“You did this to her.”
The soldier raises his machine gun, obstructing my path to the desk.
Zennler redirects the spotlight at my sister’s scarred back. He leans forward, clearly admiring his handiwork. “We persuaded her to cooperate. A lot of work, but very satisfying when she broke. She begged us not to hurt you. Such love for the sister who abandoned her. But do you share that love? Destroying the papyrus took a lot of courage, but I know you remember the symbols. You remember everything, don’t you Fraulein Clayton?”
Zennler pushes a blank sheet of white paper across his desk. A gold fountain pen sparkles on top.
“Do you want me to write them down?” I ask.
I’m stalling. Of course that’s what Zennler wants. He confirms it with a silent nod.
“Don’t tell him, Edith!” my sister screams. “He’ll kill us anyway.”
Zennler sits back. He doesn’t even deny it.
“Don’t say—” Irene yells, but I’ve already closed my eyes.
I wind back time. Not to when I burned the scroll, but by a few minutes. I see my sister strung up as I come in, the bright light, and Zennler behind his desk. I could grab the fountain pen, but it’s not much of a weapon. Besides, the SS soldier has a machine gun, and I’m no killer. There’s nothing I can do. I come back.
“—anything,” Irene finishes.
Zennler waits patiently for my answer.
“I can remember the symbols,” I confirm.
Irene mutters in disgust, her words too quiet to hear. Zennler’s smirk widens, and I actually see teeth. He extends an open palm toward the pen - an invitation to start writing.
“But I didn’t say I would,” I add with a smirk of my own.
“Good girl,” whispers Irene.
“Ignorant and stubborn,” says Zennler. “And I thought the British were polite.”
Zennler unpins his Ahnenerbe badge. The SS soldier grabs my arms, twisting them behind my back. I stamp and squirm, but only succeed in pulling a muscle. The guard is too well trained. He’s done this before.
“Don’t touch her!” Irene shouts over rusty squeaks.
Zennler stands up, turning over the badge. The pin is stained with dry blood. Heaven knows how many people he’s tortured with that thing. He brings the needle up to my eye, holding it so close it disappears behind a blind spot.
Zennler swipes down. Sharp metal tears through my cheek. I feel my flesh rip apart, but the sharp pain quickly subsides. The soldier’s hold weakens. Not enough for me to escape, but he’s unnerved. And Zennler’s gone all pale. He’s not used to prisoners healing.
“Did I pass your test?” I ask, referencing his remark at the academy.
Zennler looks at the badge – and the blood-soaked skin snagged on its pin. He gets over his shock quickly. “So it’s true. One Clayton who heals, and another who would rather suffer than talk. Getting information from you two could take days. But there are other girls at Marzahn. Girls who are not so strong or brave. Johann!”
The second SS brute drags in a female prisoner. It’s the Romani girl, the one from the truck. She writhes about, screaming insults in a foreign language. Would they actually… What am I thinking? These men torture people for fun.
“You can’t do this!” I protest.
A silly statement. Zennler can – and will – hurt this girl. He walks slowly toward her, fist clasped around his Ahnenerbe badge. Zennler plucks the skin off and drops it between the Romani’s feet. Her screams turn to whimpers.
“There’s a pen and paper on the desk,” states Zennler.
“Forget about her, Edith,” says Irene dismissively. “You can’t save her.”
Forget? My sister spent nine years blaming me for leaving Mother to die, but now it’s a Romani girl she wants me to forget? Why? Is her life not important enough?
“Stop!” I cry, shutting my eyes. “I’ll—”
The papyrus pieces burn in the Olympic relay torch. I go back in time, watching myself pull them out. I untear – if that’s even a word - the scroll, and it’s whole again. I concentrate on the first row of symbols.
Everything goes black. Light blue spots appear, shining like stars would in a cloudless night sky. Lines extend from the points, as if drawn by an invisible hand. Or hands, since they all appear at once. They form a picture: a city by the sea built of basic, hollow shapes. No curves, only straight edges. Square houses under a twelve-sided Sun, with triangles in the background that could be hills. Or maybe sand dunes. The architecture - though highly simplified - looks Arabian.
