Making Bombs For Hitler (5 page)

“But how can you know for sure?” I asked her. “There is always hope.”

Zenia pulled me close. I could feel her hot breath on my ear. “I’m Jewish.”

I felt like a rock had been thrown at my heart. None of the prisoners had yellow stars.

It was a miracle that Zenia herself had managed to survive for this long. I remembered when the Nazis came to our town. At first we were relieved that it was not the Soviets, for we thought no one could be as bad as them. My father had been one of the thousands they killed just days before the Nazi invasion.

My friend Sarah and her parents were just as hopeful as we had been. Germans were civilized, weren’t they? But then they took the Jews and shot them. Mama had tried to hide Sarah and her parents, so they shot my mama too. Larissa and I heard the shots from our hiding place in the attic.

There was only one difference between the Nazis and the Soviets: the Soviets killed by the cover of night, but the Nazis killed in full daylight.

If the Nazis found out that Zenia was Jewish, would she be killed on the spot? My hand went up to my neck and I caressed my crucifix. I had been powerless to save my friend Sarah, but could I help Zenia? My simple cross was not just jewellery and it was not only a symbol of my beliefs. It was all that I had left of my parents. But it also showed that I wasn’t Jewish. Should I give this to Zenia? Could I bear to part with it? But Zenia had so much more to lose. I had no choice. I had to give it to her.

I took it off, held it to my lips and kissed it goodbye.
Then I pressed it into Zenia’s palm. “Wear this.”

Her eyes filled with tears but she said nothing. I tried to understand what she must be thinking — that wearing the cross was like denying her family, denying the religion her parents had died for. But she had to blend in. And she needed a reason to live.

“If you don’t live, who will tell your story when the war is over?” I asked her.

Her eyes met mine. She looked back down at the crucifix and her eyebrows knitted in thought. Another minute passed. Then she sighed and her eyes met mine. “You’re right.” She slipped the leather necklace that held my crucifix over her head. “Thank you.”

Chapter Five
Work

Somehow I slept. In the background of my dreams I could hear the incessant
bang-bang-bang-boom
of British airplanes targeting a nearby city with a blanket of bombs. They were so close I could feel my bunk tremble.

Memories of scents and tastes crowded out the bombs — lilac blossoms, vanilla pudding, wormy turnip soup. A flash of Larissa: fear in her eyes and her arms outstretched. “Lida, please don’t leave me!” I tried to grab her but she was just a dream. All too soon the morning whistle shrilled and I tumbled out of my bunk.

We were given half an hour to get up, tidy our beds, use the bathroom and wash in the cold water. The warden herded us to the
Kantine,
where we were each given a triangle of black bread the size of my palm and a tinful of coloured water the cook called tea.

I sat between Zenia and Kataryna at one of the long wooden tables and pulled a chunk of bread off my ration and put it in my mouth. It had an odd woody taste, unlike
any bread I had ever eaten, but I was starving so I chewed it slowly, washing it down with sips of the brown liquid.

Zenia bit off a piece of her bread and chewed thoughtfully. “This is made of sawdust.”

When we were finished, we took our bowls, cups and spoons with us and the warden herded us back out into the open area.

“Stand at attention,” she said.

We weren’t the only prisoners. I recognized a person here and there who had been served a bowl of Russian slop the night before. I also saw Luka in one of the rows ahead of me. He stood with the boys from our cattle car, looking as dazed and exhausted as I felt. They each had OST badges stitched onto their clothing. He turned and caught my eye for a brief moment. I nodded my head slightly. He winked, then turned back around.

The warden made us stand at attention for what seemed like an hour, but finally the door of the main building opened and that same officer from the day before stepped out. He held a stack of forms in his hands. Behind him was a man in civilian clothing. He carried a tripod and had a camera strapped around his neck.

“If I call your name, step forward.” He read out names from the forms.

From our barracks he called Daria, Katya and Olesia. A few boys from our cattle car were also identified.

“You are all under twelve,” he said in a firm clear voice. “You will not be required to work.”

