room that were laughing at her.
She wanted to say how sorry she was.
But the more she stayed silent, the more she thought that perhaps – just perhaps – her fears were unfounded. Then they all heard shouts from outside piercing the calmness of dawn – angry, questioning ones echoing around the farmyard. And soon after that came the pleadings of Maria and Erik, then more shouts and some wailing.
Then came the drumming of boots on the sun-packed mud that lay between the buildings, and more shouting and barking. Susannah looked around to see the shadows of Mother, Father, Paul and Helena rising from their beds and standing up.
Susannah stayed down and turned away, covering her face with her hands. A few tears forced their way out into the stupid, stupid darkness, just as the barking and shouting started to come from directly underneath them.
After what seemed like split seconds of confusion in the half-light, the trapdoor was open and the room was flooded with light from lamps and echoed with triumphant cries. The soldiers pulled Father and Uncle Paul to one side, slamming them against the stone wall, and started asking questions. Father was angry. Mother was crying. Susannah couldn’t remember anything about Helena or Jacob because it all seemed to happen so quickly.
The soldiers allowed them to pack one suitcase each before forcing them outside, where they were prodded with rifles towards one of the trucks. Between her tears Susannah saw Father and Paul being knocked over and kicked, and then everyone got on the truck.
This time Susannah didn’t ask whether they were going back to Berlin; that place was now a distant memory that had faded to the palest of greys in her mind. She was more concerned with the smell of the dirty inferno that had been the farmhouse up until a few minutes before. And as it burned into the dawn, the sails of flame matching the yellow of the early-morning sun, the trucks sped off, and she wondered where the people she called Erik and Maria were now going live.
In the ticket office of Hamburg railway station, Susannah stood up slowly, taking time to stretch her back up straight, and walked out onto the street.
She spent a few minutes studying the leaflet the woman had given her, occasionally looking up and around to get her bearings. After a moment she gave a satisfied sigh, then set off in the direction of the coach station.
But she didn’t get there.
She walked fifty or so paces, then realized the moment had gone. After the effort of preparing herself to make plans for visiting the place – to make herself actually utter the words, ‘I want to go to Bergen-Belsen’ – she simply felt too tired.
She returned to her hotel to lie down. A painkiller might help too.
On the bed she let her body go limp and closed her eyes.
She opened them again only when the bright and ghostly shapes dressed in white that slowly drifted towards her became filthy skeletal figures who were pleading with her and reaching out to touch her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After waking up with a start, Susannah let out a few tired gasps of relief, then threw her hand out to the bedside clock and checked the time.
Another hour wasted.
But hold on. She was in Hamburg for a week. That was plenty of time. Why the rush to visit Bergen-Belsen?
Perhaps the cab driver had been right. There were so many museums, theatres and other attractions in Hamburg. It would be a shame not to visit any of them. And, of course, there were the shops. She hadn’t come for all of those, but now she was here she might as well take the opportunity to get a flavour of the place.
Yes, that would do. She was an old woman, after all. She should be taking things easy, avoiding stress. If she couldn’t enjoy life now and do exactly as she pleased, then when could she? Why was she torturing herself by committing herself to visiting that place?
For the next few days – and thoroughly pleasant ones they were – she tried to ignore that question. She even considered flying straight back home on more than one occasion – that would have ignored it permanently. But the question stuck with her every bit as stubbornly as that bout of bronchitis had done the winter before last. The unpalatable fact was that she’d flown out here for a reason, and that although her clock was ticking she needed answers more than she needed time. She’d spent long enough milling around shops, art galleries and museums on her own. She needed to know more about The Lucky One. Much as she hated her memories, she knew the urge to find out what had happened all those years ago would haunt her to the bitter end if she did nothing.
The struggle in the back of her mind played itself out to a conclusion, and she eventually became sure of the right – the brave – thing to do. It was only on her final day in Hamburg, after a large breakfast to give her strength, that she took the short walk to the coach station and started looking for the coach that would take her to Bergen-Belsen – or, at least, to where it once had been.
Her search was int
errupted by a short session of palpitations, and she had to find a bench and rest for a while. It must have been the walk tiring her ancient legs. Or the hearty breakfast unsettling her stomach. Yes, that was probably it.
