The Rabbit Girls(39)

‘I’m right here,’ she says as his body relaxes. Night seeps in through the window, an unwelcome presence in the room. ‘I’m right here,’ she says again, but fear crawls up her legs, and the oppressive dark makes her think of him. If he’s back, then he’s back for her.

They are running out of time. Just like Frieda ran out of paper. Yet there are more letters, and she feels a sense of dread forming word by word, letter by letter; this cannot end well.

‘I’ll find out what happened, but please, please stay. Just a little longer. Please.’

As his snores fill the room, she slips out of the bed, gets another letter from the pile and reads in the small light of the lamp.

I traded my bread for a long, thin pencil and I write to you in the safety of the bunk. The ‘rabbit girls’ are ignored by our Blockova, an intimidating woman of size and voice, yet she doesn’t attack in spite. She doesn’t need to. You only need to show the whip to a beaten dog.

The ‘rabbit girls’ are mainly ignored by the women too. Some offer Bunny and Wanda any additional bread they have saved or stolen. Others make playthings for Stella, from a small sheet of cotton a doll is created, which brings a smile to a young face.

Bunny and Wanda offer sewing and mending, creating pockets on the inside of uniforms is Bunny’s speciality. Her fingers are so nimble. I am entranced by them as they work.

I am safe with these women.

I feel exhausted by my day, the routine, the expectation that I may be shot or injured, beaten or moved into holding cells or punishment blocks. Women dragged away, screaming to no avail. We all stand and watch and are thankful that today it isn’t us. Friends do nothing. Yet, when the woman returns, so emaciated it’s impossible to know how she still breathes, her ribs pushing out from skin, her friends wait with soup, bread and warmth.

I write at night, my eyes tear and sting from trying to write by only moonlight. Wanda snores, Bunny and Stella curl into each other, Bunny humming. Hani is wrapped over me as I write, lying on my side, squeezing as many words as I can on to one sheet of paper for you.

I hope we can burn them together to forget the past and pave a way for the future.

Occasionally Eugenia’s head pops out from the middle bunk and we talk. She tells of the Allies, talks of liberation and the other ladies in the camp and how they are making small moves to try to save themselves and others. Regular transports take prisoners away. Some believe to a sanatorium, Eugenia thinks it is to death. She talks of names added to this list and how hard some women work to get their names, or those they love, off the list. It seems the Blockova has control of the blocks and sends names to the guards who form the lists. One way or another, the women leave the camp.

Eugenia promises news that the Allies are on their way. Russians or Americans will liberate the camp, and soon. Neither of us believe this to be true. There is no liberation and to believe in an end to this is folly. We continue as we do: we work to survive. It is so nice to talk, to communicate like women. We talk and talk until one of us falls asleep. I feel richer in my heart talking to Eugenia.

I place my letters in the folds of the straw mattress and pray they will still be there on my return.

I have Hani’s warm body around me and this moment is squandered in sleep. It is my time to dream, to think, to give thanks for all that I have. There is no God, there is only soup. I am, with my pencil, making a mark on the world, however insignificant. I exist. They cannot eradicate me.





16





MIRIAM


As Miriam reads, a sense of hopelessness invades her. These women believed that something would be done, that other people would save them. She tries to sleep, but sees a silent woman tucked up in blankets sewing pockets and seams, everyone broken or battered. In comparison, her own troubles seem pitiful.

She dozes off just before dawn and dreams of snakes. Long, worming snakes in her stomach, weaving in and out of her skin. She grabs and pulls at them, but she cannot catch them. Smooth and sleek, they just slip back into the skin and writhe inside.

Miriam wakes as her nails dig into her stomach. She jumps up, fetches the scissors from her mother’s drawer and takes them to the soft warm skin of her tummy. As soon as she sees red lines the internal snakes shrink and dissolve to the dreams they were.

She is disturbed by a knock at the door, and opens it just a crack, then enough to see Eva on the other side. Eva, with her hand up, poised to knock, paused in motion. Dressed in a deep-blue cardigan, grey-black trousers and heavy boots. Her coat and bag are cradled over her arm, with Lionel by her side.

‘Your intercom isn’t working,’ he says, sweat slick on his forehead. ‘Don’t suppose you know why?’

‘Umm . . .’

‘This’ – he looks to Eva, who remains silent – ‘this lady, here, couldn’t get in when she buzzed. Had to walk all the way up here with her, you know. To be safe in these times.’

‘Thanks, Lionel.’

‘While I’m here, let’s have a look at this, shall we?’ He manoeuvres his bulk past Miriam and lifts the intercom phone. ‘Well, petal,’ he says, levelling her with his gaze. ‘It’s unplugged.’ He places the plug back into its socket and gives her a glance that says ‘don’t do that again’, before tipping his hat at Eva and walking away.

‘Would you like to come in?’