The five prisoners gather their belongings from the cart in the darkness, and clutch them as they walk up to the buildings. Bill notices there isn’t any wire fencing. To the right of them is a stone house, but they enter through the adjoining single-story, timber-framed extension. Bill hopes they won’t be sleeping in it, as there would be little insulation to keep it warm in the winter. But it’s not sleeping quarters. Inside is a messy office, with piles of papers, and an unlit cast-iron stove.
Herr Rauchbach leads them through the office and unbolts the door to the stone house. Kurt brings up the rear. As they take off their hats in the hallway, Bill can see Kurt’s hair is a dirty blond, and prematurely receding, while the owner has a firm dark hairline. He doesn’t think they are father and son.
Just off the dark hallway is a room with three bunk beds, but they are ushered past it, through to the rear of the house, where the warmth of a kitchen range and the strong smells of cabbage and cigarette smoke welcome them.
They drop their bags and blankets in a heap and shuffle forward. It looks a bit like Izzy’s farmhouse kitchen, thinks Bill, with a deep sink, a range and a large table with about ten chairs, all occupied by British prisoners in khaki battle dress. One of them stands up. “Welcome t’ ’otel,” he says, and holds out his hand. “Johnson, Frank.”
Ralph steps forward and shakes his hand. “Maddox. Ralph.” He ushers Izzy forward. “And this is Cousins. Doesn’t speak, I’m afraid, but a good worker.”
Frank looks her up and down doubtfully. The introductions to Bill, Max and Scotty are completed, and the five newcomers gravitate toward the warmth of the range.
Herr Rauchbach says something in German, and Ralph translates. “He’s going now. We have to be ready for work as soon as it’s light, at seven a.m. Kurt will come to lock the doors.”
They listen as Herr Rauchbach and Kurt walk back down the hallway, and once they are out of the door, the bolt thunks back into place.
One of the other prisoners has moved to a big cauldron on the range.
“Is there any left?” Frank asks him.
“Should be enough,” he replies.
Bill and the others eagerly tuck into bowls of steaming cabbage soup. He thinks it tastes wonderful, much better than the Lamsdorf skilly; it has lumps of potato and turnip in it, and one small cube of rabbit meat. He turns to his kit bag for the remains of their last parcel to supplement the meal.
Frank eyes the parcel of food enviously. “The parcels are a bit slow getting through here,” he says, “but Rauchbach feeds us better than a camp. Lots of spuds, and meat once a week.”
Frank has a strong Yorkshire accent, and he and Ralph make a joke about the Wars of the Roses and God’s own county. Bill asks about the cricket. He notices Frank has a habit of repeating what someone else has said, as if he’s making their thought his own. There’s some talk about Lamsdorf and the other camps where each of them has been imprisoned before coming here. Bill is trying to work out whether to trust these new men with their secret. He thinks he’ll wait a little longer.
Ralph wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “What’s the boss like?”
Frank crosses to the door into the hallway and closes it.
“He’s a good boss. Very fair. I don’t think he’s a fan of the Reich, but he plays the game. The work in the main quarry is hard, ten hours a day, and he has lots of orders to complete, with not enough time. That’s why he’s reopened this small offshoot to the main Saubsdorf quarry. But he’s not a bad man. It’s his sidekick, Kurt, you have to watch out for. Vicious streak. And you younger men shouldn’t be alone with him, if you know what I mean.” He nods to Izzy significantly, and she bends her head to show she’s understood. Bill wonders uneasily if he’s put her in even more danger, bringing her here. Ralph studies the floor.
“Rauchbach’s daughter, Rosa, works in the office here,” Frank continues. “That wooden building you came through. Lovely girl. Very sympathetic. She works as a translator. German, Czech and a bit of English. And we have a cook. And some Czech women take our washing and bring us black-market stuff if we have cigs to spare. So it could be worse.”
“At night?” asks Bill.