The picture disappears. Did I just interpret the symbols? How is that possible? A few seconds pass before I realise I’ve returned to the present.
“You’ll what, Fraulein Clayton?” Zennler’s next to the terrified Romani, pricking her chin with his needle. “Waste more of my time?”
“Don’t draw them!” Irene yells.
Sorry sister, but I’m not letting them hurt her. I pick up the fountain pen, close my eyes, and focus on the symbols. Again my vision goes dark, and again invisible hands sketch the hollow city. I want them to stop, but I’m only able to leave once the picture is complete. And by then, I’ve already forgotten the patterns from the papyrus.
“Don’t think to trick me,” warns Zennler. “My memory may not be as good as yours, but I remember most symbols that were on the scroll. If you draw different ones…”
He glances at the girl. She flinches. Zennler will probably torture her regardless, but what choice do I have?
Perhaps if I glimpse the symbols briefly I won’t translate them. I close my eyes, study the first pattern of the top row, then wake up. With the size and alignment of the squares still fresh in my mind, I copy them to the paper. There are nine altogether, including the frame. It’s only a rough sketch, but hopefully it will satisfy Zennler. I repeat the procedure for the other symbols, then the remaining rows.
It takes a lot of blinking. Every time I open my eyes, I hear my sister’s voice. I pick up fragments of sentences. “Don’t say… she’s only… why… Edith! … tell them… that gypsy…”
I’m utterly shattered by the end. The pen weighs a tonne. It probably doesn’t, but that’s how it feels. Why am I so tired? Zennler says nothing as I hand him the completed sheet of paper. He reads the symbols, nodding slowly.
“Will you let the girl go?”
It’s a struggle to even speak, and I immediately regret asking. Zennler’s not the type to agree to a request, especially one that involves treating a Romani with dignity.
“Johann,” Zennler says without looking up.
The soldier holds the Romani girl still. There’s a long pause during which I don’t dare breathe. Then Zennler pins the Ahnenerbe badge on his jacket.
“Come with me,” he instructs. “Leave the girl here.”
Johann’s head sinks with disappointment. Then he sneers and clamps his thick hands around the girl’s shoulders. He lifts her up and throws her lightweight body against the wall. Blood spatters on the concrete. The Romani slides down into a crumpled heap, shedding tears on her ragged dress. When Irene was a baby, she tossed away her toy rattle when it wasn’t wanted. Is that how these men view the Romani? As toys?
“Dieter,” Zennler addresses the other soldier. “I’m going back to the academy, to see if Doctor Ernst knows anything. You stay here.”
“You want me to hurt them?” grunts Dieter. It’s a question only a wicked man would ask.
“The Claytons? Only if they try to escape. The gypsy girl… do as you please.”
Zennler leaves. Johann seems reluctant to follow at first, but decides it’s better to obey. The door closes with a resonant clang. I don’t hear the Nazis bar it. They must think one armed guard and dozens more outside are enough. They’re probably right.
The Romani curls up even tighter, quivering with fear. I throw myself in Dieter’s way, much to his disgust.
“Why protect this…” Dieter spits at the bloodied wall. “Dirty
filth?”
Irene grits her teeth. She bends her elbows and pulls her body up toward the hook. Her hair drips with perspiration. That’s why my sister’s been so quiet. She was saving her energy for this. I realise I’m staring at her, but luckily Dieter doesn’t notice.
“Romani?” I say to keep the guard’s attention on me. I’m still feeling drowsy, but I seem to have recovered enough to speak coherently.
Dieter squirms in discomfort. Irene could teach him how to cope with real pain. Her arms buckle under the pressure, but she forces herself higher. My sister’s been through hell, yet she’s determined to soldier on. And I’m not about to give her away.
“What’s wrong?” I ask mockingly. “Are Romani girls not pure enough for the master race?”
Making fun of Dieter’s sacred Nazi ideology is sure to anger him. And if he’s focused on me, he won’t see Irene. My sister lifts her jawline to the hook, and chews on the hemp securing her wrists. Rope fibres snap. They won’t hold much longer.
