Pastel Orphans (22 page)

Gottfried leans back on the small wooden chair and stares at us both, sitting on the bed.

“It is very dangerous what you are about to do,” he says suddenly. “You are good. I don’t like seeing good people go.”

“We will be safe,” I say. “We will make ourselves invisible.”

Gottfried laughs, but it is a slow, sad laugh, as if he has heard this before.

He pulls open drawers and takes out clothing: dark trousers, black high-necked jumpers, and caps. He gives us black paint for our faces and tells us that if we are caught in a beam of light, to put our heads down so our eyes do not shine. We must blend in with the spindly trees. There is not much cover behind the winter birches and there is still more snow to come. It will be cold. He gives us each a pack filled with water and bread, cakes and apples.

Henrik is more excited about this quest than he is scared. His spirits are lifted whenever he is busy, even if what he is doing is dangerous; it’s the waiting that drives him to despair.

“Gottfried, I can’t thank you enough . . . ,” says Henrik.

“You can thank me by coming back here safely. But I must ask that if you make your own way back somehow, and you think you are being followed, you do not come to the café straight away. It is important that there are no trails here so I can continue my work.”

“You have my word.”

I stand up and he wraps me in his large bear hug. “And, my dear Beka,” he says, using the pet name he has given me, “make sure you stay alive. I do not want to see your brains and beauty go to waste.”

While I am trying to sleep, Henrik pulls out his drawing book. It has travelled far with him, and the corners curl from unintentional misuse. It tells its own story.

He draws a picture by the light of a small lamp. I listen to the scratching of charcoal for over an hour. When there is no more sound, I ask if I can see the drawing.

“You should be asleep.”

“So should you,” I say.

It is a caricature this time. The man has a wide smile, a large forehead, and large fleshy cheeks. Henrik has captured Gottfried’s character in this picture: bold, a jester, and a gentle soul. I think that I would like to see a gallery full of Henrik’s pictures at the end of the war.

C
HAPTER
29

For much of the night Henrik has been pacing. He has hope, and I want to have hope.

We wriggle through the holes in the crates as planned and Gottfried drives for over an hour. The roads are bumpier than I thought they would be. I can just see Henrik’s clothing through the tiny gaps in the crates beside me, though anyone else would not know there was a person there.

Gottfried stops at the outskirts of a village northwest of the camp. If we are not in this same place in four days’ time, he will have to drive back without us. From the drop-off point, we are to walk through woodland. On the other side, we will find the camp. Gottfried reminds us that we must lie low and blend into the surroundings, and the dirty patches of snow. We have to make ourselves into trees.

We crunch carefully through woodland but our steps are impossible to silence in snow. It is not long before we see the tall fences, barbed wire, and brick buildings standing in neat formations.

There is a lingering smell in the air, like burning fur or hair. It is putrid and I try to rub away the smell with the back of my hand.

“What are they burning?” Henrik echoes my thoughts.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Perhaps it is whole carcasses of meat.”

“The smell is awful.”

“There is the house that Gottfried spoke of,” Henrik says, pointing.

I feel exposed amongst the winter birch. We are too close this time: too close to badness. We sit and wait behind the trees.

“What is that?”

It is late afternoon. I must have dozed. It takes me a moment to hear it too.

There is music being played somewhere inside the camp. It is sweet music, played by a small orchestra.

“Why the music?”

I have no idea. I wonder what games these Germans are playing. Soon the music stops, followed by shouts and orders.

We wait till night and then run to hide behind the windowless house that Gottfried described, avoiding the lights from the guard towers. The door is locked, and, strangely, all the windows have been bricked in, except for a section with a small wooden flap that can be unbolted and lifted from the outside. We raise the flap and shine a flashlight inside. The rooms are empty and there is sawdust on the floor. Outside, stacked up against the wall, are empty canisters. There seems to be nothing significant about the house, other than it is too close to the camp, and too close to possible capture the longer we take to investigate.

We return to the forest and, wrapped in our blankets, lie down next to one another to keep warm. Henrik enfolds me in his arms and we listen to the quiet of the camp, unable to sleep.

We hear commands. It is early, the day not yet bright enough to start.

Henrik climbs a tree; the binoculars hang around his neck. He is nimble, climbing like a monkey, using his knees and the frail-looking branches as leverage.

“Be careful,” I whisper, though I am not afraid of him falling. I am scared that the guards in the towers will see the movement.

When he is high enough to see into the camp, he squints through the binoculars, focusing the lens. “I don’t see anything yet but it sounds like the prisoners are being counted.”

