Making Bombs For Hitler (3 page)

Metal spigots on the ceiling opened up, and we were sprayed with some sort of liquid that stung the scrapes on my hands and knees. My lungs burned. I tried to hold my breath, but I could feel the burning in my eyes and on my lips.

After we were thoroughly soaked in the chemical, a door opened up and we fled into a second compartment. This one was a heavenly shower with plenty of glorious hot water. I let it course over my lice-scabbed scalp and down my shoulders, rinsing off the stinky chemical. Hundreds of black squiggling bugs swirled down into the drains on the floor.

The shower was over all too soon. We were herded out, soaking wet, into the wintry bright air. I slipped my cross back on, then shivered as I picked through the mound of clothing, looking for the ragged flannel nightgown that I had worn since my capture.

“Quickly,” shouted a policeman. “Grab something now or go without.” He smacked one of the slower girls on her shoulder with his club.

I couldn’t find my nightgown
so I grabbed a dress. It was damp and filthy and encrusted with lice, but at least the bugs seemed dead. I wasn’t so concerned about whether I wore my own nightgown or someone else’s dress, as long as I could cover myself quickly.

I shivered in the chilly air as I pulled the damp dress over my head. Marika was too weak to put her clothing on so I draped a large shirt over her shoulders and Zenia helped me get her into a skirt.

Marika had been captured wearing a good pair of sturdy shoes but I could not find them in the pile. I frantically searched through the clothing, but they were gone.

“Who took Marika’s shoes?” I said to no one in particular.

A billy club smashed down on my spine. “Hurry,” shouted a policeman.

We girls were then led barefoot to an open area within the fortress-like complex, Marika hobbling between me and Zenia. Marika hadn’t said a word since we’d gotten out of the cattle car and her lips were blue with cold. We were ordered to stand at attention.

I kept my arms around Marika and so did Zenia, but even with our combined body heat we trembled. We were freezing, wet and frightened. I looked around, trying to get my bearings. What would they do to us here? The open area seemed to be in the centre of the complex. There was a series of long buildings along either side. Some were made of brick but most were wooden and looked fairly new. The entire complex was enclosed in a high wooden fence topped with barbed wire. High guard stations had been built into the fence at regular intervals, each containing a menacing Nazi soldier, his rifle casually pointed in our direction. Were we that dangerous?

Just then, we heard a high whine. I looked up. A formation of American fighter airplanes with stars on their side. We all instinctively flattened to the ground. The planes flew past us, not slowing down. In the distance I heard the familiar
whizz-boom
as the bombs landed.

Before Larissa and I had been captured, I had overheard adults talking about how the Americans were now dropping bombs on German factories during the day while the British bombed the cities at night. I hoped that this complex wouldn’t become a target.

Before the Nazis took us, I had been glad when I heard about the bombings in Germany. I wanted the Allies to win. Baba said that if Britain and Canada and America beat Hitler, they would then fight Stalin and give us back our freedom.

A crisply uniformed officer with glossy leather boots and a long whip came out of one of the buildings, a German shepherd at his heels. He walked over to where we lay.

“Get up.”

His quiet voice was more terrifying than the shouts of the policemen. I stumbled to my feet, pulling Marika up with me.

“Take your arms off that girl.”

“I cannot do that because —”

The whip snapped. I felt a jolt of pain on my cheek, a warm trickle of blood on my face. The shock of pain loosened my grip on Marika and she slumped back to the cold ground. The officer towered over her. “Stand up.”

Marika lay still.

He paced slowly in front of us, hands and whip held behind his back and the German shepherd a few steps behind him. The officer paused, examining each of us in turn, his disdain for us clear in his scowl.

He motioned with his hand and a policeman approached. “Get rid of that one.” He pointed to Marika,
then left, his dog following close behind. The man picked up Marika and carried her away.

What would they do to her? I tried to run after the policeman, but Zenia gripped my elbow. I tried to pull loose but her grip was firm. My knees buckled and I would have fallen to the ground, but she held me upright.

“Quickly,” shouted a different policeman, brandishing his club. He herded us into one of the barracks.

