Making Bombs For Hitler (10 page)

Inge was so pleased with my work that she took the blouse from me as soon as I was finished and put it on over top her of work smock. The blouse was tight on her and I was horrified at the thought of her ripping it to shreds and then expecting me to fix it, but what could I say?

“You look beautiful,” is what I decided on.

Inge grinned. She ran into her office at the back and grabbed the fur coat, slipping that over top of the blouse. She twirled around and the coat flared out, swirling in soft lushness, the scent of rosewater wisping to my nostrils.

“You are such a divine little worker,” said Inge. “I would like to reward you.”

She hurried back to her office. When she came back, she was no longer wearing the fur or the blouse, but in her hand was a waxed-paper package tied with a string.

“Here,” she said. “As your reward, I saved you half my lunch.”

My mouth filled with saliva at the thought of the delights in that package. Each day she ate two sandwiches — always thick slabs of meat between generous slices of freshly baked bread. Even through the paper, I could smell garlic, onion, caraway, beef. Against my will, my hand stretched out and caressed the paper.

“Take it. You deserve it.”

I held the wrapped sandwich in both of my hands. This was the most precious gift I had ever received. How I
longed to tear the package open and gobble down the sandwich.

But a sandwich would be gone in an instant. And after eating that and enjoying it, how could I go back to the turnip soup and the coloured water?

I pulled my hand away and clutched it on my lap, willing it to be still.

“Please, ma’am,” I said, looking into her eyes. “This is very generous of you, but what I would really like is a new dress.”

Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “A new dress? But you get to wear a clean smock every day.” She looked down at my bare feet. “Maybe a pair of woollen socks instead?”

How wonderful it would be to have a thick pair of socks, especially with winter approaching, but how long would they last? My feet still ached constantly, especially at night. It was tempting to say yes to the socks, but if I wore socks, how would that make Zenia feel, who was nearly naked in her ripped dress? And Ivanka and Natalia and the others in my barracks? Me wearing socks was sure to make them feel worse about their own situation.

“My friend Zenia,” I told her. “She was injured yesterday in the bombing. But aside from that, her dress was ruined. That’s why I’d like a new dress.”

Inge’s eyebrows rose and a look of astonishment transformed her face. “You would give a well-earned gift away to someone else?”

I bowed my head and stared at her shoes. “Yes, ma’am, if that’s allowed.”

Her warm hand brushed my shoulder. “You are just
like my husband. He works hard for the luxury goods he acquires, but then he sends them to me.”

She brought in a huge basket of clothing for mending and sorted through it, a look of concentration in her eyes. “I can’t give you anything too fine because it will only cause problems for you. Not this, not this. Hmm, this is too good.” She looked up at me. “Ideally, I’d like to give you a smock, but they’re not mine to give.” She continued sorting through the basket, then pulled out a flannel shirt, dark blue, with a torn sleeve. Her eyes lit up. “Stand,” she said. “Let’s see how long this is on you.”

She held it up to my shoulders. The shirt came down practically to my ankles. But it would work for Zenia. She was taller than me.

“Ah, this is perfect,” she said, handing it to me. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a pair of socks instead?”

I took the precious shirt and cradled it in my arms. It felt substantial and it smelled clean. My eyes filled with tears. Inge had not beaten me or yelled at me since I had gone to work with her, but this was the first time she had treated me with real human kindness.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “This shirt is perfect.” I was so grateful that I felt like hugging her, but I thought better of it. “Your generosity is appreciated.”

Inge smiled. “I’ve always prided myself on my generosity.”

I kept that dark shirt beside me as I started in on the mending that had accumulated in the laundry basket. I could hardly wait until the whistle blew and I could give my gift to Zenia. She would be so surprised! The anticipation of her pleasure lifted the cloud of sadness that had
hovered over me since Larissa and I had been captured by the Nazis. Most of the time I felt so powerless, and that is the worst feeling of all. But the joy of seeing Luka and being able to help Zenia made the difference between hope and despair.

When the six o’clock whistle blew, I changed into my own rags and burst out of the laundry-house door, the shirt clutched to my chest. My face and arms smashed into something solid. I fell into the dirt, landing on my hands and knees. The shirt flew out of my grip and landed in a cloud of dust.

