“They will share a bed—won’t they?” I ask.
“Yes, they will have to. The Judenrat has said that the apartment is too big for only a mother with two children. Which is absurd. It is barely big enough for one.”
I am disappointed that any precious time we have alone now has to be shared with strangers.
“Do you have any items to trade for food and bedding?” asks Mama.
Rada complains about the fleas that are biting her through her stockings, while Mama explains the ghetto system. Yuri sits staring at his hands for long periods of time, then at the window, then at the stove. He is in shock. They have come from northern Poland from their large country home. I know what they are feeling.
Rada grows pale and gray as Mama explains where they must attend to their toilet and how they must get their own water. She explains that they will receive rations for food, one loaf of bread to last five days, and that they must stand in line each day for their bowl of soup. And sometimes they must line up for hours to receive other rations.
“We have coin,” says Yuri, “sewn into the hems of our clothes.”
“You can’t tell them that,” hisses Rada.
“We aren’t thieves,” I say testily. “Besides, there are more important things to steal than money. You will find out soon enough.”
“You will need to find the profiteers who will accept real money for items. They are getting harder to find, and check with me before you offer anything. They might also be spies. And you must not speak about this openly,” cautions Mama. “The people who are selling items you might need—paper, blankets, coal, extra food—will be killed and you will be punished. And your coin will not buy you a lot. You will go through it fast. Everything is expensive. Everyone demands high prices for the items they sell. Work in the ghetto is paid in coupons for washing, for wood, and for food. Zloty is only for the black market. You could pick up another mattress from the markets.”
When relatives die, some people are quick to sell their spare bedding for coupons. But Mama does not mention this. It is not yet the time. They are still coming to terms with the small, hopeless space they must call home, just as Mama first did. She knows what Rada is going through.
“Gracious God, what sort of place is this?” says Rada.
She looks upon us with disdain. Our clothes have stains, though Mama has always stressed the importance of keeping our faces and hands clean.
“You have to watch yourself,” Mama says. “There are desperate, hungry people in the ghetto. It would do no good to wear your jewelry. You must hide it.”
“Hungry people are often troublemakers,” Rada says to her husband, pretending to refer to others, but I feel the inference directed at us. “We must sleep with all our possessions.”
“Heating is scarce, so hang on to your coat,” Mama continues. “Do not let anyone convince you to trade it just because you feel hungry. We have blankets you can share until you buy some for yourself. While I am out, I will see what your money can get for you.”
It is a shock in the beginning. They will adjust in time. We stand and watch them, but none of us feels the desire to comfort them. It is enough that we are giving up space.
Mama turns to attend to something else.
“Thank you,” says Yuri. His appreciation is genuine. Life here is cruel for everyone.
Mama nods and leaves the room, while Leah moves closer to me.
“What is wrong with your sister?” asks Rada. “Why does she walk like that?”
I look at Leah, who appears not to hear the question.
“One leg is shorter than the other,” I say, surprised that Rada has noticed. It is only a minor impairment. “She can’t run as fast as most children. That’s all.”
“Did she have an accident?”
“No, she was born that way.”
“Not to worry,” says Yuri. “Who said you need two the same length?”
“Hitler says,” says Rada quickly. She is still pale and angry. “He does not want those who are different or damaged.”
I want to cover Leah’s ears to shield her from this information. Until that day, I had never viewed my sister with pity before. Now I am wondering if it bothers her—whether she feels the difference. Before the ghetto, Leah had tried many times to keep up with me, to not be left behind or left out of games, but I have never really considered how hard she must work to hide her condition. It isn’t her fault, I remind myself, that she can’t help with the water. As Mama said, it is not safe for her outside.
I sit by the window to think of Simon and consider the choices I have to make, but my thoughts are interrupted by Rada, who has begun to complain about the unwashed sheets.
I look at my shoes. How much longer? Like this? How much longer?
A terrible thing has happened to Rada. She was lining up for bread even though I had warned her not to go out alone, when a group of young men grabbed her and took her fur coat. People know when you are new because you are not always looking over your shoulder—you have not yet mastered 360-degree vision. I felt very sorry for her because she and Yuri have brought so few possessions with them—only a few items to fit in a suitcase. Yuri went to the Gestapo to report the theft, but they beat him.
Rada keeps feeling faint, especially when she sees people falling dead in the street from disease or starvation. She has not yet grown used to tragedy like we have: she does not yet have an immunity to the way things are, or the acceptance that comes before you are consciously aware of it.
She and Yuri were driven by truck away from their home and straight into hell. Both had engineering degrees and professional careers but are now unlikely to get a job in a factory. Rada complains about the smells from the rubbish and about the toilets and the fleas and the lice and the heat and the cold and the old vegetables that the rest of us have grown to crave.
