Three Sisters (The Tattooist of Auschwitz #3)(91)

Beyond the barrier she sees the Austrian soldiers wandering along the rows of vehicles waiting to enter Czechoslovakia.

The barrier is raised and lowered, raised and lowered, and very slowly the vehicles begin to inch forwards. Cibi watches as most of the cars are waved through the border, but notes, with a growing sense of dread, that some are being turned back.

Finally, the doors of the bus slide open and two soldiers step aboard, one heading for the back of the bus and the other starting at the front. Knowing what to expect, all the passengers have their documents ready and hand them to the officials when requested.

Cibi passes their papers to Mischka who offers them to the approaching soldier. Kari squeals with happiness while they are being examined. The soldier offers the baby a smile before saying, ‘Jude?’ to Mischka.

‘Yes. We are moving to Israel,’ Mischka tells him.

‘Why? Don’t you want to live in the country of your birth?’ The man has a steady gaze and Cibi wants to slap it off his face. Would you want to stay here after what we’ve been through? she wants to scream.

‘The only family we have left are in Israel and we want to be with them,’ Mischka tells him, with an equally steady gaze.

‘Good luck.’ The soldier hands the documents back and they have passed the first test.

Cibi closes her eyes, exhales, unaware she had been holding her breath. Mischka settles back in his seat and offers Cibi a small, triumphant smile.

Across the border, the Austrian soldiers insist on checking the paperwork for their transit from Genoa to Haifa, and then warn them to proceed with haste through Austria: they have no visa permitting them to stay in the country for even a single day.

Cibi scrambles to produce the train tickets for Vienna to Spielfeld later that day.

‘And from there?’

Cibi hands over further train tickets: from Spielfeld, through Yugoslavia, to Trieste in Italy, but, she notes, her heart sinking, this journey is not until tomorrow.

‘Where do you plan to spend tonight?’ asks the soldier.

‘We’ll sleep at the station so we can be on the first train out of Austria tomorrow morning,’ Mischka told him.

‘Well, you had better not miss it.’

*

An hour later, the bus stops at the Hauptzollamt train station close to the city centre. Cibi and Mischka collect their luggage and strap Kari into his pram. They have a little time before their train and Cibi insists Mischka finds a place to deposit their cases while they look around.

‘It’s a food hall!’ gasps Cibi. They are standing in front of a vast building filled with stall upon stall of tempting foods. Cibi has never seen so much food: cheeses, breads, meat and poultry. She wants to buy it all, and proceeds to devour every sample offered by every trader as they make their way up and down the rows of laden tables. In the end, Cibi buys a selection of her favourite things, enough to last them the few days until they reach the Italian port from where they will sail away from Europe, perhaps for ever.

Back in the railway station, Cibi settles Kari into his pram to sleep and stretches out on the bench, her head in Mischka’s lap, to doze before the next leg of their journey. Mischka watches over them.

The next morning, their train arrives on time and the second test looms: Cibi, Mischka and Kari wait on the platform for officials to arrive and process their entry into Yugoslavia.

Cibi feels the tension flood her body, but takes long, calming breaths.

‘We’ll be fine, Cibi.’ Mischka tries to reassure her. ‘Look, they’re barely even looking at the papers.’ Mischka is right: the officials are offering only cursory glances at the documents of the boarding passengers.

Finally, it is their turn, and Cibi hands over their papers and train tickets for their journey to a uniformed official.

‘What is this?’ the official says, waving their papers at them after attempting to read a language he obviously can’t speak. While Cibi has no knowledge of Yugoslavian, Mischka knows enough to recognise there is a problem.

‘Do you speak German?’ Mischka asks.

‘Ja.’

Mischka tells him where they have come from and where they were going, while Kari begins to fuss, insisting he be allowed out of his pram.

‘The little one is in a hurry to get going,’ says the guard, patting the baby on the head.

‘Yes, we all are,’ says Cibi.

‘Then you had all better get on board. The train is about to leave.’

‘Thank God for Kari,’ says Cibi, collapsing into her seat. ‘No one likes a crying baby.’

Four hours later, they arrive at a small station on the outskirts of Trieste. Two soldiers wearing the pale blue berets and uniform of the United Nations climb onto the train and begin to check the passengers’ papers. Once again, Cibi is reassured that the papers are handed back to the other travellers without question – until their own are inspected.

The men pass the papers back and forth between them.

‘Speak German?’ Mischka asks, for the second time that day.

‘Ja, but you are not German.’

As Mischka outlines their travel itinerary, Cibi can tell his answers are not what they want to hear. The men step aside to speak in low voices.

‘You cannot continue on to Trieste,’ they are told. ‘You must collect your luggage and leave with us now.’