The room was dank and dim and smelled of bleaching powder. It was an oblong room with three tiers of wooden bunks on one side and two tiers on the other. I counted: thirty-six in all. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see that there was a small wooden table by the door and a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling by a wire in the middle of the room. I walked over to it and pulled a long string that was attached to it. The bulb didn’t give off much light, but I could see the room more clearly. I noticed a small electric heater up against the back wall so I walked over and touched it. Stone cold. I felt all over until I found a switch at the back. I flicked it on, then held my hands in front of it for a few moments. A faint warmth billowed out — not nearly enough to heat the entire room. Most of the bunks had a mattress folded in half, positioned at the end of the bunk. Stacked on top of each mattress was a bare pillow, two coarse grey blankets and one stiff yellow bedsheet. The bunks closest to the heater looked taken — the mattresses lying flat and the beds made.

The bottom bunk close to the door seemed not to be claimed, so I sat down on the wooden edge, exhausted, cold and hungry, but mostly in shock. So much had happened in such a short time. What was this place they had
taken us to? It was better than the cattle car — at least it was clean — but it seemed that we were in some sort of prison. What had I done wrong?

Some of the girls were flipping open their mattresses and making their beds. Others sat silently on the bare wood of their bunks like me. Some were weeping. Others looked frightened. I felt like a big weight had been placed on my shoulders. I had to find my sister. Larissa would be beside herself with fear by now. But I had to get out of this place first. How was that possible when we were surrounded by a barbed-wire fence and guards? Was there any way I could get word to her? I could not let myself get sad or overwhelmed. I had to stay strong. The most important thing was to stay alive and healthy so I could find my sister and get her to safety.

I flipped my mattress down onto the bunk and was surprised at its dull thud. I ran my palm over the surface of the ticking, trying to determine what the mattress was stuffed with. At home our beds were filled with goose down. I remembered that last night before the Nazis came. Before Larissa and I were stolen away. We had snuggled up together under our grandmother’s thick goose-down quilt. Baba had sung a lullaby as we closed our eyes and drifted off to sleep. That was my last happy memory. I wanted to hold it in my heart forever.

This mattress was stiff and nearly rock solid. I picked up the pillow. It was stuffed with the same mysterious filling. I held it to my face and breathed in deep, then nearly choked. It smelled like an unswept barn.

“It’s stuffed with old dirty straw,” said Zenia, who was busy making her own bed.

Did Germans sleep on straw? I had always thought they were cleaner than that. But they kept calling us swine. I guess they really believed it, even giving us the bedding of pigs.

I picked up the one yellow sheet and held it to my face. It was coarse and scratchy and smelled like bleaching powder, but at least it seemed clean. I unfolded the sheet and drew it over the mattress and the pillow together and tucked it in as snug as I could. I would do anything to keep my body away from that straw. The last thing I needed was another batch of lice.

The electric heater hummed away but no heat reached me. I lay down on the bunk, pulled the covers over top of me and curled up into a ball, hoping for some warmth, but the blankets were so stiff and thin that I kept on shivering. As I lay there, worrying thoughts tumbled through my mind. What would become of me? What would they do to Marika? Where had they taken Luka? I could only hope that wherever Larissa was, it was better than this.

I felt a gentle hand on my back and turned around. Zenia. We had barely talked on the train and now she was being so kind to me.

“Who else will help us if we don’t help each other?” she said. It was as if she had read my mind. “Besides, if it wasn’t for you, I don’t think I could have survived the train ride.”

Her comment puzzled me.

“You were the one who got us to sing.”

My eyes filled with tears. We were human after all, and we could comfort each other, but Zenia, Luka and Marika were the only ones from the cattle car that I knew
anything about. “What I’d really like to do,” I said, “is find out a bit about all of us here.”

“Good idea,” said Zenia, smiling. “I’ll start.” She went back to her own bunk and lay down. “Hello, everyone, my name is Zenia Chornij. I’m fourteen, and I’m from Kyiv.”

A dark-eyebrowed girl in the bunk above her said, “I am Tatiana Shevchenko, and I’m from the Kyiv region too. From Bucha.”

From the bunk by my feet, a voice said, “I’m from Lychanka. We were almost neighbours.”

