The Rabbit Girls(100)

Instead she walks to his bed and leans over to kiss him lightly on the forehead.

She thinks of the poem and Frieda’s scrawl from the office, what seems like a lifetime ago, and knows she can bring him peace.

He deserves a happy ending.





HENRYK

It is her. Frieda.

I cannot open my eyes, but it is her.

After all these years.

She kisses my forehead, and I can feel the kisses of the past; her breath hot and static, charged so raw and bright I feel myself spinning, centred only by her lips, her touch. On me. So long ago . . .

A fog, haze and I am floating, leaving behind a body, a life.

‘Henryk.’ I can feel her swallow, her lips thin then plump back up on my skin. She moves to my ear, her breath makes goose pimples dance over my entire body.

‘When darkness drops, I am your light.’

And yes, she is. My light and my dark. She lives.

‘I love you,’ the voice says, full of tears. ‘It’s okay.’

Frieda sits on the bench, under the pine trees, her blonde hair playing in the breeze, she rests into my body. She holds my hand, softly yet firm. She smells of fresh snow, of roses, of stars.

And with her hand in mine, I squeeze tight. I swallow and take a deep breath. The voice that escapes my dry lips is not my own, but I say: ‘Frieda.’





December 1990

Snow was falling heavily and landed with a humph on the screen, as the old Trabant gargled north. Both women silent, watchful, respectful.

Cutting across white fields, trees and abandoned collective farms, a sign for Sachsenhausen meant they were going the right way; to Ravensbrück.

She couldn’t believe how close it was, less than two hours north of Berlin.

She took a long, deep breath and pointed to the spire of Fürstenburg Church as it came into view. They passed Fürstenburg station and she shook her head. She didn’t stop shaking until they pulled in on the other side of Fürstenburg. There was a cobbled forest road that led to the camp. Houses with pitched roofs appeared to the left as the lake opened to them, white, vast and frozen, to the right.

Wrapped up in coats and scarves, arm in arm, they walked carefully to the entrance.

High walls and signs in Russian. They couldn’t go any further.

Wood pigeons were cooing from atop the mass of linden trees bowed with snow. They stood looking out over the lake, the church spire spiking black through the blanket of snow.

‘They lie at the bottom of the lake,’ she said. ‘All of them.’

The breeze bit into their cheeks and eyes. Neither woman cried. They just stood in silence until feet, legs and arms were numb with cold.

A feather, small, fluffy and white, hovered briefly in front of them, before fluttering across the ice.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book could not have happened without the support of my parents, who believed in me long before I did and long before I had anything worth believing in.

I owe you everything.

Thanks to Juliet Mushens, who saw something special buried within my manuscript and signed me, worked with me, pushed me and challenged me. This book would not be half as good without your edits, your support and ultimately my sheer determination to not let you down.

To Laura Deacon and everyone at Lake Union, for taking my book out into the world.

To Arzu Tahsin, for edits that made me a better writer.

I could not have done this without my tribe – friends new and old. Thank you for listening to me; feeding me; taking time to care; for not asking ‘how’s the book going’ when I was rewriting (again); for the cups of tea; the boxes of food; the ‘shoe-drills’ and the incentive to never give up.

Thank you to my Evil Twin; Demo Dan; Shawn and my Krav family. For Faber friends Fran, Mandy and Louise; and new writer friends Louise, Priscilla, Lina and Liz. All exceptional writers in their own right. ‘Mummy’ friends, especially Beth Hollington, for truly hearing me and for sticking by me – when others would have told me to quit.

Finally, thanks to Jane Reece for being an exceptional teacher. Fay Weldon for helping me believe in myself and Clint Badlam for seeing the person behind the pen.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Anna Ellory lives in Bath and has just completed her MA in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University.