“I’ve got something to ask you,” he says. “It’s a bit delicate, and I hope you don’t mind me asking. I had three sisters, you see. I was brought up in a house of women. And even my one year as a medic taught me some things. I’ve been wondering when your ‘monthly visitor’ might be coming and what you might need.”
I look at him in surprise, and he plows on. “I was wondering when you had your last menstrual period. The curse, my sisters called it, or their monthlies.”
Měsíčky! He knows about měsíčky! I feel a blush spreading from my throat, up my face, and he peeks sideways, satisfied that we understand each other. I glance at the guard to see if he’s noticed my blush, but now he’s staring the other way.
I feel a huge wave of relief and gratitude to Ralph and his sisters. I’d been wondering if Englishmen know that such things exist and how on earth I could tell Bill. The hidden compartment at the bottom of my rucksack contains some of what I would need: the oilcloth sanitary belt and a few rags. The oilcloth belt was my mother’s own invention, to prevent leakage.
“If I get you some rags, do you have the other things you need?” asks Ralph, and I nod my deep gratitude, but I can’t meet his eyes.
“You’ll have to let me know, I’m afraid, so we can shield you in the washroom.”
I nod again, feeling my face as red as if I were sunburned.
“We’ll have a signal.” He’s obviously thought this through. “You come to me and lay your hand flat on your stomach.” He demonstrates. “Got it?”
I lay my right hand on my tummy, where the pain will be, to show I have understood. He glances down at my hand.
“Good. I’ll tell Bill what we’ve agreed to. It’ll be all right. It will.” He sounds as if he is trying to convince himself as much as me.
He turns his attention to the football, and we both watch as Bill runs the ball down the far side of the pitch with his long, graceful stride. My deep blush slowly subsides.
It has to be all right. It has to be.
* * *
The day after Ralph spoke to me about the “monthlies,” Bill shyly hands me a neat pile of cut-up strips of rag. They are some of the fuss-lag, worn by men who haven’t got socks, and have been donated by the men who know our secret. I am horrified that my shame must be so public, but full of gratitude for their unselfish generosity. I wonder whose feet will be cold or blistered as a consequence. Not Tucker’s, I’m sure. Bill’s face is half-shamed, half-pleased, and my relief must be evident. This will be enough to see me through.
That night after dark, and under my blanket, I pull on the sanitary belt, lined with some of the rags. It’s not a day too soon. In the morning I wake with the familiar cramp. As soon as I’m able, I signal to Ralph with the flat of my hand on my stomach, and he nods encouragement. The cramps are as bad as I’ve ever known, and I have to stand still for two hours at the roll call, feeling the dragging sensation, the hot wetness, the grinding pain, and letting none of it show on my face. I try to think that I’m Cousins, with a stomach wound inflicted by the guards. He doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much they’ve hurt him. I raise my head and stare beyond the wire, hands deep in pockets, gripping my fists tight against the pain.
Bill sits in the hut with me most of the day, and the day passes with excruciating slowness, one minute creeping after another. There are only so many hours a day Bill can read to me. Sometimes he wanders off to play cards, and I lie on my bunk. I try to sleep to pass the time. We are both miserable and edgy.
The evening is the most terrifying of all, as I crouch at the farthest tap in the washroom, scrubbing blood from my used rags, and watching it run down into the drain. Bill, Scotty, Max and Ralph casually range themselves around me. So much blood. It looks as if I’ve committed a murder.
The morning is easier, as I can wash my rags as I clean out the apple tub, but each evening my shame is there for anyone to see, a red accusation swirling away.
My friends position themselves carefully between the doorway and me, to prevent me from being caught at my humiliating task. I know I’ll never be able to repay the kindness of the twenty men who hide me. Back in the hut, I hang the rags to dry from the slats on the underside of the still-empty top bunk.
On the evening of the fourth day of my monthlies, I’m crouched as usual in my spot nearest the drain. The cold water has turned my hands almost as red as the blood running from the rags. I try to use my body to hide what I’m doing, but as the last stain washes away, I hear Bill’s warning whistle and look up.
