Touching the Wire (5 page)

He rarely got to know their
names: shaven, hollow-cheeked, dressed in regulation infirmary shirts or naked
beneath a filthy blanket, they all looked much the same. Nurses carried out the
night’s dead and laid them with care on the ever-growing pile. Plump rats, as
bold in daylight as they were at night, scurried through the mud to feed on
still-warm flesh.

Outside, a file of naked
women shivered. He tore his mind from the quiet dead to the silent living. He
had a job to do. One by one his patients filed before him. Broken bones,
striped backs and bloodied heads, courtesy of the guards: lice, swollen feet,
abscessed wounds, gangrene, lice, scabies, dysentery, lice, typhus, scarlet
fever… lice… He apportioned tiny doses of medicine, eked out bandages, salves
and water. ‘Next.’

‘Miriam collapsed… please…
help her.’ The language was a mixture of Hungarian, Polish and German. Two
women supported a frail body. Miriam… the girl who’d knelt in the mud. She was
limp, her face vacant. He’d hoped to see her again, but not like this.

‘Miriam?’ She didn’t
respond. ‘When did she last eat?’

‘Two days ago, three…’

‘And drink?’

‘I don’t know. When the soup
bowl reached her it was empty… and someone stole her bread. I had none left to
give her.’ The woman’s voice broke. ‘I traded two days ration for a shoe.’

He touched Miriam’s cold
hand, felt for the vein across her bony wrist, and placed his palm against her
forehead. ‘Her pulse is weak but she has no fever.’ He searched the rows of
bunks, looking for one whose occupants definitely weren’t infectious, or fouled
with uncontrollable starvation diarrhoea, or whose minds hadn’t retreated to
the point of being a danger to themselves and others. He pointed to a bunk
occupied by a Frenchwoman with oedema of the feet and a Czech girl with broken
ribs. ‘There’s space for her there, on that bunk.’

‘She’s my daughter… she’s
all I have.’

He crossed himself mentally
for the grandmother, sister and children who’d been sent to the left. ‘Water,
food and rest is what she needs. I can’t offer much, but…’

‘Water, food and rest. God
is good. Thank you, doctor. Thank you.’

He half-filled a bowl with
water. ‘Vis… wody… Wasser… aqua…’ The clamour rose from hundreds of parched
throats. Thin arms reached into the alleyway. ‘Water…’

Miriam’s need was urgent. He
managed to rouse her enough to take a few swallows, but she was too exhausted
for more.

Throughout the rest of the
day his eyes were drawn to the still figure who slept the sleep of the dead.
Death surrounded her, so why was she different? Why did he want her to live so
much?

At last, two women carried
in the vat from the kitchens. He filled a bowl with watery soup, scooping small
pieces of potato and turnip from the bottom of the container. He’d counted the
dead as well as the living when it was ordered.

‘Miriam?’

The girl stirred.

‘Miriam, you must eat.’

The two other women in the
bunk reached tentatively for the bowl.

He shook his head. ‘Miriam
hasn’t eaten for three days.’ Had they understood? He supported her as she half
lay on the cramped bunk, and held the bowl to her lips.

She swallowed and soup
dribbled down her chin. She wiped her chin with a finger and sucked it clean.

‘More. Drink more.’

She drank greedily.

‘All of it.’

Tears streamed down her
cheeks. Her shoulders shuddered with sobs.

He put a hand on her back,
rubbing it gently. Her vertebrae were like knots in a rope beneath her thin
garment. ‘Come, drink. I’ve found potato and turnip for you, look.’

A ghost of a smile lit her
eyes.

The next day Miriam was
stronger. Again, he took her bowl of soup to her himself. She supported herself
on one elbow, not having space to sit upright, and took the bowl as if not
daring to ask.

‘It’s all for you. And look…’

Her eyes widened. ‘A spoon.
I haven’t seen a spoon… not since the ghetto…’

‘It’s yours until you leave
here, and the bowl.’

On the third day, though
still weak, she got out of bed without help to use the night-soil bucket, her
bowl and spoon tucked under one arm. She was ready to be discharged. He should
discharge her, the space on her bunk was needed urgently, but to what? He’d be
sending her to almost certain death.

‘Miriam, you said you were a
nurse.’

She nodded. ‘I’d like to
help, if I can, while I’m here.’

‘I need nurses. The typhus
took so many. I want you to work here.’

‘Mother’s in the Hungarian
women’s camp. I need to be with her.’

‘You can sleep there, for
now, if I can get you a pass to work here.’

Her eyes lit with hope. She
knew as well as he that being a nurse was a safer option than being
a nobody
, even with the risk of typhus and scarlet fever.
Members of infirmary staff weren’t subject to the selections; her number
wouldn’t be called.  ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Temperatures. Anyone who
may be infectious must be recorded and then removed to the isolation barrack.
We can’t risk another epidemic.’ He hated doing it. From there the usual route
was to the chimneys, unless a whim of high command decided they should be given
treatment.

‘Yes, doctor.’

‘Miriam?’

‘Yes, doctor?’

‘I’ve something to show you,
first. Come.’ He took her into the surgery and closed the door. From the bottom
of a box he took a small wallet. He opened it and brought out photographs.
‘These are your family?’

She took the images. ‘Where
did you get them? I thought they’d all been burnt.’

‘They fell from your
grandmother’s luggage.’

Her finger traced her
daughter’s face. ‘Mary… Mother and Father… Efah and her little ones… This one
is of Grandfather and Grandmother. And these were taken when we visited my aunt
and uncle in Trier.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And this is my Benedek…’

‘Your husband? Where is he?
Do you know?’

‘They came for us, to take
us to the ghetto. He stood in their way… they shot him in the neck.’