Dieter raps my chin with his machine gun’s magazine. My tongue tastes blood.
“They’re vermin. All of them.” Dieter’s growls sound more inhuman with every word.
The rope breaks. Irene bends her knees, absorbing the impact as she lands silently on the concrete. Her ankle nudges the bucket on the way down. It’s about to tip over! My sister traps the pail with her foot and steadies it. A little blood spills out, but it could have been a lot worse.
Dieter doesn’t see Irene sneak up behind him, but the Romani does. She probably finds a scarred, half-naked giantess scary. Fortunately the girl’s already cowering in terror, and the arrogant German thinks it’s all because of him.
“Weak,” Dieter remarks. “Only fit for beat—”
Irene kicks him in the back. The startled soldier tumbles into the wall. My sister piggy backs onto him, trapping his arms and body between her thighs. She snatches Dieter’s weapon from his flexing fingers, wraps the leather strap around his neck, and twists the machine gun until the loop closes tight. It’s unfair to call what follows a struggle. Irene’s all over him.
The Romani girl screams. I want to join her, but I’m too shocked to move my lips. Irene’s no longer my sweet, little sister. She’s matured into a savage cold-hearted killer. Dieter twists around, slamming Irene into the desk. The mirrored lamp falls off, its beam dancing across the ceiling.
“Shut her up!” Irene shouts, crossing her ankles. “She’ll alert the whole camp.”
In the darkness, Irene’s a predatory shadow on Dieter’s back. He claws at the leather strap, then my sister’s legs. His struggles become frantic and weak. Eventually they stop completely, and Irene grips the desk to stop herself from falling.
My sister doesn’t release Dieter even then. She keeps choking - and crushing - him for a further ten seconds to make sure he’s dead. The Romani screams the whole time.
Irene lets her victim go, stands up, and replaces the mirrored light on the desk. She storms over, fetching the machine gun. She’s not thinking of…
“Edith, I told you…” My sister whacks the back of the girl’s head, knocking her out. “…to shut her up. Good thing the guards are used to torture.”
“Irene?”
That’s all I can say. I don’t know what happened to her during the last three years, but she’s changed. I feel like she must have that night at Clayton Manor, terrified of what her sister might do next.
“Get her clothes,” Irene says remorselessly. “They should fit you.”
I look at the girl whose name I don’t know, and probably never will. She’s sprawled on the floor, asleep. Am I the only one who hasn’t hit her?
“Move!” urges my sister.
I don’t. And I won’t. Not without a reason. “Why?” I demand to know.
“Everyone out there is either one of them…” Irene looks at Dieter’s body, then at the girl. “Or one of them.”
“Them? Do you mean Romani? Or those of us with tainted blood?” Being tortured by her fellow Nazis doesn’t seem to have affected Irene’s beliefs.
“Did you see any white girls in pretty dresses wandering around outside? Now, stop arguing and get changed.”
Irene rolls Dieter’s body over. His tongue sticks out from his agape mouth, resting on his lower lip. There’s a thick red depression circling his neck where the gun strap was. I can’t feel sorry for the man, but it was a slow, agonising death. My sister shows no pity, pulling off his shoes.
“What about lady soldiers?” I point out. Anything to take my mind off the body. “Any of those out there?”
Irene puts on Dieter’s shirt, buttons it over her bra, and tucks her blonde hair inside his grey cap. As a disguise, it’s not perfect. The fit is much too tight and her breasts stick out, but from long distance nobody will think someone so tall and thick-limbed is a woman.
“It’ll work if we stay away from the guards,” Irene says. “And if you’re dressed like… a Romani. I’m sorry I ran off to join the German Maidens. Okay? But we both got involved with people we shouldn’t have.”
A half-hearted apology, and she couldn’t resist putting some blame on me, but Irene always was difficult.
My sister undresses the Romani and holds out the bundle of clothes. I feel guilty taking them. The girl is so poorly fed the ridges of her ribcage show through her skin. She’ll freeze to death on the cold, concrete floor.
“So we just leave her here?” I ask. “To suffer?”