“At night? We’ve got three rooms. I’ll show you in a minute. There’s seventeen of us here now, including you five. Two bedrooms upstairs and one downstairs. Double bunks. We’ve all moved upstairs, knowing you were coming, so you can have the downstairs room. Not the best, I’m afraid—the one by the door as you come in, but next to the kitchen. Though don’t get excited. The cupboards are bare.”
Bill thinks the upstairs rooms must be warmer.
Frank gestures to the empty shelves where jars of jam and pickles should be laid up for the winter, and continues. “Wooden bunks. The usual. And out there”—he indicates another door—“is the latrine and washroom, in a hut. After we’ve used that at night, we have to leave our trousers and boots in there. Bit of a cold run back across the yard. I’ve got pajamas, which I take in with me. And then Kurt locks us in. Bars at the windows, of course. Jam jars for the night necessaries.” He shrugs.
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Kurt opens the door from the yard and steps into the kitchen.
He points to the new arrivals and says something in German. Ralph translates with an apologetic shrug. “Last chance to use the ‘shitter,’ apparently.”
Ralph politely thanks Kurt in German, then turns to his friends. “Let’s get our pajamas and see the facilities.”
They follow Kurt down a few steps into the yard, where a long wooden shack is opened for them. At one end is the usual bench with holes in it, and closer to the door are three large sinks with taps above them. There aren’t any showers. It seems this is where they must all wash off the dirt of the quarry. The washrooms aren’t as clean as those at Lamsdorf, and have no heating. Bill thinks the taps will freeze in winter.
Kurt isn’t keen to stay in the smelly washroom, so at least they have the relative privacy of just the five of them. It’s better than the forty-hole latrine at Lamsdorf. Bill is grateful to the others, who “about-turn” as Izzy uses the latrine, loudly discussing the journey to cover her embarrassment, and who look away as she takes off her trousers and pulls on her brother’s pajamas.
When they are dressed, in an assortment of pajama bottoms and long winter underwear, they add their boots and trousers to the large pile on the concrete floor. Bill thinks they’ll be very cold to put back on in the morning. He wonders again if this has all been a terrible mistake and they should have stayed at Lamsdorf, especially now that Tucker is dead. They run back to the kitchen in their stocking feet. Kurt locks and bolts the back door from outside.
“Come on. I’ll show you to your room,” says Frank. Bill, Izzy and Ralph follow him, leaving Max and Scotty in the kitchen, talking to the other prisoners.
Bill determines their bedroom must have been a front parlor when the building was used as a house, and it’s cold compared with the kitchen. There’s a wood burner in the fireplace, but it’s obviously not alight.
Three sets of double bunk beds have been placed against the walls, and there’s a small table under the window, beneath a dim lightbulb. Thin gingham curtains hang at the window and give an odd cheerfulness to the little room despite the bars at the window. It’s crowded for five people to sleep, but it’s a proper room, in a house, and there are only five of them to share, so compared to nearly a hundred in the hut at Lamsdorf, it feels like a kind of luxury.
Moments later Kurt is back, staring into the bedroom at them in their pajama bottoms, picking out Izzy. She pretends to be busy shaking out a blanket.
Finally Kurt turns away, and they hear the interconnecting door closing and the sounds of a key being turned before heavy bolts slide into place on the other side. Kurt is gone, but they are locked in like rats in a trap. Bill thinks if there was a fire, he’d never be able to save I
zzy. It wouldn’t only be Tucker who’d die like a rat. Ruefully, he realizes that until he met Izzy, he never worried about much except his next meal. Now worry is his constant companion.
“Safe and sound,” says Frank, popping his head round the door. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Nothing, thanks,” says Ralph.
Frank starts to move away, then turns. “It’s pretty hard graft in the quarry,” he says. “The lights here get turned off at ten, but you might want to turn in early.”
“Thanks,” says Ralph. “I think we will. Do you have any news of the war? We’ve been days without a radio while we waited to come here.”