I glanced over and caught Olesia’s eye. She gave me a faint smile. I think she was glad now that she had given her true age.

He looked up from his forms and studied our pathetic group. “Is there anyone under twelve here that I have missed?”

I tried to make myself stand tall, hoping it made me look older. I did not want to be caught in my lie. Besides, I remembered what that woman had whispered to us as she shoved the pail of soup into our cattle car.
Be useful or they will kill you …

Kataryna Pich stood not far away from me. I didn’t want to look at her, but from the corner of my eye, I could see her standing in place as well. She did not step forward.

“Surely there are more of you twelve and under,” he said. “We have room for at least one more.”

I could barely breathe, I was so afraid he would order me to stand with the younger children. I did not move. Kataryna stayed where she was.

I heard footsteps behind me. Tatiana stepped forward. She was definitely older than twelve. “Stand over there,” the officer ordered, pointing to where the photographer had set up his equipment. One by one, each child was photographed. Our warden checked off names on her clipboard after each picture was taken.

The officer walked down our rows, inspecting us one by one. He stopped in front of me. “Stand with the children and get your photograph done.”

“I’m thirteen,” I said in a voice that I hoped would be convincing.

“You’re too small.” He nudged me with his whip. “Go. You won’t have to work.”

I looked over to Olesia, who stood with the younger children. Her eyes met mine and it was like I could almost
read her thoughts.
Tell the truth,
her eyes said.
Admit that you’re younger — it’s safer.

But I could not do that. My heart told me that she was wrong. It was safer to be older, to be useful. I had to save myself if I was going to save my sister. I prayed that I was guessing right.

I met the officer’s cold blue eyes, then let my gaze rest on his sharply pressed uniform. One button was just a hair looser than the rest. And there was an inch or so of frayed edge on his collar.

“You have no seamstress.”

His hand went to the loose button and he frowned.

“What would you know about that?”

“The button simply needs tightening. The shirt — where it’s frayed — that requires a deft hand to fix.”

One eyebrow rose. His eyes seemed to focus — to notice me as an individual. They moved to the delicate stitchwork around my OST badge. The other eyebrow rose. He touched my badge.

“You did this pattern?”

“Yes.”

“Well, well. A little Russian with clever hands. How unusual.” The warden nodded in acknowledgment of his joke.

I held my breath.

“After you’re photographed, stand over there.” He pointed to his office.

The photographer snapped my picture and I walked to the door of the officer’s building. I stood rigidly at attention, my eating utensils clutched in one hand at my side and my face impassive. I watched him designate a few
other girls as children, and one more boy from our cattle car. The officer passed by Luka without stopping.

When he was finished his inspection, he walked over to a waiting policeman.

“Get these older ones photographed and take them to work.”

Luka and the others had their faces recorded for the Nazi record keepers as well. After that, they were marched out the gate and onto an idling train.

Those who had been designated as children stood in a cluster, looking smug. The officer snapped his fingers to beckon another waiting policeman. “These go to the hospital.”

The hospital? Luka had warned me about it. What would happen to Olesia and the others? My imagination swirled with a hundred deadly possibilities. How I hoped that Luka was wrong.

As the younger children were led away, Olesia turned and waved. She looked almost happy. I felt sick.

The officer walked over to me. “So you’re my little seamstress?”

His mouth curled into a smile but his eyes stayed cold. What had I got myself into? He stepped past me and opened the office door. Was I to follow him? He’d given me no indication. I stood rigid, still at attention, waiting for orders.

The door closed.

It stayed closed for minutes. An hour. I kept at attention, fear growing in my belly. My hands were stiff with cold and my feet were frozen blue. The sawdust bread sat like a lump in the pit of my stomach.

The door opened. The officer’s uniform was unbuttoned. His brow crinkled with an uncomprehending frown. “Aren’t you my seamstress?”

“Yes, sir,” I said through cold lips.

“Then get sewing.”

“Yes, sir.” Did he expect me to sew with no needle and thread and no clothing to fix? Was I to be a magician as well as a seamstress? That is what I felt like asking him. Instead, in as meek a voice as I could muster, I said, “Where should I do my sewing, sir?”

