My Name is Eva(50)
Ken returned to the cab, clapping his hands together in their sheepskin mittens, his breath clouding the windscreen. ‘I’ve sent one of the men to fetch the Chief, then he’ll show us where to go.’ He looked over his shoulder at the expectant crowd, all bundled into assorted scarves, shawls, hats and army greatcoats. ‘Just look at those Poles. Bloody resourceful fellas, they’ve sawn the frames off their iron beds to make runners for their sledges.’
They watched the figures retreating, but a few lingered, stamping their feet, wrapping their arms around their bodies. ‘What are they waiting for?’ asked Brigitte, the Swedish Red Cross nurse assigned to the maternity unit in the camp. On the journey she had told Eva around forty-five births were expected shortly. ‘And more to come,’ she’d added. ‘Every time another train arrives, there will be more babies, some in arms, some yet to be born. All frail, all malnourished. It will be hard work.’
‘They’re waiting for anything,’ said Ken. ‘Anything they can lay their hands on. There’s plenty of food here. Down in the kitchens,’ he waved into the distance, ‘they’re baking nine tons of bread a day and we’re getting weekly deliveries of provisions and coal. But so much is lacking. The welfare section found a dozen sewing machines the other week, but they’re no good for anything without needles. And there’s a desperate need for welding rods but none to be had. We’ve got people out scouring for supplies all the time.’
‘So how many people are there here?’ Eva asked. ‘I thought this camp had two or three thousand refugees.’
Ken’s laughter was explosive. ‘You can add a few noughts! Didn’t they tell you we’re housing more than twenty thousand? And the faster we ship them out, the quicker they send us some more poor bastards.’
‘I had no idea there were so many.’ Eva and the other two girls peered out of the truck. ‘No wonder you’re baking so much bread.’
‘We’ve got twelve kitchens and each one’s got to feed fifteen hundred mouths. It’s a food factory down there.’ Ken blew into his gloves to warm his hands, then said, ‘Friggin’ place! It may not have been a death camp, but it still spooks me. The sheer colossal damn industry of those fellas! We found one warehouse down there full of skis. Friggin’ skis, I ask you! They were going to get an elite ski troop together for their attack on Russia, but right now we need needles, not skis! Might as well throw them out for firewood.’
Eva looked at the pale, dark-eyed faces still watching them from their ragbag of clothing. These were the ones who’d survived, who’d lived despite the horrors of slave labour and concentration camps. And Eva and the other aid workers recruited by the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration had the task of helping these survivors rebuild their lives. Here, thought Eva, despite the grim stories I hear, I will be healing, not hurting, like in Bad Nenndorf. She tried to shake the image of the shivering prisoners from her mind.
Eva was billeted in a small room with three narrow beds, along with Brigitte, the nurse, and Sally, a cheerful, red-headed Scottish girl who, like Eva, had been recruited for her language skills. ‘I’m sure my parents never thought I’d end up in a dreary place like this,’ Sally said. ‘In their eyes, Italian, French and German were all part of a young lady’s cultural education, with governesses to boot!’ At this, she threw herself lengthways onto the single bed with its thin mattress, springs creaking and groaning, then sat bolt upright and said, ‘Right then, what have we got to drink?’
All three girls laughed as they each rummaged in their cases, bringing out a hip flask, a Thermos and a half-bottle of gin. In the absence of glasses, they stood the flask cups side by side, then poured a measure of gin into each from the bottle top.
‘Between us we’ve got schnapps, whisky and gin here,’ said Brigitte. ‘Some fine cocktail that would make.’
‘We could call it a Wild Place Gimlet,’ Eva said, as the three of them briefly touched the receptacles together in a toast before downing their shots in one.
‘I’m all for a party, girls,’ said Sally, ‘but I vote we limit ourselves. We may not easily get any more hooch while we’re here and who knows, there may be days to come when we’re going to badly need a drink. Let’s have one more sip, then call it a day.’
Eva poured three more capfuls of gin, as they agreed they shouldn’t mix their drinks on the first night, then they sipped slowly, Sally dipping her index finger in the Thermos beaker before sucking it with her eyes closed as if it tasted all the better for the salt of her skin. Then she said, ‘If we run out, we’ll just have to make our own.’
‘I heard one of the men say that before it snowed, on a dark night when the moon was full, you could see a white trail of flour through the woods,’ said Eva.
‘Flour trail?’ Sally’s eyes snapped open and she sat up, careful not to spill the tiniest drop of her drink.
‘Yes, from the bakery. It’s the Poles, apparently – they steal flour to make Polish vodka.’
Sally laughed, ‘They sure know how to have a party! We’ll have to get to know them and do a deal when we’re desperate.’
‘Better not,’ said Brigitte. ‘It might be the death of you. I’ve heard the last illegal still they found blinded five men and they’re still in the hospital.’