The tall guard is sauntering toward me, pushing Ralph and Max out of the way. He has the look on his face of one of our dogs when they scent a rat.
I look down and quickly wring out the rags. Scotty and one of the other men from our hut start a staged argument near the door, and the guard glances round at them, but they’re not as interesting to him as me and what I’m doing.
He comes and stands by me, and my legs begin to shake. His boots gleam. I squeeze the last water out of the rags and use one hand to push myself to a standing position. I’m trembling so much that I have to hold the pipe for support.
“What’s going on here?” the guard asks.
Ralph replies casually in German, “Some of the men pay him cigarettes to wash their foot rags. Filthy job!”
The guard uses the end of his rifle to lift my left hand with the dripping rags.
“Why is he so ashamed?”
I’m amazed that Ralph can answer so casually, “It’s dirty work, I suppose, for a few fags. I wouldn’t do it!”
The guard stares at me, and I stare back, like Cousins might, though my knees are like water. At last he sneers, “All right, little washerwoman, you can wash my fuss-lag too!”
He considers me for another long moment before he turns away to Scotty, who’s escalating his play argument into a mock fight.
Ralph goes with him to break up the “fight,” and Bill comes round behind me.
“You want to give up smoking,” he says loudly. “Then you wouldn’t have to do this.” He takes the wet rags from me and begins to wring them out. “What you need is a mangle.” As he touches my hand, he can feel the shaking that rattles my bones. I lean back against the wall as waves of sickness overcome me.
“Let’s have a brew,” he says, and leads the way out of the washroom.
When we get back to the hut, he sits me on his bunk. My hands are like ice, and he rubs them between his. I pull them away and sit on them. What if one of the men who aren’t in on our secret sees?
“Come on, duck,” he says gently, though there’s a tremor in his voice. “I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Lots of sugar this time. That’ll make you feel better. You’ll see. Then we’ll hang out these fuss-lag to dry.”
For once the sweet tea tastes good, and as I drink it, the shivering begins to diminish, though the thought of having to wash more rags tomorrow night fills me with dread. At least it will be stopping soon. One more day, perhaps. I pray, “Make the bleeding stop.”
This evening most of the men are out of the hut at an event. While Bill is busy with the blower, Tucker stops by our bunk, touching a can of pears he wants us to leave for him that night. He glances over at Bill, who is out of earshot, and turns to me. “What else’ve you got for me, then?” he whispers. “Something hidden away? Bill won’t notice.”
I start to shake my head vigorously, as if shaking could rid myself of the sound of his whiny voice saying, “I’m too famished to keep this secret any longer. I bet the guards’d have fun with you and reward me with a slap-up dinner.”
It infuriates me that so many men in this hut are risking everything each day to protect me, to hide me, while this pig is daring to threaten me. I gesture him away angrily, and he picks up the tin of pears and slips it into his pocket.
“If you can’t find me something better than this,
I’ll have a little word with the commandant at roll call tonight.”
This time the hard edge in his voice tells me it isn’t another of his threats. He really means to do it. I watch him saunter away and fury builds in me, like steam in a kettle. I won’t allow him to destroy me. When he stops to talk to Ralph and Max, I slip out toward Scotty’s bed and feel under the picture for his pocketknife.
Pushing myself between Ralph and Max, I face Tucker. With a swift movement, I pull out the knife and Tucker jumps back, assuming I’m going to attack him, but instead I hold it to my own throat. Grabbing his hand, I wrap it around mine, making him press the cold blade to my skin. My eyes bore into his.
“Do it, then,” I hiss. “Big man. Kill me.”
Tucker looks terrified and tries to pull his hand away. He doesn’t want to cut my throat, though he’d be happy to let someone else do it. Ralph and Max yank us apart. Bill hurls himself toward us over Ralph’s bed, scattering parcel contents.