I sat up and leaned over so I could see the owner of the voice. With her shaven head, pale eyes and blond eyebrows, the girl looked almost colourless. She wore a dark woollen school dress and filthy white stockings. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Kataryna Pich.”

“How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

“I am eight,” I said.

There were murmurs in the room. “I’ve heard they don’t like the young ones here,” said Kataryna.

A frail looking girl from the top bunk across from mine said, “I’m from the Chernivets’ka region. I’m eight years old too. My name is Olesia Serediuk.” She sat up in her bunk and peered down at Kataryna. “Who says they don’t like the young ones?”

“I’ve heard whispers,” Kataryna answered.

Some of the girls murmured in agreement, but others disagreed.

“My name is Ivanka Mychailenko,” said a girl with a mole on her cheek, who had claimed the bed closest to
the heater. “I’m thirteen, from just outside of Kyiv. I also heard that it is much better to be older.”

The introductions and arguments went on for quite a while. Most girls were either from the Kyiv region or from my own Chernivets’ka region. The girls from Kyiv were mostly older and had been captured either right off the street or in school by regular Nazi soldiers. The ones from my area had been mostly targeted by the Brown Sisters — the Gestapo women — just as Larissa and I had. Those younger ones whose bunks were close to mine were named Olesia, Daria and Katya. Olesia seemed to be on her own, but Daria and Katya had chosen bunks side by side.

“Are you sisters?” I asked them.

Daria shook her head. “But we knew each other from church.”

By the time we finished with the introductions, I realized that I wasn’t the only one who had been separated from a sister or brother or parents. We listened to the constant thunder of bombs in the distance as each of us was wrapped in our own personal pain.

Olesia in particular seemed so small and alone sitting cross-legged on her bed. Her face glistened with tears. Katya slipped off her own bunk and stepped over to Olesia’s. Sitting on the edge, Katya reached her hand out to dry a tear from Olesia’s cheek. “We are all sad, but let’s try to watch out for one another,” she murmured.

“Lida, can we sing?” said Zenia, her voice cracking with emotion. “I know that we are all sad and afraid.”

I took a deep breath and swallowed back my tears. I had never felt so empty in my life, but I knew in my heart that she was right. Every girl here was feeling as bad as me.
Singing would surely help. Zenia went back to her own bunk and I lay down on mine. What did it matter how many bugs were in the straw? I would have to get used to it no matter what. I closed my eyes and willed away the sound of bombs and the image of my horrible surroundings. I thought of Larissa.

In a voice strong and clear, I began to sing new words to a familiar melody:

When I was a child I had a sister dear …
Kataryna answered with a tremulous voice:
When I was a child I had parents who loved me …
Ivanka responded with:
I am still a child but I have no one left to love me …
Zenia’s clear sweet voice sang:
You have us, dear child, and we love you …

Little Olesia gasped in sadness at the words, but she added her own line, as did another child and another.

My terrible surroundings disappeared and I remembered a time of happiness — with Larissa. I remembered a time before Tato was arrested by the Soviets. Before Mama was taken by the Nazis. We had a lilac tree behind our house. The last spring we were together, I had lifted Larissa onto my shoulders and stood under that tree. She had reached up and picked a single sprig. We put it on our kitchen table for Mama.

How I loved the scent of those lilac blossoms. I breathed in deeply, willing myself to smell their delicate scent. For a moment it almost worked, but only for a moment. Instead of blossoms, all I could smell was rotting straw, bleaching powder and misery.

Chapter Three
Russian Soup

The door opened with a loud shriek. I bolted upright, memories scattering.

It wasn’t an officer or a policeman, but a tired looking woman with frizzy hair bound up in a bun. She wore a faded dress with an apron over top. She clapped her hands and said, in that kind of clipped Ukrainian that the Germans who lived in my country used, “Quickly, children. You must come with me.”

She sounded almost kind.

She had us line up in front of two policemen who sat outside one of the administrative buildings at a wooden table. When it was my turn, one of them took my hand and pressed the tips of my fingers onto a black pad and then firmly pressed my inky fingers onto a small white form. He waved the form in the air to dry the ink, then handed it to his fellow officer, whose fountain pen was poised.