When the palpitations had given up trying to frighten her off she got up and started looking again, checking the destinations on one or two coaches. Then she realized she didn’t really know what she was looking for. The woman at the railway station had mentioned the new name for it but now she’d forgotten it. And then she found it – the coach with WAR MEMORIAL on its front.
Of course, that was it. That sounded so much more acceptable than EXTERMINATION CAMP. Who in their right minds would get on that coach?
Her throat almost choked with rising fear as she asked for the ticket, and for a moment she thought her legs would be too weak to carry her to the coach, but after leaning against a wall to gather strength – and with some help from the attendant – she hoisted herself on and settled into a window seat.
The coach set off and she realized that this was definitely, unequivocally, the point of no return. However, she couldn’t stop her mind wandering back in time again, and the expectation of what she might find at the ‘war memorial’ provided the fuel.
Susannah didn’t know the name of the isolated farmhouse she’d been taken from at gunpoint all those years ago, but she never forgot the name of the place she’d been taken to.
The two soldiers that accompanied them in the truck sat in a silence that nobody dared challenge, and soon after leaving the farmhouse the vehicle stopped and one of the soldiers jumped out, the other still motionless, staring ahead, gripping his rifle. Ten minutes later the soldier returned, handed each of the two Mr Zuckermans a sheet of paper, and sat back down.
Only as the journey restarted was the silence broken. It was broken by a single word – the first word spoken since they’d left the burning farmhouse – and it was spoken by Uncle Paul. He read the paper and uttered that one word, quietly but clearly: ‘Westerbork.’ Susannah recognized the word. It was one of the places Mother said were created for ‘us’.
The rest of the journey was just as noisy and uncomfortable, and the two soldiers still said nothing. When they eventually came to a halt and the engine was switched off Susannah could hear faint shushing noises – noises that, under other circumstances, might have been calming. But the noises were interrupted by a few sharp shouts, and an occasional bark.
When they were ordered off the truck it was obvious where they were. The shushing noises were now louder, accompanied by huge plumes of steam reaching for the skies. Initially everything seemed utterly chaotic outside the railway station, but it was soon made clear to the six Zuckermans where they should go – a row of soldiers with rifles casually slung over their shoulders was funnelling them to a doorway at the station entrance. Father and Uncle Paul led the way, and when they reached the doorway they showed their papers to the soldiers who stood there.
There was no time for a toilet break or a rest; they were ordered straight through the station building and onto a platform towards a waiting train. In the confusion of barking dogs, soldiers shouting orders, and steam swirling all around them, Susannah got separated from the rest of her family. For a moment she panicked, gasping and struggling to reach them, but found herself being shoved through the open door of a carriage and was told to sit on the floor. At first she ignored the order and stepped back towards the platform, her eyes glaring out through the throng of figures in the mist. Then she yelped in pain as she felt her wrist being pulled and twisted. She fell down and cowered as she saw the butt of a rifle being readied to come down on top of her. But the guard moved on to the next passenger and she started frantically looking around, scanning the carriage she was in and then staring through the connecting door to the next one. Was that the top of Uncle Paul’s head? At first she wasn’t sure what she was seeing between the bustling bodies, but then she definitely saw Jacob, and then the others. Oh yes! They must have come in through the next door. She started scrabbling on all fours across to them. A pair of jackboots appeared in front of her eyes and a shout told her to get back. This time she did as she was told.
At least they were all on the same train.
She sat on the hard wooden floor, never taking her eyes off her family, and started massaging her wrist. As soon as the guards left she would go across to them. She watched them kick and shove the prisoners, occasionally feigning a blow with their rifles. Within minutes the carriage was full, and, as soon as the guards left, Susannah prepared to go.
But then a man sat down next to her. Although he looked young he had the unsteady physical actions of a much older man. ‘There’s no need to cry,’ he said.
Susannah froze, torn between going to her family and talking to this man. She took a moment to study his appearance. His body was long and rangy, the sort that was naturally fit and sporty, and he had a long coat draped over him like a blanket. His lip was bulging and bloodied on one side, his cheekbones were scuffed and red, and one eye was badly bruised.
‘I . . . I want to be with my mother,’ she said, pointing into the other carriage.
The clank of the doors slamming shut made them turn their heads.
‘It’s all right,’ the man said quietly. ‘They won’t be leaving the carriage.’