Ralph grabs hold of my hand with the knife, while Max and Bill grip Tucker, with his arms behind his back. Some people look up at the noise of a scuffle, but they see Ralph has it under control and lose interest.
“Cousins,” whispers Ralph urgently, “what’s going on?”
I nod to Bill. I’ve done my speaking, made my point.
Bill shakes Tucker’s arm, and without loosening his grip, he whispers, “This bastard’s been blackmailing us ever since we arrived.” He punctuates his points by twisting Tucker’s arm more and more. “Taking food. Threatening to tell the goons about Cousins if we don’t give it to him. Threatening to tell them if we came to you. I didn’t know what to do.”
So swiftly that I think I must have imagined it, Max brings his knee up into Tucker’s groin and Tucker doubles in pain. “You fucking, wankering coward. You would’ve murdered her in cold blood.”
Ralph puts out a warning hand. “Max!” and Max suddenly lets go of Tucker. Bill releases him too, so he falls on the floor between the bunks with both hands nursing his testicles.
Ralph bends over him. “Do you know what would happen if I told the rest of the men what you’ve been doing, you filthy, miserable little rat?”
Tucker peeps up, his face scrunched with pain. “Don’t tell ’em. Don’t tell ’em. I’ll go to another hut. Skedaddle like.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll stay here, and I’ll put a watch on you. There won’t be a moment of night or day when we haven’t got our eyes on you. And you’d better keep as quiet as Cousins, or I’ll let the rest of the hut tear you apart.”
Tucker is nodding like a clockwork toy. “Don’t tell Scotty, will you? Please. He’ll . . .”
Ralph puts his face very close to Tucker’s. “He’ll what? Kill you? Like you were prepared to do to Cousins? I’m very, very tempted.”
He and Max pull Tucker to his feet and frog-march him back to his own bunk. Ralph moves off to speak to some other men, and immediately two of them station themselves alongside Tucker’s bunk. Tucker shrinks into the shadows of his bed.
I’m still boiling with anger. Bill reaches a hand to steady me.
“Are you OK? You’re so brave.”
But what I did was out of pure fury, and I see now that it could have gone horribly wrong. More of the rash risk-taking I’d promised myself I would stop. I wave the folded knife at Bill and return it to its hiding place behind Scotty’s picture. I’ve just turned away when Scotty comes back into the hut. Ralph nods to me, and I know that he’ll explain what’s happened and make sure Scotty finds a new hiding place for the knife.
Bill picks up the possessions that he sent flying as he leaped across the bed to save me. With everything gathered he looks up at me and grins. “It was nice to hear your voice,” he says. “I’d almost forgotten how scary you can sound.”
Sixteen
We can’t stay here,” Bill blurts out to Ralph and Max later that evening. “I need to get Cousins to another hut.”
Ralph takes off his glasses and polishes them thoughtfully, then hooks them back behind his ears. “You’re right,” he says. “It’s too dangerous here. We might be better in a labor camp. There’d be fewer guards.”
Bill is nodding furiously, and I remember how lightly he was guarded at the Mankendorf sawmill and on our farm. It would be a huge relief to be somewhere like that.
Max joins in. “Maybe we could find an Arbeitskommando in Czechoslovakia,” he says quietly. “There we might even have some chance of getting word out to the resistance.”
My heart leaps at the thought that my father or my brother might come at last to rescue me, and I grip Bill’s hand. I don’t know how hard it would be to hide my monthlies at a labor camp, but I do know I don’t want to be here when it happens again. And I want to be as far from Tucker as possible. Even under guard, I know he can’t be trusted.
Ralph says, “Just one thing: I couldn’t bear to go down a mine. Anything else, but not a mine. I wouldn’t last five minutes in a confined space.”
I’m pleased they’re all in agreement that we shouldn’t go down a mine. My view of the sky every day gives me hope. I know my mother and father could be looking up and seeing the same sun and clouds, and it makes me feel connected to them. I don’t know if I could go on living in darkness.
