VIIII – February 26th 1949
The weather’s really warming up. This morning, we shed out gloves and scarves: it was a joyous sign of things to come. The mood among out little group was positive and hopeful, and it really gave us the incentive to trudge on despite our aching, blistered feet.
We packed up early and, leaving the forest, we walked for approximately four hours before finding ourselves in a deserted little village. Meandering around the cluster of little houses, we were in awe at the destruction, the desolation, greeting our eyes. Although a pitiful and sobering sight, it was a promising discovery. We reasoned that the villagers who once lived there must’ve had to have access to a larger town with shops and doctors and a post office. It was only logical.
The blessed thought that we may’ve only been a day or so away from an inhabited town raised our spirits immeasurably. We figured that it would be wise to set up camp and give ourselves a chance to recuperate and reenergise, and so we pitched our tent and collapsed to our knees. It felt eerie, just sat there, staring at the disgraceful state of the village, listening to the wind whistle through the dilapidated buildings, wondering what’d happened to the people who once had lived there. My mind began to explore different scenarios. I stopped myself short and shook away the thoughts plaguing my brain: they were far too disturbing. I resigned myself to the fact that I was far better off in my ignorance. Knowing can be a dangerous thing.
I began pondering what I would do when we reached ‘civilisation’. It’s a heartbreaking reality; the fact that I will soon have to say goodbye to Justus and Petrus. They had originally come from the north-east, and so our parting will be inevitable. At what point we will go our separate ways is debateable. They’re like family. They are family. Seeing Petrus every day is like oxygen. His friendship is priceless, but I do honestly wish for something more. However, I would never commit myself to him. Emotional attachments have the potential to cause untold heartache. Nikola was a wretched example.
It’s going to get me down if I keep on talking about all this, so I’ll carry on where I left off in my last entry.
That same night, back in the camp, I laid my worries to bed, and slept. I woke up even more determined to prove my sibling and room-mates wrong. Unfortunately, my theories were dragged back down to the dust the moment Nikola waltzed through the door, triumphantly carrying a four small slices of bread and a potato for each of us. I was gobsmacked – perhaps a little humiliated – but still, something didn’t sit right with me.
‘Where...?’ I stammered. ‘What...?’
‘I went out to piss this morning,’ Nikola explained, a wry smile tickling her lips, ‘and I saw all the women and children queuing for food. I joined the line and was given this!’ She held the portions up in the air like a trophy.
My stomach reeled, and I kept silent. I was still very much suspicious of the NKVD. One of the many things grinding at my skull was the fact that Justus and Petrus and their Grandmother and the Boy were the only new faces I had seen around the site of the camp.
Surely, I thought, shouldn’t the camp have been heaving with prisoners when we arrived? It was what I was expecting, for I was used to seeing masses upon masses of detainees slaving in Hitler’s camps. I took an educated guess and figured that there must’ve been many other sectors to the site, and decided to ask the Hoffmann brothers that very same day.
My heart weighed heavily with anticipation as I worked. In my mind I hadn’t precisely figured out what I was going to say to Petrus and his brother. All I knew was that something wasn’t right – I was convinced. I had to draw them out; deduce whatever I could to make the puzzle pieces fit.
I’ve always had a reasonable power of deduction. I can read faces and emotions particularly well. For example, take the time when my father was preparing to make my stepmother his wife. For weeks before he “broke the news” my four-year-old brain had deciphered that his spirit was troubled. Changes in my father’s behaviour had showed. I didn’t entirely understand what was going on, of course, but I felt my Paters’ anxiety. To my father, everything was in black and white. He had no problem telling my sister and I of what lay ahead; that was the least of his worries. It was merely pre-wedding nerves.
As I trudged back to the shacks, darkness slipping its blanket over our existence, the cold bit into my flesh. I clenched and unclenched my fists nervously. My fingers brushed against my lips; they were chapped, rough. The skin of my face was peeling, and I could feel colour blotching into my cheeks. The earth was damp from the rain, and it squelched underfoot. It took approximately twenty minutes to walk from the north-side of the camp, where basic labour was carried out, back to the double row of shacks.
