The Rabbit Girls(50)

‘You speak other languages too?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Many.’

‘Why, a little linguist!’ She laughed with the guard and made a tiny motion with her head. The guard swung her baton at the back of the bigger child. He fell to the ground with a howl. The younger jumped on top to protect the fallen one. The Kommandant looked on as the guard tried to drag the younger away from the boy lying prone.

‘Stop,’ the Kommandant said. ‘Tell the children to go back to their block.’

I did and said that they would find their grandmother there. I lied because it appeased them and they were both looking at me. The boy sitting, the girl squatting beside him. I lied because it made them listen. I lied because doing so may not take me to the bunker. I lied to delay my punishment.

‘Shall I take them back to their block?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Yes.’

‘Come here,’ I said to the children, taking their small hands inside my own. We turned to leave.

‘Wait . . .’

I turned back, thinking the guard was coming for me.

‘There are women arriving from all over Europe. It would help to have someone tell them how we work here.’

‘Of course, anything to help,’ I said quickly.

‘Report back here tomorrow. We shall find some use for you. Six a.m.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

And what possessed me to do it I do not know. But I lost the grip on the little hand in mine, brought my hand out and up, palm down, I stamped my foot and shouted:

‘Heil Hitler.’

The children looked at me like I was a monster and I lost the other hand in mine. The guard smiled, a knowing, pitying smile. I turned and left. The children followed me, but as soon as the sun, white and hot, bore down on us, they ran.

I watched as their small frames wearing only rags ran off. My heart sank.

After the children were out of sight, I walked back towards our block. The sun was hot on my head and neck, but had never felt so good. A few minutes earlier I was looking at the bunker and what was sure to be my death.

‘This is . . .’ Miriam stands to place the letter back down on the table, having no words to convey her feelings at the letter she has just read.

‘It says somewhere in there the truth is ugly?’ Eva asks.

‘But this? The children?’ Miriam asks. ‘My father couldn’t have known about these letters. He wouldn’t still be thinking of someone who could even consider condemning such vulnerable women, mutilated, bed-bound women. No. And children?’ Miriam shakes her head. ‘This cannot be the person my dad is talking about, he cannot love . . . this.’ She emphasises her point by shaking the letter.

‘You are probably right,’ Eva says. ‘But, as you well know, love is sometimes not what we once expected it to be.’





20





MIRIAM


‘These letters are so important, but,’ Miriam says, ‘they are so hard to read and I had no idea. Did this actually happen? People treated each other this way?’

‘That’s why so many of the stories are lost. People who experienced it cannot find the words, and those around them do not want to hear. Words hold a lot more power than we realise,’ Eva says. Then, speaking more to herself, she continues, ‘Even the darkest words will find the light.’

Miriam picks up the next letter. ‘I suppose what is lost can always be found.’

Henryk,

After the Kommandant, Stella launched herself into me and held my hand.

‘Hello, pretty lady, you take me home now?’ She swung her arm in mine.

The little Dutch children found me by Block 20. The older one spat on the ground.

‘You lied,’ he said.

‘I am sorry – have you tried looking for her in the revier?’ I shrank at the thought of the camp hospital: revier, a place of agony and death, not always from illness.

‘Yes, but she is not sick. You told us you find her, you told us you help. You lie.’ He spat again. ‘Everyone is always lying.’

Stella watched the children, her hand safely tucked in mine. I wanted them to go away. I feared how much Stella understood of this interaction.

‘Maybe we can look for her together. I will help you.’

‘No. We not need your help. You are one of them.’ The younger child pointed to the guard. ‘You are one of them!’ She said it louder and I wanted to make her shut up. The insult vibrated in my chest.

The children held hands and turned from me.

Stella looked up, seeking an explanation, which I did not give.

I called out to their receding backs.

‘Tell me your grandmother’s name, I will help you if I can.’

The boy called back, ‘Grandmamma.’

Miriam takes a long shaky breath, before composing herself enough to pick up the next letter.

Henryk,

I returned to the block where Bunny was quietly sewing and Stella jumped up on the bed next to her, playing happily with a new doll made from a dirty cotton rag tied in little knots to make a head, hands and feet.

I sat in Eugenia’s bunk and told her I had a job.

Eugenia sat straighter and gave me her full attention as I explained.

Henryk, I am worried, this place . . . it would be better than shifting sand, but it feels like a change and I am worried what they will ask me to do. But as Eugenia said, it’s not like I was given a choice.