Several minutes pass before he sees anything happen.

“Some men have been led to the rear of the camp. They are standing in a line.”

Henrik mutters something to himself that I cannot understand.

“What else do you see?”

“They are wearing pajamas.”

“Pajamas?” I repeat with disbelief.

“Yes, or long shirts, I think. They do not look well. They look thin and scrawny . . . sort of starved . . .” He pauses in concentration.

“The guards are pulling some men out of the line and marching them. They are shoving them roughly in the back with their guns.”

“Do you see any children?”

“No. But there are some women, I think, on the other side of
the men. I can’t be sure. They are marching some men away now . . .
Wait . . . one has stopped. He is begging the officer . . .” There is a long pause. “Bastard!”

“What is it?”

“The guard has hit him on the head with the back of his gun. I can’t see where they are being taken.”

Henrik stays fixed in place. A few minutes later we hear a gunshot and faint wails for mercy. Then more shots. I feel coldness travel up my spine and realize suddenly that being here is madness. Henrik comes down. He doesn’t say it but we look at each other to confirm what might have happened.

“I do not know why they were chosen, but I believe it was for execution.”

“Why? What have they done?”

“For the same reason your parents died,” says Henrik angrily. “Nothing. But I thought I heard children’s voices.”

I haven’t heard any such sounds. I wonder if perhaps it is Henrik’s hope again.

It is day three. We have slept two nights and have seen much the same as the days before. I am chilled and wish to be back in Gottfried’s warm café, listening to the sounds in the kitchen and his low musical instructions.

“Is that a train?”

An engine purrs in the distance, growing gradually louder, before coming to the end of its tracks on the other side of the camp. There is more commotion this morning. The guards seem restless. There are more coming out to discuss things, their guns poised.

Many voices travel on the wind to make one large buzzing sound. When Henrik checks from the top of the tree, he says there are many people walking across the snow towards the camp. He does not know what nationality they are. Henrik reports that they are being marched through the center.

They arrive at the side of the buildings most visible to us. I am amazed by the number. There are hundreds. The group is split, and the men, some of the women, and older children are being sent back into the camp behind the buildings. It is mayhem as people struggle with their bags, passing loved ones their belongings. The ones who are not sent behind the camp walls are the elderly and women with small children, some of whom are shoved along so brutally that they drop their bags. They are not allowed to pick these up.

We watch all this without fear of being seen because the guards have turned their attention to the newcomers. Henrik is scanning the faces of the children, looking for the ones the same height as Greta. We are far away, but I know that Henrik would find her in this crowd if she were there.

I can hear the crying of the babies held by their mothers. The group is led to an area beside the white house, herded like animals, and made to stand while several guards circle them like wolves.

“What are they going to do?”

We wait while there are more commands issued in German.

“What are they saying?”

Henrik climbs down from his usual position and silently passes me the binoculars. He says he does not want to look anymore, that Greta is not there. I can see the prisoners’ faces. They talk amongst themselves with heavy frowns, beseech the guards for answers, and hold one another for comfort. The little ones clutch at their mamas’ coats and skirts, their faces stretched with shock and confusion and cold. Without their walking canes, the old men and women lean on women who are more able.

I feel a lump in my throat. I want so badly to run to the group, to tell them that it will be all right. That this is only a formality within this camp, that they will soon be led to the brick buildings where they will find warmth. Though I have no idea what the conditions are really like. I want to tell them that someone plays music in the camp, that they will get through this, even though my words would be the kind of false promises commonly made in desperate, unjust times such as these.

We can hear the sounds of machinery and rail trolleys and the digging of shovels from behind the buildings in the camp.

And then things are happening again. The officers are shouting. The people are herded into a barn. With angry, menacing growls, the dogs force the group to move quickly. One of the guards shoots into the air, also for this purpose.

When the prisoners come out several minutes later, most are not wearing clothes, and those still half-dressed are forced at gunpoint to remove everything else. Many of the women are crying; others wear only sad looks of resignation. I ask Henrik why they look this way. He says he can’t hear what they are saying because the crying and wailing is too loud.

Then the people are standing naked, all of them, waiting. I put the binoculars down. I cannot bear to see the indignity as they try to conceal their nakedness with their hands. Henrik and I both watch from a distance as they are then shepherded in groups into the white house.

“What the hell is going on?” says Henrik.