“To die,” Irene says flatly. “This is Marzahn. A labour camp. They bring people to these places to die.”
The clothes suddenly feel very heavy. “Are there other camps like this one?” I ask with trepidation.
My sister opens the door and takes a cautious peek outside. “No guards nearby, but someone will check up on him eventually. We need to go.”
Irene avoided the question, which means there are other camps. I take off my blouse and skirt, and place them softly in the Romani’s hands. “These are for you,” I whisper.
I change into the girl’s stinky, itch-inducing clothes. I pluck off a few fleas, but things don’t noticeably improve.
“You look too healthy to be a gypsy,” says Irene.
She straps the gun over her shoulder, opens the door fully, and throws me outside. I wasn’t expecting it, and land face down in soggy, manure-sprinkled mud.
“That’s better,” my sister says, dragging me to my feet. “Now they might mistake you for a prisoner.”
I spit on my hand, and use the saliva to wash dirt from my eyes. We must have been in the torture room a while, because it’s almost dark.
The watchtower guards shine searchlight beams around the camp. One passes over us. My sister bows her head, pulling her cap down to hide her feminine features. After a second or so, the light moves across to the wooden huts. The Romani labourers are still out tending fields and breaking stone. Are they forced to work all day?
“How do we escape?” I ask.
“I was going to use a truck. There were a lot less men when they brought me here. But they’ve doubled the watch. The Germans don’t want gypsies wandering around Berlin during the Olympics. Bad press.”
There are several vehicles parked in the field, all guarded by soldiers. Irene’s disguise won’t fool them up close. And there’s another problem: the trucks only bring Romani into the camp, not out. We need a different plan. And neither of us has one.
Chapter Nine: Escape from Marzahn
My sister marches me across the field at gunpoint. Every dozen paces she gives me a forceful shove.
“Do you have to be so—”
Irene kicks my bare shin, leaving a muddy impression of her boot. “Keep moving!” she snarls. Her disguised, masculine voice is scarily similar to Dieter’s.
Two patrolling soldiers stride past without a moment’s pause. Evidently they see nothing wrong. And why would they? Romani beating is a frequent occurrence at Marzahn.
“I’m trying to blend in,” Irene sa
ys. “So we don’t get caught. I have to act like SS.”
“You’re very convincing,” I grumble.
“While you think of a way out. You’re the one who can freeze time.”
Irene’s known about my powers for years, since we first came to Germany. But I’m not a miracle worker.
“You know this place better than I do,” I say.
“The Nazis built the camp between the cemetery to the south and…” Irene points the other way - at man-made mounds of sloppy brown earth. “…that sewage field. There are no tunnels, but…” She stops to smile.
“But?” I ask eagerly.
“There is a tunnel. It runs right under the graveyard.”
That’s very specific knowledge, not something she’d have learned in the German Maidens.
“I studied Berlin,” Irene goes on to explain. “And all the other places Ernst took us. I read everything I could. Street maps, railway lines, tunnels. I wanted to be prepared, in case we ever ran into her again.”
She must mean Lydia. But right now we’ve got Nazis to contend with, and there are some major problems with Irene’s escape plan.
“How do we find this tunnel?” I ask. “What are we supposed to dig with? And how do we dig without attracting attention?”
“One thing at a time, little sister.”
Why does she keep calling me that? Irene’s behaving like… I used to when she was young. Was I really so aloof and condescending?
“You!” Irene bellows in her gruff, pretend male voice. “Give me that.”
Her rude outburst is directed at a grizzled, droopy-eyed Romani man digging up potatoes. He trudges over, dragging his spade through the soil. Irene snatches it away and whacks the man in the stomach with the rough pine handle. The blow brings him to his knees. Irene steps around him, testing the spade’s weight.
“The Germans only go to the graveyard to bury the dead.”
Irene’s soft natural voice carries an underlying threat. Would she really hurt the poor man? The sister I used to know wouldn’t, but…
“Don’t,” I plead.
“I won’t, if he keeps his mouth shut.”
Edith Clayton and the Wisdom of Athena Page 10