After Rada’s coat was stolen, I shared some of my coffee with her, and she cried with appreciation. It is a way to gain her trust, since she is becoming more paranoid and fearful than everyone else here. It is difficult to know who is working for the Germans, perhaps snitching, telling them what the ghetto residents are saying. I know of another person who was recently taken by force at gunpoint and never came back. He talked often about how the Russians would crush the Germans to pieces. He said how stupid the German soldiers were. He was vocal about many issues, and it ultimately led to his incarceration elsewhere—or perhaps his death. This has stopped many of us from talking. It was perhaps someone from this very building who whispered into the ear of a Judenrat informant the day that Imran was shot.
Yuri has a miniature backgammon game that he could not bear to leave behind, since it belonged to his son. We play in the evenings just before the lights go out. We blow on our hands in between the rolls of the dice. Leah and Mama take turns playing the game, also, but Rada prefers to watch. She does not have the spirit for games, she says.
Rada talks, though. She says they had a large house. Yuri worked for a building company, and Rada taught engineering at the university. They have two grown children who live in America, and one who was studying in Paris when war broke out. They wrote to all of the children and heard back from the ones in America, but they did not hear from their youngest son in Paris. Rada dabs her eyes whenever she speaks of him.
In just days Leah has grown attached to Yuri. She sits on his knee, and he tells her stories before she goes to bed. I am so grateful for this because I have not had the mind or heart to tell her stories anymore. They seem too removed now from this life, as if the gap between reality and fantasy is now too wide for me to bridge. The only story in my head is the one that sees us leaving the ghetto. Some might call such a story a fantasy, but that is all I care to imagine.
Lilli says that I must hurry up and join the youth police before the positions are filled. Mama says that the extra rations will make up for the fact that I am working for Germans. Prices are getting higher. Bread is expensive and in short supply. Wood even mor
e so. What will happen tomorrow? Nobody knows. Day to day. That’s what life is.
Tonight Mama has brought home beets, cabbage, rutabagas, and a tiny piece of sausage. It is more than our usual fare: potatoes and cabbage. Food is spread thinly since Mama does not allow Leah to stand in line for soup. Lilli has also given us honey and coffee that isn’t really coffee, and we have been using these sparingly. The honey was a present for Lilli from Hermann Manz. One day Mama came home with an egg, and we boiled it, then shared it between the three of us, before Yuri and Rada arrived home from the washrooms. Sometimes it is like that. Sometimes there is not enough to share. It has been so long since we have had any milk. I dream about fresh milk.
Mama keeps commenting on how distracted I have become lately. Even sleep does not shut out thoughts of Simon. Spending time with him feels a little like my life before the ghetto, before the hunger. I have something to look forward to.
Rada is constantly whining. Once I caught her stealing a piece of bread from us, and Yuri was very ashamed of her. He has apologized for her, but she does not seem to care. She moans constantly. She is selfish with food portions. She complains that I have more blankets than I need. Once she took one of our blankets during the night. It is sometimes difficult to feel sorry for her. Leah told Rada to stop complaining, and I caught Yuri smiling at this. It saved him from doing it that time. It is good that they are there for each other. It is good for Leah to have someone like Yuri.
Yuri shakes his head. “Rada has changed,” he says. “She has lost a small part of her soul.”
I believe that I am close to making up my mind. It has been almost a week since I have seen Simon, and the wait has been unbearable. He has organized his next meeting for tomorrow night. I received a message from someone who passed me this information discreetly in the street.
The more time I spend away from him, the more I am missing him. I touch the ring that rests against my chest.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WILLEM
I stumble on the hard soil, deeply grooved from hundreds of boot heels trampling before me. Above a set of gates is an odd message of hope weaved into curved cast-iron lettering. Work makes you free. I repeat the words silently while examining the razor wire and the armed tower guards who surround the prison. An official arrives to lead me through the camp that is structured in uncluttered formation with exacting right angles and enduring solid housing—architectural symbols of German order. I squint at the sun that has been released from its own gloomy prison today, and my armpits sweat beneath my heavy coat. The rattle of rail trolleys disturbs the stillness.
I have been told little about my assignment; Father was afraid to put anything in writing in case the information should fall into British hands.
The chief physician here—Eduard Wirths—is a man of great distinction. A hard worker, someone who I have heard possesses the same ethics and discipline as myself. I was told by my father that Dr. Wirths has plans to extend the medical facilities here, with particular focus on research in the area of women’s health. But though such plans are inspiring, the truth is, I am apprehensive about my true purpose here, and this weighs heavily upon me.
I would be foolish to think that the people who have volunteered for treatment are anyone but Jewish inmates. However, I also have been told that the experimentation will not only benefit the future of women’s alternative medicines but will aid the prisoners, also.
After Lena’s reaction to the story from the ghetto, I will be careful of what I tell her about the camp. Before, she was strong and opinionated but objective. Now with the pregnancy, she is sensitive and reactive. The information she receives must be filtered.
There is a sharp acidic smell in the air combined with the odor of sewage, combined with the stench of moist earth. When I comment on this to the guard who is escorting me to my sleeping quarters, he says that he doesn’t notice any smell. He is used to it.