Frank hesitates for a moment, then tells them the Red Army is pushing forward, fighting alongside local partisans, and has liberated Belgrade, then East Prussia, then Romania. Izzy looks anxious, and Bill wonders if her father and brother are now fighting alongside Soviet troops, or if they’re still alive. He thinks maybe it’s for the best that Izzy’s dad didn’t find them and carry them off to join the partisans. They could be in the thick of battle now.
“And Hitler has ordered a call-up of all men from sixteen to sixty for Home Guard duties,” continues Frank. “Must mean they’re getting pretty short of real soldiers. Maybe it really will be over before Christmas.”
“Humph,” says Ralph. “Heard that one before. But thanks.” He looks around. Their kit bags are still lying in the middle of the room. “Which bed do you want, Cousins?”
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” says Frank as he wanders back to the kitchen.
Izzy screws up her nose, examines each of the bunks and scratches the bites on her head.
Bill laughs. “It’s just an expression! But there might be bugs in any or all of them.”
Ralph says, “Look, why don’t you take the top bunk here, and Bill can go below?” He indicates the bunk against the wall adjoining the kitchen, and Bill knows he’s given it to Izzy because it might be less cold.
Scotty and Max come in from the kitchen and eye up the other two sets of bunks.
“We could draw for it,” suggests Scotty. He digs in a pocket, pulls out two matchsticks and snaps the head off one of them, then pulls them through his fingers so equal lengths stick out. He holds out his hand to Max. “Shortest gets the outside wall.”
Max hesitates for a moment and then chooses one. It’s the longer match.
“Och, well,” says Scotty, “I suppose I’m hardier than you Sassenachs.” He throws his belongings up to the top bunk. “Ye can put yous bags on the bottom here.” He climbs up after his bags, lies down in his clothes and lights a cigarette. The gray smoke curls around the bare lightbulb.
Max unpacks his little library onto the windowsill behind the curtain, and sits at the table, writing in his journal.
Seeing the others are all occupied, Izzy mouths the words, “I love you,” and Bill mouths them back.
He lies awake in the dark a long time, worrying about what he’s brought Izzy into. Will the work be too hard for her? And is Kurt going to be an even worse problem than Tucker?
Eighteen
I wake before anyone else, before the first light of dawn, and roll on my side. To know I’m in Czechoslovakia again fills me with momentary joy as sharp as a lemon, and then with its equal sourness of knowing I’m so close to my family but can’t see them or speak to them. The wooden bunk bed is hard against my hip bone. I scratch under my arms and around my head. I can feel bumps around my neck. I was itchy in the Arbeits compound, and now I’m certain I have lice.
While it’s still dark, the guard called Kurt opens the interconnecting door and shouts, “Raus, raus. Collect your trousers and boots,” and all the lights in the house spark into life.
I climb down first and slip out to the washroom to find mine, thinking I won’t have to encounter all the strange men wearing pajama bottoms, but Kurt is there ahead of me and watches me bend to find my felt-lined boots and the smallest trousers. They are very cold to the touch. I remember the advice not to be alone with Kurt, and then others crowd into the washroom behind me and start to pull out their own chilly belongings. I slip past them to our own room to dress.
Everyone mills about in the kitchen for a breakfast of acorn coffee and watery oatmeal. Some take it back to their own rooms, while others sit at the communal table. Scotty seems pleased about the oatmeal, which he calls porridge. It looks to me like something we would feed our horses. Three or four at a time, we make our way to the washroom. Nobody has given instructions for this to happen, but the men seem to watch for others returning to get the maximum privacy. Scotty and Ralph come with me, shielding me from the eyes of the other men. Not that anyone is looking at me. A column of silence surrounds each of them as they shave, or wash, or clean their teeth with splayed toothbrushes or their fingers. I feel invisible and as safe as Cousins.