Scotty sees our whispered conversation and comes over. He stands awkwardly, twisting his cap in his hands. “If yous going for a work detail, I’d be glad to come with you, if ye’ll have me.”
We all look at one another and nod. There would be something very reassuring about having on our side someone who has the reputation of knowing how to handle himself in a fight.
The next morning, instead of walking around the perimeter fence as usual, the five of us head for the hut that acts as a Labor Exchange, handling requests for workers in a huge radius around Lamsdorf. On the way, Max tells me there are six hundred Arbeitskommando labor camps connected with Lamsdorf, with British prisoners working for them. He says the Nazis aren’t supposed to send us to munitions factories or anything else that directly helps the war effort, but it’s well-known that they do.
As we walk, I start to notice a curious acrid smell in the air and see men all around us lifting their noses to smell and shaking their heads at one another.
“Wind’s changed direction,” says Ralph.
I look at Bill. Does he know what this awful smell might be? He and Ralph and Scotty avoid my eyes, but Max falls in beside me as we walk.
“The smell?” he asks, and I nod. Max won’t mince his words. “The rumor is it comes from the camp where they take the Jews and the Gypsies. They say it’s the smell of thousands of burning bodies. Women and children who aren’t any use in the labor camps.”
I stop stock-still and look at Max. My own horror is mirrored in his face. Can this possibly be true? Could the Nazis do this to other human beings? Fury surges up in me, and I start walking again, fast, overtaking Ralph, Scotty and Bill. The three of them hurry to keep up with me, and we pass other groups of men sauntering around the perimeter.
“What’s the rush?” they call. “Got a bus to catch?” But I’m blind with rage at the world, the war, this cruelty beyond anything I could imagine. I want to run at the wire, to shake and shake it, screaming my anger, but all I can do is to walk and walk, faster and faster, not knowing where I’m going, just desperate to escape from this terrible charnel house of a place. Ralph falls a little behind, and Max drops back with him, but Bill and Scotty keep pace with me, circling and circling the huts, until eventually I start to slow down and allow Ralph and Max to catch up with us.
I hear Bill say to Max, “You shouldn’t have told him,” and I turn on Bill with my eyes flashing.
Bill holds his hands up. “Sorry, sorry. Yes, of course you have to know. It’s just so awful, I wanted to spare you.”
“We have to stay alive and get out of here,” says Ralph. “We
have to live and tell the world what we know.” I’m sure he’s talking to Max.
* * *
The Labor Exchange is a hut set aside to match prisoners with suitable Arbeitskommando work camps, and now I see for myself how the Third Reich exists on the slave labor of its captured enemies.
The hut is staffed by two “trusted men,” one British and one Australian. There are lists on the walls of the hundreds of factories, mines and quarries looking for workers.
“Ready to make yourselves useful to the Reich?” asks the Aussie.
Bill says, “We hear Czechoslovakia is very nice at this time of year.”
The Aussie pulls a card index toward him.
“Not mines,” says Ralph. “I’m claustrophobic. I’d scream the roof down.”
“Experience?” asks the Aussie.
“I’ve worked in a sawmill before,” says Bill, “and done sledge building and farmwork.” He indicates me. “He’s a dab hand with ’orses.”
“Not much agricultural work at this time of year,” says the Aussie. “What about you two? What can you do?”
“Bookkeeping, and I can speak German,” Ralph says.
The Aussie writes something down as Max says, “I can organize a trade union.”
The Aussie’s eyebrows rise. “Hmm, better not advertise that.”
Scotty says, “I’ve worked in a quarry, a shipyard, a milliner’s and a biscuit factory. We’d prefer a biscuit factory if yous got one.”
Everyone laughs, but I look at him with new interest.
The Aussie pulls a card from his index. “Here’s something. Not a biscuit factory. Saubsdorf quarry. E166. Jeseník district, Olomouc region. Wants five new men.”
The Prisoner's Wife Page 18