Our lives functioned in a sodden, two mile plot of land. We knew nothing more; nothing of the outside world, which sat so idly, unbroken, on the other side of the beastly iron gates; the sky-high fencing. I had only been in the camp for four days, and desperation was already setting in. Guilt throbbed at my insides. My nation was one in which, under the regime of Hitler, prisoners had been jailed for years upon years. Many endured, coped, and survived! And here I was, struggling after hardly a week. I was ashamed of myself, and vowed to stay strong for the sake of dignity.
I had certainly not instigated the establishment of Hitler’s camps; nor was it my duty to oversee. I was merely a girl with the lights, shining full beams into the vast, starless skies to guide soldier-pilots back to safety. However, I was not innocent of all knowledge. I knew what was going on, and the shame of powerlessness coerced me into blotting all the atrocities out of my mind; to move on and forget. But I could not forget. I will never forget. And still today I am plagued by pangs of conscience.
The moon was beautiful that night: plump and glowing. It was a guide, a comfort. It reminded me that something, perhaps God, was up there. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.
I found Justus squatting; a cigarette perfectly poised between his fingers, as if in mock imitation of an individual of the gentry. I was slightly disappointed. The butterflies inside of me fell to the pit of my stomach.
I wanted Petrus.
From the deepest parts of my organs clawed a hungering, a yearning.The strength of emotion knocked me sick. How I wished I had let dear, beautiful Petrus fondle my hair, touch my skin, fondle my breasts; instead, I had pushed him away.
I began to fantasise. I told myself that it was all merely a crush; a girls’ fancy, which would soon fade away. However, I did not stop the impulsive images which flooded my mind. They were rather pleasurable.
Justus smiled as I approached. He nodded, and shifted a little, indicating that I should sit down. I blew on my hands and eased myself slowly to the ground. It was soggy and uneven.
“How did it go today?” he asked, clearly uninterested in receiving a response. It was one of those common questions, often asked to break ice, shift an awkward clog in communication.
“Not bad.”
I answered truthfully. It was a Sunday, and so many of the guards were still partially hung over from their drinking brawl the night before. Many of them were drowsy on their watches and had bad headaches, and so they didn’t go too hard on us.
“And you?”
“Yes, fine.”
“Can I ask you something?” I said hesitantly.
He grunted his assent.
“Where are all the others, Justus?” I asked softly. “Surely, it’s not just us?” Another question leapt into my mind. “And why were you the only ones living here when we arrived?”
The silence that followed was almighty. My gut churned.
“You get moved on.” His voice was toneless, deflated.
“What?”
Justus’s reply was barely a whisper. ‘All I know us that they move you on after about six weeks. You serve your purpose, and then you’re taken.’
‘Taken? Taken where?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Please, Justus.’ My voice was low, desperate. ‘Tell me.’
‘Look,’ he cried, clearly exasperated. ‘Stop asking questions. Ask questions, and you’ll end up dead.’
‘It won’t be long before we're all dead anyway,’ I muttered under my breath.
He scowled at me.
We both seemed frozen in our stances, only for a few moments. Then, bidding goodnight, I walked back across the gaping stretch of nothingness.
***
Justus avoided me after that day. He would evade me at all costs; busied himself when I came near. Every morning when I left for labour, I knew categorically that he would be sat outside, smoking. He wouldn’t even glance up. It was almost as though he wanted purposefully to irritate me in his arrogant, nonchalant silence. He was afraid, of me; of the truth.
The days rolled into one: the same old routine, a blur of existence. We dug all day, every day; slept with disturbed dreams at night. We collected our rations twice a week, once on a Tuesday, once on a Friday.
Even thought spurs of doubt rattled around inside my brain, I was not to be put off.
I do not let go of things easily. It is a trait of my blood. Be it an unresolved issue or an unfathomable puzzle, I’ll do my upmost to work it out. At a young age I had been given the reputation of a meddler. A good-natured one, that is.
Sinister goings on were playing out behind the scenes. My bones murmured: they knew. Justus’s reaction had only heightened my suspicions and my curiosity.
They say curiosity killed the cat, but I wasn’t so sure.
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