‘But I’m scared,’ she said. ‘This Westerbork place . . .’
‘Westerbork isn’t so bad,’ he said. Then he half smiled at her, the bulging side of his lips not moving.
Reassured a little by his smile, Susannah took a last look at her family before sitting down next to the man. ‘Well . . . that’s what I’ve read in the newspapers, but . . .’
‘No, really,’ he said. ‘It’s almost like a mini-town. It was especially built for Dutch and German Jews. The food and accommodation is reasonable, and it even has sports facilities.’
‘Honestly?’ Susannah said, frowning.
At that the man’s friendly smile dropped, his jaw stiffened and his nostrils twitched. ‘I’m nothing if not honest,’ he said wearily.
‘I’m sorry,’ Susannah said. ‘I’ve heard there’s a doctor, even entertainment. But I . . . I don’t know who to believe anymore.’
The displeasure left the man’s face as quickly as it had arrived. He seemed to run his eyes over her face, causing her to look away for a second.
‘I’m Franz,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘Susannah.’ She shook it, feeling the warm crust of blood on its palm.
‘What you probably heard is all true,’ he continued. ‘There are choirs and, yes, even a theatre of sorts that runs cabarets. And also a small hospital, a hairdresser’s and a postal system.’
‘So the newspapers didn’t lie?’
‘That depends,’ Franz said. ‘Did they mention the barbed-wire fences that surround this mini-town, and the dread people have of being transported away to places much worse?’
Susannah thought about that for a moment. Even with all the barbed wire and fencing, and with the fear of being moved on again, and even though she was sad to leave the farm and worried for Maria and Erik, a part of her looked forward to living at the camp, mixing with new people, joining in sports and entertainments. Perhaps there might even be some handsome boys there. At that moment she made up her mind that the first thing she would do when she got to Westerbork was go to the hairdresser’s and have her hair styled like Greta Garbo.
As Susannah was picturing herself with a new hairstyle, the carriage jerked into motion with a screech, forcing her shoulder onto Franz’s arm. He grimaced and pushed her away, holding his arm tenderly. A tear squeezed itself from his eye and ran over the dark-blue bruise below.
‘I’m sorry,’ Susannah said. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’
His grimace turned in an instant to a resigned laugh. ‘Yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve hurt myself. My ribs. My arm.’
‘And your face.’
‘Yes.’
‘At least you’ll be a
ble to go to hospital at Westerbork.’
Franz opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, closed his eyes tightly shut and bowed his head.
‘What is it?’ Susannah said.
When he looked up at her his expression had changed again, to one of despair and fear. He shook his head and looked straight at her for a moment. She could see inflamed blood vessels in the white of his bad eye.
‘Not for me.’ He sniffed, and drew a hand across his eyes, collecting a little wetness along the way. ‘There’s something else the newspapers haven’t told you.’
‘What’s that?’ Susannah said. ‘Is it something I need to know?’
‘There are . . . there are special arrangements for . . .’
There Franz broke down and wept, covering his face with a hand that was brown with dirt but also streaked in dried blood. Susannah stayed silent until he spoke again, now with brittleness in his voice. ‘You see, I was there for a year, then I escaped back to Amsterdam. They caught me, and now they’ll class me as a “Convict Jew”. I’ll be put in a punishment block. I’ll have to wear wooden clogs on my feet and a uniform instead of my own clothes. They’ll shave all my hair off and give me the very bare minimum of food.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Susannah said, reaching a hand out, holding his.
‘But there’s more,’ he said, now crying freely and not caring to hide his face. ‘We’re the first to be selected for transportation.’
Susannah wondered whether that was so bad. Surely transportation meant simply being moved to another camp – possibly a better one. She’d read about other camps just like Westerbork. Some were bound to be better, weren’t they?
Just then the man pulled his knees up and buried his face between them.
Susannah placed a hand, tenderly, on his shoulder and said, ‘I’m so sorry.’
He stopped crying and looked up for a moment. And then Susannah saw the tautness in his skin, the whiteness of his teeth, but mostly the innocence in his eyes. She saw that it could well have been Jacob in a few years. This was no man, merely a boy, perhaps a year or two older than her. She placed an arm around his shoulder. He started to cry again, then turned to her and hugged her. She let him, and held onto him for the rest of the journey.
The Sugar Men Page 8
