The Diplomat's Wife(8)
“Yes?”
“Where will you go from here? After you leave the camp, I mean.”
I hesitate, caught off guard by her question. I know that the camp is only temporary, that everyone will eventually leave or be relocated elsewhere. Would I return to Poland? I think about it sometimes. A few nights I have dreamed that I went back to our house in the village to find my mother cooking dinner, my father reading by the fire. But I know that things are different now; all of my family and friends are gone. I see the faces of our neighbors who stood by as the Nazis gathered us in the town square and marched us in double lines to the train station. Pani Klopacz, the elderly woman who bought milk from my father each day, peered through the curtains as we passed, her eyes solemn. Others whom we had known for years turned coldly away. No, I cannot live among them again. Nor can I bear the thought of returning to Kraków, which holds nothing but painful memories of Alek and the others who had died for the resistance. But where else can I go? I’ve heard some of the other women in my English class talking about emigrating to the United States, or even to Palestine. Dava mentioned putting me on the lists for visas to these places, but I know that without a relative to vouch for me, the wait could take years. And even if I could get a visa, how would I survive alone in a strange place? “I don’t know,” I answer at last, feeling foolish.
Rose opens her mouth, but before she can speak a pained expression flashes across her face.
I lean toward her. “What is it?”
“N-nothing.” But her voice is strained and her face has gone pale.
I stand up quickly. “We need to get you inside.”
“In a minute,” Rose implores. Her voice is a bit stronger now, as if whatever was hurting her has eased. “Don’t tell Dava, please.”
“Hey!” A voice yells behind us. Our heads snap in the direction of the palace. As if on cue, Dava is storming across the lawn toward us, hands on her hips.
“Uh-oh,” Rose whispers. I look upward at the early-evening sky, wondering how much time has passed.
“Ten minutes,” Dava says, crossing her arms as she approaches. “I said ten minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” I begin. “We lost track of time. I can take her inside.”
Dava shakes her head. “You’d probably go by way of Vienna and then I wouldn’t see either of you for days.” I open my mouth to protest but Dava raises her hand. “Anyway, I need your help with something, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“I’m fine. What is it?”
“We have a small transport of refugees coming in tonight from Hungary and the woman who usually helps with admissions is unwell. Want to do it?”
“Sure,” I reply eagerly. I had noticed other residents working around the camp, in the kitchen and the gardens. Several times I pressed Dava to let me help. But she explained that residents of the medical ward were not allowed to have jobs, that I would have to wait until I moved over to the main camp. They must be really desperate for assistance to break the rules now.
“Great. They should be here any minute. Just go around to the table on the front lawn and Dr. Verrier will explain what to do.”
“No problem.” I look down at Rose. “Sleep well.”
As Dava wheels Rose toward the door, I start around the side of the palace. Several army trucks have rumbled through the gate from the main road. They sit now on the grass on either side of the long dirt driveway. Soldiers climb from the trucks, open the back doors. One by one, refugees appear, still clad in their tattered, striped prison clothes. Many lean on the soldiers, unable to stand or walk unassisted. All are emaciated, skeleton thin. Did I look like that just a few months ago?
“Excuse me,” a man calls in German. I force myself to turn from the refugees. A man with dark hair and spectacles wearing a white coat stands by a folding table a few meters away. Though he is not one of the doctors who treated me, I recognize him from the ward. “Are you the help?”
“Yes.” I walk toward the table and sit in the folding chair he indicates.
“Your job is to verify the information for each person on the arrival list—name, nationality, date of birth, if they have it. Then I will tell you whether he or she is going into the medical ward or the main camp. Do you understand?” I nod, studying the line of refugees as they approach the table. They all look as though they will need medical attention. I wonder if there will be room for them in the wards.
I take a deep breath, then look up at the first of the arrivals, a gaunt, bedraggled man. “Name?” I ask.
The man hesitates, a panicked expression crossing his face. Then he glances down at the row of dark numbers on his forearm. Though I did not receive one, I know that prisoners in the main camps were tattooed by the Nazis. This man is unaccustomed, I realize, to being thought of as anything but a number. I take a deep breath, start again. “Hello,” I say in Yiddish, smiling gently. “I’m Marta Nedermann. What’s your name?”
The man’s expression relaxes. “Friedrich Masaryk.”
I check him off the list. “Hungarian. Born November 18, 1901. Is that correct?” The man nods. He is only in his forties. With his white hair and hunched posture, I would have taken him for at least sixty.
Dr. Verrier examines the man. “Herr Masaryk, you are undernourished, but otherwise well enough to go to the main camp.” I make a note on the chart as one of the soldiers escorts Herr Masaryk away.