In front of my face was a pair of black boots, shiny through a light veneer of dust. I looked up. It was the roll-call officer.

“So the little seamstress is a thief.”

I snatched the shirt from the ground and stumbled to my feet. I stood at attention before him, acutely aware of my filthy dress.

“Officer, I did not steal this shirt.”

“We’ll see about that.”

He grabbed me by the ear with such force that I thought he would pull it off. He opened up the laundry-house door and hollered, “Inge, get over here.”

Drawers closed and doors opened out back. Inge walked in to the washing room, wearing her newly personalized fur coat. She looked at me quizzically, then at the officer.

“What is the problem, Officer Schmidt?”

“Did you give this girl a shirt?”

Inge put her hands on her hips and glared at the man. “I did.”

He let go of my ear. I exhaled.

“You shouldn’t be giving the Ostarbeiters presents, Inge.”

“It’s an old shirt of my husband’s, too worn to be mended.”

“You will spoil her.”

“Have you seen what she can do?” Inge said.

“She can sew.”

“Saying that Lida can sew is like saying Wagner can compose a pretty tune. I’ll show you.” She slipped off the fur coat and showed him her monogram.

I was astounded that Inge would stand up for me in this way.

He looked at it dismissively. “It cannot be difficult to sew a few letters in place.”

Inge’s eyes flashed with anger. She looked over to me. “Go, Lida. I shall see you tomorrow morning.”

I stepped out and closed the door behind me, but I was curious what she was going to say to Officer Schmidt without me there. I cupped my ear against the door and got wisps of the exchange. She must have shown him my other work. I caught words like, “deft tiny hands … attention to detail … patient.” There was a pause in the conversation and I didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping, so I left.

When I got to Barracks 7 it was empty, so I folded up the shirt and slipped it under my pillow. I went to the bathhouse and wash house, then back to the barracks. Zenia came in moments later, so exhausted that she collapsed onto her bunk with just a nod in my direction. She pulled her covers up to her chin and groaned in relief.

I pulled the shirt from under my pillow and sat on the edge of her bunk. “I have a surprise for you, Zenia,” I said, holding it out.

She looked at the cloth and asked. “What is that?”

“Open it,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement. I shook out the shirt so that it opened.

Zenia’s eyes widened. “You didn’t steal that, I hope.”

I shook my head. “Inge gave it to me. A present for my stitch work.”

“That is wonderful,” said Zenia. “It is so much better than the tattered dress you’re wearing.”

“But Zenia, this is for you!”

Zenia propped herself up on her elbow and stared into my eyes. “You cannot give this to me. You worked so hard for it.”

“Your dress is falling apart,” I said. “You need this more than I do.”

Zenia blinked back tears. “She should have given you something for yourself — a pair of shoes, or something to eat.” She looked down at my scab-encrusted feet. “Maybe you should rip this into strips to wrap your feet with.”

“You know they wouldn’t last long,” I told her. “Besides, I want you to have this. I have a good smock that I wear all day when I’m working, and it’s clean in the laundry, so my feet are healing. Do you want to be walking around naked? Your dress is not likely to last much longer.”

“Thank you, Lida, thank you.” Zenia reached out and gripped my hand. “We can save what’s left of my own dress for patching.”

She slipped into the shirt and even though she was taller than me, it was still huge on her — we were all not
much more than skeletons, after all. She took it off. We were trusted with needle and thread, but not scissors, so I carefully tore off the sleeves so I could adjust it, then picked apart the seams on either side of the shirt so I had one big piece of cloth and two smaller pieces. With the big section of material from the back, I stitched a sleeveless dress for Zenia. I was in the midst of all this sewing when the other girls entered the barracks.

Kataryna picked up the two front panels of the shirt and held them up to me. “There’s more than enough to make yourself a new dress out of this. Do you need the buttons?”

I shook my head. While I finished up Zenia’s seams, Kataryna picked at the button threads with the sharp end of a sewing needle. Once the buttons were all removed, she stitched the two front sections together. My sleeveless dress needed to be several inches shorter than Zenia’s, which meant that there was plenty of cloth left over. We worked at it gingerly so the cloth would tear straight.

