Three Sisters (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #3)(19)

Cibi notes the tear-tracks on Livi’s face – pink flesh revealed amidst the brick dust that covers her fine, delicate features.

‘What’s wrong? Are you all right?’ asks Cibi, as Livi collapses into her arms. She lowers her sister onto their mattress and grasps her bandaged hand. It seems to have been treated, at least.‘What’s wrong?’

Livi continues to sob until finally she can get a sentence out: ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she cries.

‘Tell you what? What’s happened?’

‘I went to the hospital.’

‘Did something happen?’

‘I saw.’ Livi has stopped sobbing. Her eyes are wide with fear.

‘Saw what?’ Cibi asks, suddenly feeling very cold.

‘There was a mirror in the room. Why didn’t you tell me what they’ve done to me?’

Cibi takes Livi’s face in her hands and brings it close to her own. For the first time in days she smiles. ‘Is that all? You saw your own reflection in a mirror?’

‘My hair .?.?.’ Livi says, running her fingers over her scalp, pulling them away in disgust. ‘They cut off my curls.’ Livi is looking past Cibi, into the room, at the hundreds of other shorn heads. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. For a moment, Cibi wonders if she should slap her sister, snap her out of her shock. Finally, Livi turns her wide blue eyes on her sister. ‘They were cutting off my hair?’ she whispers. Her hands go once more to her head. Tears fill her eyes.

‘But, Livi, what did you think they were doing with that machine?’

‘I .?.?. I didn’t want to think about it. While it was going on, I imagined it was Mumma fiddling with my hair. You know how she likes to pin up my curls.’ Livi lapses into silence as the truth dawns on her. She shivers.

Cibi understands now: some things are just too awful to accept. Maybe it’s a good thing – who knows what they may yet have to endure? Maybe it’s a skill she too will have to learn to cultivate.

‘I am your mirror, Livi.’ Cibi waves a hand around the room. ‘We all are your mirror from now on.’

Livi nods and closes her eyes.

‘Let’s just lie down, OK?’ Cibi doesn’t have anything else to offer her sister but the oblivion of sleep.

‘But the fleas .?.?.’ Livi’s eyes snap open.

‘Like us, they’re hungry too. We just have to learn to ignore them.’

‘But yesterday, you .?.?.’

‘Yesterday was a lifetime ago.’

*

Back at the demolition site the next day, and before they begin work, Ingrid asks if any of the girls know how to read and write. When no one answers – it’s obvious to Cibi by now that invisibility is one way of escaping her cruel attention – their kapo becomes enraged. She repeats the question, louder and louder. She isn’t giving up. Aware of the SS guards hovering close by, Cibi recalls her decision to try and impress these people in the hope that she and Livi might, in some small way perhaps, accrue some favours. If she puts herself forward, maybe the sisters won’t have to work on the demolition site.

‘I can read and write,’ Cibi says.

‘Who said that?’ Ingrid demands.

Cibi boldly takes a step out of line, her eyes staring straight ahead. Ingrid is not a Pole like the other kapos; she is German. Cibi wonders if she was a criminal or political prisoner – the few reasons why a German national would find themselves in Poland, in Auschwitz. Cibi is grateful that she and Livi can understand and even speak a little German.

Ingrid thrusts a clipboard and pencil at Cibi.

‘Write down everyone’s name and number and make it quick.’

Taking the clipboard, Cibi approaches the girls in the front row and begins to write down names. The girls raise their sleeves to reveal the tattooed numbers on their arms and Cibi also copies these onto the sheet of paper. She hurries up and down the rows of girls and, when she’s finished, she hands the clipboard back to Ingrid.

‘These are all correct?’ Ingrid asks.

‘Yes, Ingrid.’

‘We shall see.’

The kapo turns over a page. Running a finger down the list she calls out: ‘Prisoner 1742, what is your name?’

The girl whose arm bore the number 1742 calls out her name. It is correct. Ingrid recites more numbers, receives more responses.

With Cibi still standing beside her, Ingrid waves at one of the SS guards. He saunters over to them, his swagger stick bumping his leg as he walks. Ingrid presents him with the list.

‘How did you learn to write so beautifully?’ he asks Cibi.

With a bravado suited more to life in the Hachshara, she meets the guard’s eyes. ‘I didn’t grow up in the woods; I went to school,’ she replies.

Glancing at Ingrid, she sees the kapo turn away to hide the smile that might get her into as much trouble as Cibi.

The guard harrumphs. ‘Give her the job keeping your records,’ he says to the kapo, before stalking off.

‘Well, well,’ Ingrid says, laying a hand on Cibi’s shoulder. ‘You are neat and accurate. But your mouth will get you into trouble if you’re not careful. You are more useful to me alive than dead, so no more cheeking the guards. Do you understand?’

Cibi nods. She doesn’t like being touched by Ingrid, but then again, isn’t this what she wanted? To curry favour with those who might hurt them?