Much too soon, a gray light permeates the barred windows, and Kurt is back, harrying and hurrying us out to work. The cold slaps our faces and hands as we emerge from the house, but the view is beautiful. Close by in every direction is the deep green of dense forest; we are about a third of the way up a mountainside, looking down through the trees on the little town with yesterday’s railway station. Beyond the town the forest closes in again, and above it are the bare slopes of another mountain, with a cable car to the top, and beyond that, bluer and bluer, farther ranges of mountain peaks. As I’m looking all around me, the sharp prod of a rifle in my side brings me back to reality. Kurt marches us down the track into the quarry itself, where he unlocks a shed and hands out tools. I get a shovel, a broom and a bucket. The others are given a pickax, a chisel and a sledgehammer each.
The small quarry is a bowl of noise: Shouts counterpoint the chipping of pickaxes as great slabs of white marble are released from the cliff by sweat and muscle. My friends are shown where they must begin to hack away the precious stone. Frank gives instructions on how it’s to be done. “And make sure you do a good job, boys,” he says. “These are needed for the war effort!”
Everyone laughs loudly, and Kurt scowls. “Work!” he yells in German. “You aren’t here to laugh. Get to work.”
Frank shows me my job, which he says is done by Czech women in the main quarry at Saubsdorf. I almost jump at the thought he’s discovered me, but Frank says, “That doesn’t mean it’s women’s work. It’s still hard. It’s just that you’re small. Like a scrum half.”
Ralph overhears and calls out, “He’s a jockey!” which seems to impress Frank.
“A jockey!” he repeats.
My job is to sweep and shovel away the loose stone chippings and gather them in buckets. When my buckets are full, I have to carry them to the door of the toolshed. Within half an hour, my back and arms are beginning to ache, for all I tell myself I’m young and strong and so recently used to physical work on the farm. I make the mistake of filling the first bucket too full and can barely lift it. As I’m staggering to the toolshed, I feel Kurt watching me.
Frank lays down his pickax and says, “I was doing this yesterday. I filled the first bucket half full, then took another half bucket to top it up.”
I nod my thanks. I can see I’m the one who has the easy work. The men heft and wield their heavy pickaxes, time and time and time again, until sweat runs down their faces. Even in this autumn chill, some of them are stripped to their vests from the heat of exertion. Then they have to strain to lift and carry the huge slabs of marble to the waiting horse-drawn cart.
Blisters are starting to form in the palms of my hands, and the others have the same problem. Max and Ralph tear a spare foot rag into strips, and we share them out among us, wrapping them around our hands. Kurt hurries over, shouting and waving his pistol to urge us to resume work, and Ralph explains in German that we’ll work faster if we aren’t in pain. Kurt spits into the dust of the quarry floor, and I watch the little ball of spittle soak away. I’m careful no
t to make eye contact with him.
My hands are better for a little while, but then the blisters start to rise again and burst, wetting the dirty rag. And there are still hours and hours of this to go before we can lie down on our beds. Hunger starts to gnaw at my insides, and I try to take my mind off my pain by thinking about the food I’d most like to eat. I think of my mother’s borscht and the delicious little parcels of meat and vegetables she would make, wrapped in cabbage leaves.
I try to calculate how many hours it will be until a dinner break, and then how many more until it gets dark. I thank God that the days are shortening fast so that every day will have a little less working time than the one before.
I look over at Bill, his face caked with dust apart from the smears where he’s wiped away sweat with the back of his arm. He is wearing his shirt, but the underarms and back are dark with sweat. I worry that this will be too hard for him when we have so little to eat, that he will become ill.
“Concentrate on shoveling and sweeping,” Cousins tells me sternly. The watery sun lifts from the trees and makes its slow progress across the sky.
I jump into the air as a loud bell rings. The old hands tell us to retreat toward the offices while dynamite is detonated. Once we are all clear of the quarry, there is a loud explosion, which makes my ears ring. On the way back, Bill and I call at the quarry latrine. I sit at the end of the plank, and he pisses into the hole next to me. I think how in normal life a husband and wife would never see each other urinating, never smile secretly at each other while they are doing it. Bill asks me how my hands are, and I nod as bravely as I can, knowing the rags have now fused into the burst skin of the blisters, but I can’t complain when I’m sure his are the same or worse. I wonder how they’ll ever heal when we have to do this every day.
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