I think that this building might be the washrooms but I do not remember seeing any showers inside. From inside the building come their moans, then their whimpers, and then screams. Agony squeezes through the gaps in the building. They are in there for half an hour while the others stand outside freezing, clutching one another. And then the doors are opened and bodies spill out into a heap.

“They have killed them with poison,” says Henrik, and I hear a break in his voice. Several of the men in pajamas from the camp put the dead women and children and elderly in trolleys to wheel them away towards other buildings. The ones who are still alive are shrieking now, knowing what will befall them. I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming. I turn away. I cannot look upon this evil a second longer. I run deeper into the woods, not caring where I am heading as long as it is far away from here. Henrik runs after me to catch me and we fall in the snow and hold each other—for how long I don’t know, but until the sounds of people screaming and moaning and Germans shouting have finished. I am afraid to move, afraid that should I stand, the images will be clearer, that life will become real again.

That night we do not talk at first. Henrik is silent. He stares at his hands.

“Henrik,” I say. “I do not think your sister is here. I do not think she is part of this group. I did not see any who resembled your sister.”

“But she could be here,” he says. “She could be farther inside.”

I shake my head. I do not want to give him any more hope. I am tired of hope.

“Even if she is in there somewhere, you will never get past the guards. There are too many. We must go tomorrow to the checkpoint to meet Gottfried.”

“You can go,” he says. “I will not leave until I am sure.”

“She is not here, Henrik,” I say, impassioned. “And if she were, she is not here anymore.” It is perhaps hurtful what I say, but I cannot bear to think of losing Henrik.

“How can you say that?”

“Because this is not a camp, not like the one in Cracow. This one is different. This one is for the purpose of extermination; it is here to end the Jewish race.”

“Well, as I said, you go. I will stay.”

I am saddened. I shiver and he sees this, and I can see that he is torn and carries guilt for everyone—for Greta, for me. But I will not leave without him. I wonder if I might freeze to death tonight. Perhaps it would be better if I did.

I slip into sleep only to be shaken roughly awake. It is still night.

“Quickly,” he says. “We have to hide.” I do not look to see what has frightened him but follow, crawling insect-like along the ground. We stop when Henrik thinks we are far enough from whatever it is that he has seen.

“There are Germans out walking their dogs. Be silent now, be still.”

“They will smell us.”

The Germans are coming our way with heavy steps. The dogs are whining. I wonder if we were spotted while we slept.

“You will have to climb.”

“I can’t.”

“You have no choice.”

Henrik pushes me up the tree and tells me to press hard against the trunk with my knees and climb fast. He says that unless the Germans shine their flashlights upwards, they won’t see us. Henrik tells me to take my gloves off so that I can grip better. I put them in my mouth. I scale the branches gingerly, expecting them to snap. The bark scratches at my hands, and the effort of climbing requires muscles and skill that I have not used before. But fear can sometimes make you do things that you did not see as possible, and I am suddenly at the top.

When I look down, it is far to the ground and I can see lights through the trees. There are two Germans with dogs. The Germans bark their commands. The dogs are excited about something just a short distance away. They are whining, their tails up, their heads high and eager. I wonder if the guards have seen our footprints.

I do not know which tree Henrik has climbed. I am too afraid to turn my head in case the movement attracts the searchers’ attention. I know that he is somewhere behind me.

As they reach the base of my tree, one of the dogs sniffs the ground and barks wildly. I see that another soldier is coming with another dog. There is no escape now. The three men gather below me. I close my eyes.

Suddenly, there is a shout. I find the nerve to look down and learn that the shout was not directed upwards, towards me, but farther into the woods. They have seen something and run several yards in its direction. I am praying that it isn’t Henrik. Two other Germans have come in from the far side of the forest. I think how close we would have come to being caught if we hadn’t climbed.

The guards drag a man: a man in pajamas. They throw him on the ground and hold back the dogs, which wag their tails, their job done. They bark proudly. I can’t stand their noisy boasting.

The guards shout at the man and he is forced onto his knees. I can just see him below me. The flashlight shines into his face, blinding him. He puts the back of his hand against his eyes to shield them from the light. I can almost smell his fear, which matches my own, and my legs and arms tremble so badly I think I might accidentally release my hold.

The shot happens quickly, the snow sprayed with droplets of dark.

I stay fixed to my spot as they drag the man away by the legs, like hunters, towards the camp. The dogs have calmed and I am relieved that they are too fixated on the scent of the man to have picked up my smell. I climb down from the tree once their sounds have dissipated in the whipping wind. I see that Henrik stands only yards away. He rushes towards me and hugs me tightly.