He shook his head. He’d
witnessed too much Nazi brutality. ‘I’m sorry, Miriam. These are terrible
times. I’m glad you lived.’

‘God protects me.’ She gave
the photographs back to him. ‘You’ll keep them safe?’

‘I will. I do what I can.
You do believe me?’

She looked up at him, her
dark eyes unreadable. ‘This too shall pass.’

He nodded, glad that she
still had her faith to uphold her: grateful that she believed him. Maybe there
was a god. Maybe this was part of some cosmic plan.

As the week progressed
Miriam grew stronger. She worked with a will, day and night. She was a joy to
be with.

She came to him in the early
hours of Sunday morning. ‘Doctor, Darja is in labour.’

‘Darja? The Belarusian? You
know what has to be done?’

‘I’ve never delivered a
baby.’

‘Bring her to the surgery.’

He washed his hands with
economic care, wrinkling his nose in revulsion at the scrap of grey pasty soap,
and prepared the table. Sure hands laid Darja upon it. He didn’t speak
Belarusian, and Darja was beyond trying to communicate. ‘How long?’

Miriam shrugged tiredly:
she’d been working since dawn the day before. ‘I don’t know. She kept her pain
to herself.’

‘She did well to hide her
pregnancy.’ It was only the distended bellies of the starving that had allowed
her to escape detection. Was she one of the women he’d managed to warn? He
examined her with gentle fingers. ‘Not long now.’

Miriam held the woman’s
hand, encouraging her with smiles and cheerful words. ‘A baby. A new life. Even
in this hell God blesses us.’

‘You must push, Darja.’ He
made gestures, hoping she understood.

‘
Ja nie mahu. Ja nie mahu.’

‘What
did she say?’

Miriam
shook her head. ‘You can do it, Darja. You can.’

The
girl strained but she was terribly weak. She sank back exhausted. ‘
Nincs
ereje
. Ja nie mahu.’

He
felt to make sure the cord wasn’t round the baby’s neck. He made the gestures
again, more urgently. ‘Push, yes?’

The
woman gathered herself for a huge effort. She gripped Miriam’s hands and
pushed, and a small body slithered onto the table.

Miriam’s
face shone. ‘A girl, Darja. God has given you a little girl.’

He
clipped the cord and cut it, then wrapped the baby in a clean rag. Gently, he
put his thumb and forefinger over the baby’s nose and his palm over its mouth.
Tiny fingers curled around his thumb.

‘What
are you doing?’ Miriam swept his hand aside. ‘What are you doing, you monster?’

The
woman levered herself up. ‘Moj dzicia ... Dzie moj dzicia?’

‘You
think I take pleasure in this?’ He glared at Miriam and replaced his thumb and
forefinger before the child could take its first breath. If it took a breath…
‘It must be done.’ Eventually, the grip of the tiny fingers loosened, the
little body went still and limp. He felt for a pulse: nothing. Gently he lifted
the child and gave her to her mother. ‘I’m sorry… stillborn.’

Darja’s
face shone, but gradually her eyes widened in understanding. ‘Nie, nie…’ She
rocked backwards and forwards holding her baby to her cheek.

‘She
must go back to her bunk. No-one must know of this.’ He gripped Miriam’s arm.
‘No-one. I’ll bury the child myself.’

Miriam
helped Darja back to her bunk. Both were sobbing. He carried the small bundle
outside. The rats would not have her. He fetched a shovel, left by workers
digging out the latrines, and laid the baby in a shallow grave against the back
wall of the infirmary. ‘I’m sorry, little one.’ He crossed himself. ‘Father,
forgive me.’

A
train whistle split the night. Blinding lights flashed on at the sidings. A
movement at his side startled him.

‘Why?’
Miriam’s voice was angry, uncompromising.

He
wiped away tears with a bloodied hand. ‘Do you know what would have happened if
I’d let the child live?’

Miriam
stared at the grave. ‘They’d have been sent to the family camp with the rest of
the mothers and children, and the old people. I could have sent a message with
Darja for my sister.’

He stared at her. ‘But you
must know…’

‘Someone
could have translated a message. I haven’t seen my baby since we arrived. I
want her to know I love her.’ She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes.
‘We are taught that all men are good at their core… I thought you were a good
man… but you’re evil.’

Was
she right? Was this really a lesser evil or had he become a monster after their
image? She had to be told: the truth must be reported by those who survived.
‘Miriam, mother and child would have been thrown alive into the ovens. This
way, Darja will live.’

She
stared at him, mouth open. ‘No-one would do such a thing.’

‘You
think not? Why do you think I told you to leave your baby? To say you were
well? Resisting in every little way I know is all that keeps me sane…
sometimes, all that keeps us alive. I need you to believe, to help me resist.’
He jabbed a finger at the drab group that had arrived on the late-night
transport. ‘Where do you think they are going?’

The
lights on the guard towers picked out pale faces making anxious procession
along the railway tracks, and along the road between the barbed-wire fences.
Old men, backs bowed, beards jutting forward: women of all
ages, heads covered against the wind, carried babies swaddled in blankets.
Children, who should have been asleep in their beds, trotted at their sides
carrying cherished toys, or chamber pots, or still smaller children. Behind
them the slow, the lame and the sick were helped by friends and family, and
behind them, driving them on with dogs, whips and curses, came the guards.

 She
looked from the grave, to the straggle of humanity and back to him. ‘To the
family camp. I could ask one of them to take a message…’

The
file of people reached the far junction and turned to the left. He put a hand
on her bony shoulder and caught at a breath. ‘Miriam, there is no-one to take a
message to.’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘There
is no family camp, or only for the Roma, and the Jews from the ghetto at
Theresienstadt. And I heard the order for the Jews was SB - six months.’