I am taken first to see the commander, and I raise my right arm proudly. This act binds us to the people we salute, and although Lena might scoff, I admit it makes me feel closer to Germany. Despite some of the distasteful things I have heard and seen, there is something beyond my misgivings that still keeps me immersed in national pride. It is Germany’s fortitude, her resoluteness, and her preparedness. Even forced commitment cannot negate admiration.
In the absence of Dr. Wirths, who is otherwise occupied for the rest of the day, I question the camp commander on the medical undertakings ahead, but he claims ignorance. He is not a man of medicine, he says, and is ill equipped to explain the research. We then make the expected small talk about the success of the war before I am led to my quarters.
My quarters are comfortable and private. The bed is soft, with clean linen. I unpack my suitcase and place a photo of Lena on the table beside the bed. It does not take long before I am interrupted.
A woman delivers a plate of ham, boiled potatoes, and coffee to my room. It is too late for the main dining area, since other workers have already eaten and dispersed for the evening.
After my meal I fall into a deep sleep that is all too brief; I am suddenly woken by the sound of whistles and shots. Heavy running steps sound past my room. I quickly get dressed to learn what is happening and follow the running soldiers toward the building entrance. A young man yells, “Escapees!” as he passes me. Outside I enter sheets of heavy rain that fall from the blackness.
I follow the pack through the buildings, the white steam from our breaths disappearing in the bright strobes that have brought daylight to the camp. A siren blares across the bustling camp and into the frosty stillness beyond the wire. There is no sign of any prisoners—buildings black and still.
Ahead, several shots tap at the night air, followed by several more. The group fans out near the front of the compound, the men forming a circle to view something that I cannot yet see. As if participating in some kind of ritual, I step forward to form part of the circle. Several fresh corpses, blood marking their striped garb, are the objects of study. The bodies are slightly sunken in thick mud, some twisted grotesquely from their midrun fall. Some appear to be curled in sleep. One of the soldiers steps forward and shoots one of the corpses in the head. The sound, up close, seems personal, offensive, and leaves a ringing in my ears. He walks to the next and does the same, then the next.
Several other prisoners in pajamas appear from the night behind us to carry the bodies past me, and I turn away before I can meet their eyes. A numbness spreads through my head, a feeling that this is happening to someone else.
“Is this normal?” I ask the officer beside me.
“It is expected.”
I am not sure whether he means the shooting of the fleeing prisoners or the frequency of escapes.
I return to my room and pat myself dry with a hand towel. My blood pumps hard through my veins, unable to find an even flow, and images of the dead inmates flash through my mind, preventing me from falling asleep. I picture one of the faces of the men, his mouth and eyes partially open. Did he have a family here? Does he have any children, a mother, father, siblings? I shake my head and stand to pace the room, the ringing still in my ears. I turn on a lamp and write a letter to Lena to distract myself and to tell her I can’t wait to be with her again, then lie on the bed and wait for daylight to come to my window. The view from my room is the brick wall of another building. But before daylight another siren sounds, and I hear the shouts from guards as they call out numbers. It occurs to me that sleep in this place might be a luxury.
On the way to breakfast, and slightly on edge, I pass several people in the hallway. I introduce myself to one of the doctors, and I’m relieved when he shakes my hand warmly. I follow him to a table where a prisoner brings me a boiled egg and some bread. The prisoner then returns to pour me some coffee.
To the other doctor I have just met, I comment on the events of the previous night, but he says that he slept through any disturbance, that he didn’t hear anything. This lifts my spirits a
little, the knowledge that normality continues in the light of day, and I remind myself that my function here has nothing to do with what happened the night before. We touch on the subjects of our families back home, his interest in the health of children, and the successes of the German campaign until we have finished our meal.
Dr. Marquering is pleasant enough, even jocular at times, but he becomes somewhat preoccupied and nonconversational when I question him on the treatment of prisoners within the camp. The overall pensive mood of other diners suggests an absence of camaraderie here and a lack of cohesiveness among its workers, or perhaps what I sense is merely the usual fear of speaking freely on certain matters. When I inquire, Dr. Marquering directs me to where I should report for work. But later, before I attempt to leave my room after having returned briefly to attend to my personal needs, a guard knocks on my door to escort me to a medical facility that accommodates mostly women.
Arriving at my destination, I see that the brick building looks slightly pink, even amiable, in the gray, filtered light. I am beginning to feel some measure of enthusiasm and confidence. Memories of the previous night are slowly being overridden by the events of the day at hand, and I remind myself that what I observed is part of war: one of the ripples between many other unsavory events that precede an ultimate calm.
Inside I am taken to an office first for briefing on schedules and paperwork where several doctors have assembled to meet me. Dr. Wirths is there, warm and welcoming, though I am disappointed to learn that he will not be directly assisting in this research, and that I will be instructed by Dr. Kohler. The necessary introductions are made before Dr. Wirths makes his retreat, and Dr. Kohler then takes me on a tour of the facility.
I am led past several women who lie in hospital beds. Kohler points to one of them and advises me that she is scheduled for a procedure later that morning. I am told that I will be sterilizing several of the women from this ward.
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