He walked back to his office and left the door opened, so I could see him pick up a telephone and dial. He spoke firmly to someone, then slammed the receiver back in its cradle. He closed the door and I waited some more.

A few minutes later, a thick-legged woman with a red face appeared from one of the side streets. She walked quickly towards me. “You’re the girl who sews?”

I nodded.

“This way.” I followed her as she retraced her steps. We reached a stone house set slightly apart from the buildings. She pushed the door open and a huge cloud of steam billowed out, enveloping me in its warmth.

“Get in here quickly,” she said. “I don’t want the heat to escape.”

It took my eyes a few moments to adjust to the haze. Through the steam, I could see an industrial-sized vat and what looked like mounds of white cotton sheets and towels being swished back and forth in hot soapy water by a huge mechanical arm.

“This is the laundry,” she said. “My name is Inge and you’re to help me.”

“I thought I was supposed to sew.”

She looked at me and smirked. “Oh, you’ll do that too. Once my laundry is done. If your sewing isn’t finished, you’ll be in trouble and I don’t care, but if the laundry isn’t finished on time it will be me in trouble, and I do care about that.”

I wasn’t in a position to argue. I had to make myself useful to Inge — so useful that she’d want to protect me.

She put her hands on her ample hips and looked me up and down. “You’ll get the laundry dirty in that getup,” she said. “Take off your dress.”

“But the OST badge,” I said, touching it with my fingers. “I was told never to take it off.”

“In here you do as I say.” Inge opened a cupboard and took out a bar of soap and a fluffy white towel. “Clean yourself. Quickly.”

After I had washed in gloriously hot water with real soap, Inge gave me a smock that smelled of bleaching powder. “You’ll wear one of these smocks each day in the laundry,” she said. “You can change back into your own disgusting outfit before you leave.”

It was back-breaking work, helping Inge lift wet sheets and towels out of the water and put them through a mechanical wringer that squeezed out the excess water. We rinsed them, wrung them out again, then rinsed a second time in a fresh vat of water, then wrung them out a third time. My arms ached from holding up the heavy cloth, but I was warm right down to my toes.

When the sheets and towels were finally clean, I helped her hang them on clotheslines in an enclosed courtyard behind the laundry house. They wouldn’t dry completely —
it was too cold outside for that. But while they flapped in the wind, we started on a second batch of laundry.

I was light-headed with hunger and every muscle in my body ached from the hard work. Hours had passed and I still hadn’t been allowed to do a single stitch of sewing.

A whistle shrieked.

“Mealtime,” said Inge. “Change into your old clothing. Come back from the
Kantine
as soon as you’ve finished eating.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, pulling the clean smock over my head and folding it neatly. My lice-encrusted dress felt horrible as I stepped into it.

Inge looked at me not unkindly and said, “You’re a hard worker for your size.”

Her words were like a balm to my soul. I was useful. Did that mean I would live? If only she would let me get some sewing done. “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. I grabbed my eating utensils and scooted out the laundry-room door.

Chapter Six
Seams

It seemed much less crowded in the
Kantine
compared to breakfast. Entire tables were empty and there were only a few people in front of me at the soup lineup. I watched hungrily as the cook filled the bowls of the people in front of me — a Polish prisoner, an Aryan, then me.

The cook looked at my OST badge and set down the ladle he was using. He stepped over to the vile Russian soup and spooned some of it into my bowl with a different ladle. I looked down at my soup. It was the same as yesterday’s — turnip and water, with maybe a lump or two of oats or potato. He filled my tin cup with some sort of hot dark liquid. Then, “Out of the way,” he said, gesturing with the ladle. “You’re holding up the line.”

I looked behind me. No one was there.

I carried my bowl to an empty table and took a seat that faced the entrance. I was hoping that Luka might come in, or maybe Zenia or Kataryna.

“May I sit here?”

I looked behind me. It was the Hungarian girl. If she was so disdainful of me being sub-human, why did she want to sit with me? “You don’t need my permission.”