With these bits and scraps of sturdy blue flannel, plus my old dress and what was left of Zenia’s old outfit, Mary and the others were able to patch their own clothing. Every single girl in Barracks 7 got a bit of cloth. I fell asleep with a smile on my lips for the first time in a very long while. It had been a good day. I dreamt that my mother was bending over me, brushing my forehead with her lips. “Beauty can be found anywhere,” she whispered.

I longed to open my eyes and see my real mother, hovering over me, keeping me safe. The dream was so real that I could almost feel her warm breath on my cheek. Mama’s face dissolved and was suddenly replaced by
Luka’s. “Stay safe, little sister,” he said. His lips continued to move but I could no longer hear the words.

“Luka!” I cried. “What are you saying?” My eyes flew open.

The image had been so real that I almost expected Luka to be hovering over me, but he wasn’t there. I was thankful that I had gone to see him in the hospital, to know that he was safe. Dreams can so quickly turn to nightmares, after all.

Chapter Eleven
Roll Call

The next day at roll call, several prisoners complimented the girls of Barracks 7 on our nice clothing. It thrilled me to see everyone look so happy.

Officer Schmidt made us all stand at attention for longer than usual. It was drizzling rain and we each stood rigidly. My feet ached from the damp.

The rain didn’t bother him, though — a soldier scampered behind him as he walked, holding a huge black umbrella over his head.

My new blue dress was soaked through and every bone in my body ached. I was looking forward to drying out in the laundry.

Officer Schmidt walked up and down our rows, examining each of us carefully, making note of the new patchwork. When he got to Zenia, he stopped.

“Your dress. Where did you get it?”

Zenia lowered her eyes and looked at her muddy feet. “A friend gave it to me.”

He grunted. He continued his inspection. When he got to me, he stopped again.

“Nice dress, little seamstress,” he said. “That one shirt went far. Why didn’t you keep the whole thing for yourself?”

My mouth refused to form words. Officer Schmidt continued to stand in front of me. “Speak up,” he said.

“It makes me happy to share,” I blurted.

And then the officer did something that shocked me. He smiled. He rested one finger on my shoulder and said, “You were getting a bit too comfortable in the laundry. You have a new assignment.”

He reached into the depths of his uniform jacket and pulled out an Ostarbeiter identification paper. He handed it to me, saying, “Today, you go on the train. You will need this.”

It was the first time I had seen my own identification paper. I knew from the other girls that we were supposed to have them with us at all times if we left the compound. Getting caught without papers could mean death. Since I had always worked inside the complex itself, Officer Schmidt had never given my OST paper to me before.

I folded the paper quickly and slipped it into my dress pocket to keep it relatively dry. I was devastated that he was moving me. Inge treated me well now and it was so pleasant in the laundry. To go into the city was something I dreaded. It was bombed regularly, after all.

Officer Schmidt read out a list of newly reassigned labourers, including Zenia, and told us that the policemen on the train would have the listings of our new jobs.

A whistle shrilled as the train approached the gates.
“You are dismissed,” shouted Officer Schmidt.

I stood in the long lineup to get on the train. There were two policemen under a lamppost at the gate. One ticked off people’s names on his clipboard as they passed him. The other stood with a rifle casually leaning against his shoulder.

When it was my turn, the policeman’s brow crinkled. “You’ve not travelled to work before. What is your name?”

“Lida Ferezuk.” I took out my identification paper and showed it to him.

He scanned the list of names on his clipboard. “Ah,” he said. He pointed to a train car that was four units down. “That’s the one for you.”

I walked along a well-used path beside the tracks until I got to the correct train car. I was expecting it to be a cattle car like the one we arrived in, but this car had two rows of wooden benches and an aisle down the middle. Most of the seats had already been taken, and as I looked around for a place to sit, I was surprised to see regular people in the car: a grey-haired civilian with his coat unbuttoned, revealing paint-splattered overalls; a plain looking woman with her hair twisted in a bun, wearing a feathered green hat that looked like it was meant for someone else. Beside her sat a young girl whose blond curls spilled out over her blue sweater. That girl reminded me so much of Larissa that I had to look away before I began to weep.