The Rabbit Girls(92)

Thank you for keeping me alive.

I am so deeply sorry that there is no more than that.

I will never hear the word ‘Mama’ or hold your little hand. I am sorry that to be born means you will die. Life has no cause or meaning. But know that despite all the chaos, you are loved. And that will see you through – even if only in spirit.

You have been a guardian angel, saving me from my own destruction.

Thank you.

Your Mama.

Miriam wipes the tears away from her cheeks and feels the ball of emotion in her chest. She looks to her father, his sleeping form peaceful, and wonders at the horrors he has seen, and can understand why he chose to leave it all behind.

She knows he would never have told anyone about it, he would have carried the burden alone. Holding on to the pain as his own cross to bear, for not living up to his own high expectations.

‘Have you ever forgiven yourself?’ she asks aloud.

‘None of this was your fault, Dad. It’s so deeply sad, but know that you are forgiven for whatever you have done; it was a lifetime ago. My lifetime, and all you have done for me is enough. I love you.’ And she cries further. Picking up another letter, she reads the tiny scrawl.

Dear Henryk

I suppose we are finished. I suppose we are done. We only just got started and now we cannot be.

I will not survive this camp. I am not sure I will survive the birth. I was optimistic in Ravensbrück, but here . . . Here they are so efficient at killing, at murder. I know I stand no chance. I pray, though to whom I know not, that I will survive long enough to see its face. The face of our child. I want to see you again; the baby is the only thing left of you that I have.

I miss the idiosyncrasies, the tiny things I can no longer recall. I see you in my mind, but it is just the shadow of you. You will never grow old or fade for me.

I still feel you, your presence, like a second skin covering my own. I miss you. I suppose that if we were face to face words would be superfluous. We would touch without touching, speak without words. A symphony in silence. I would leave this world with the taste of you on my lips. The feel of you under my fingertips, the contours of your face made granite to my touch. If I had known the last time I held you would be the last – I would have looked harder into your eyes, burned my soul into your own. I would have sparkled in the touch of your gaze, shining bright from the love of it.

I will think of you at the end. I have known you and been known by you.

We are living in an ever-decreasing circle. There is no talk of freedom, no talk of Allies or liberation. All we talk of is home. Our lives, however short, we want to share them with another. To revel in a story of love, or bravery, courage and strength.

At my end, I will think of you and all the hope and possibility that opened to me the moment we met. Thank you for being in my life. To have known you grow old, to hold your hand, to have had a future is gone. But you will have me, in my heart, I have given it to you. For another chance at the same fate, Henryk, I would travel the same road. A hundred times, to have shared our snatched moments.

No more paper.

No more letters.

No more words.

Miriam places the last letter down. The pencil must have made a whisper on the paper as it traced out Frieda’s thoughts. What happened to Frieda? And the baby? And as Miriam looks at the collection of letters, despite knowing so much, she realises she may never know. She places the letters back where they were collected and prepares herself for tomorrow.

Early the next morning the sky is heavy and clouds leaden with snow. She gets up to the noise of the hospice and kisses his head.

‘Frieda,’ he says.

‘No, Dad. It’s Miriam. I am trying to find out what happened. But first . . . I need to go and help my friend.’ Her thoughts leave the letters and the past and look towards the woman who saved her. ‘I need to help Eva first.’

‘Frieda,’ he says again, beckoning her with his voice, then settles, mumbling, ‘My Frieda . . .’

She is too early to leave for the police station. With time on her side, she rearranges the letters and places them safely in her handbag. Finding the last one translated by Eva, she notices that the original of this one is different. Although the words are pressed tight on to each page, this letter covers both sides of two pages. The paper, although yellowed and thin, isn’t ripped from a book and the words don’t have to navigate around other text. This is clean paper; or it was . . . over forty years ago.





38





MIRIAM


Dearest Henryk,

Paper and a pencil are my only solace. I know there is no future; but now I must tell you all that happened. My hands shake . . . but I am no longer cold. This is my end:

The last day started at evening roll call. The Kommandant at Auschwitz stood close then paced away, his boots reflected the searchlights that had become our moon.

‘Dreckhund!’ Obscenities, callous and cold, rang out like steeple church bells. I thought of my family a lot at that time. I imagined them sitting around after a dinner of Bratwurst: I could hear the sausages sizzling and dancing in a thin layer of fat, the skin, browning, waiting for a knife to break it open and juices to run free. Absorbed by potato and bread with a smothering of butter across its perfect white surface.

Famished and frozen, the thought of food was poetry to a starved soul. Talk of meals eaten, extravagance and indulgence. The descriptions would make us salivate, and would satisfy our hearts, if not our stomachs.