head will split apart, bleeding across the barren land as we sift more sand to make more bricks and concrete, to make more blocks for more Jews. Despite the sun the sky is black.
|
We aren't living in Birkenau. We are always almost dead.
|
Stibitz is in a foul mood, stamping back and forth cursing loudly at our hungry faces while we wait for our ration of tea and bread. We don't pay attention to the reason for his tirade; these outbursts of temper are nothing unusual. Even the SS have bad days. He picks the lid up off the teakettle, flinging it like a discus against a wall. It ricochets, flying toward those of us in line.
|
"Duck, Danka!" She swerves.
Smack!
It slices into her head, toppling her under the weight and sudden impact. Blood pours down her face and across the earth. The bone under the wound is visible, but this is a good thing, I tell myself, at least her skull isn't cracked. I pull the cloth I use for my periods out of my sleeve and press it hard against the gash, praying the blood will clot quickly, before any SS notice her lying here. She stirs. "Hold this to your head and press hard." She holds it as I rip a piece of my slip off, another gift from Erna long ago.
|
"Be still, Danka. Don't move until I tell you to." Her eyes wince with pain. Placing this new strip of fabric against the cut, I wring out the other one before replacing it. The girls in line hide us by moving forward for their bread. Obscured by them, I have a few precious moments to stop the bleeding, check Danka's breathing, examine her eyes. She's in shock; the wound is large and ugly, arching from the center of her forehead down to her eyebrow. My head begins to ache in sympathy with her.
|
"It's not too bad, Danka. We have to get something on it, though, some salve." I dab the blood gently from her brow. It's oozing more slowly now. "We're going to stand up now, and get
|
|
