Entry II – February 18th 1949: -
The last twenty-four hours have been exhausting.
The sun, in all its radiance, began casting its rays at five o’ clock yesterday morning. Eagar to take advantage of another bright, pleasant day, we readily began packing up the tent and all our supplies. We trekked until noon, stopped for a boiled potato shared between the five of us, and continued walking until dusk.
I’m penning today’s entry this morning from a cellar belonging to a kind farmer and his wife, who graciously fed us and allowed us to stay last night. They’re a lovely couple: Ginelle and Marcus Biel. They deserve their names recorded in this chronicle.
Let me continue where I left of the night before last. I believe I was about to tell you the story of our arrival at the camp.
We were clustered together for warmth in the rear of the truck, our teeth chattering and our bones aching with cold. The prison-vehicle lurched to a shuddering halt. The moments that followed were harrowing. Our bodies pounded with silent fear: fear of the unknown. Were there more prisoners to come? Had we reached our destination? Was this to be the site of our execution?
Our petrified hearts were in our mouths. The truck groaned. Doors slammed. A violent screech. Light.
The rapid rush of fresh, clean air filling our lungs and slapping our faces was the most incredible sensation.
Dozens of guards swarmed the wide opening, snickering, pointing; speaking fluidly, mockingly, in their foreign tongue. Their eyes burned over our skinny bodies.
All as one, we shrank back into the depths of the truck - a pointless, cowardly action. A few of the guards at the front began laughing. It spread. Soon, a cruel, hearty laughter rippled through the rows of NKVD soldiers. In throngs they jumped up into the rear.
Only a few hours prior, we were desperate to get out of that hell-hole truck. Now, we were whimpering to stay, pleading through our pained, wet eyes.
They marched us out. Some howled as they went, were dragged out on their bloody knees. Others held their heads high, attempted to face their fate with dignity. Hannah, Nikola and I fell into the latter category.
A guard with an ugly scowl and black teeth wrenched my hands behind my back. He thrust his hand down my top and fondled my breast. His fellows cheered as he shoved me forward. I thought I would never again feel so humiliated. What a false assumption! My breast throbbed and bruised a dark blue. From that point on, if a guard so dared lay a finger on me, I would shrink back and clench my eyes shut. It seemed to me that if scrunched my lids and fronted vulnerability, I could just make it all go away. With hindsight, I laugh bitterly at my childishness.
We were eventually led into a wide clearing, a few miniscule shacks dotted here and there across the wasting plain. It was close to midnight. The guards fired out rules and commands in rapid Russian. They knew none of us understood their language fluently; were mocking our intelligence. I caught the words: ‘bathe’, ‘morning’, ‘five’ and ‘wood’, and attempted to put them together coherently. We were split into twenty groups of three, each group lead to their own, individual shacks. The door was slammed behind us.
Hannah, Nikola and I stared around us, trying to take it all in. Three damp mattresses, a table, a single hob and pan, and a chipped mug were the made up the single, musty room. All three of us collapsed in a heap and cried.
We wept for hours, silently acknowledging that, sometimes, one has to cry. When our sobs had subsided and eyes were dried, we made a strict pact. We promised each-other that from then on we’d be strong; never would we show ourselves weak or pathetic before the NKVD.
We managed a few hours of sleep, woke at four o’clock in the morning. We’d all assumed that we were expected to begin work an hour later, and so agreed it was wise to show ourselves astute, willing, and hard-working.
I pulled a filthy, cob-webbed streaked curtain aside to peer out of the window. Eerie nothingness greeted me. I needed fresh air. Wondering over to the weak plinth door, my step tingled with hesitancy. Pulling at the latch-handle and grimacing as the hinges squeaked, I stepped out into the crisp sting of morning. It was still dark, though one could tell that dawn was fast approaching. I inhaled deeply. Oh, how good fresh, clean air felt as it infiltrated my black lungs. Squatting, I scanned the plain, and then looked down below, examined my scuffed leather boots. I stared past them, my gaze falling to the dirt, meditating emptiness.
‘Cigarette?’
My blood ran cold. I snapped my head up. A young man stood before me. My heartbeat slowed. He was tall, unnaturally thin for a male. His appearance, though, was not at all unpleasant. His pretty face wore a rather humorous smirk. He extended a file a tobacco and a dirty lighter. I stared at him, took the precious cigarette from his grubby fingers, lit it, and held it to my lips. He sat down beside me, kicked at the dirt with his shoe.
‘I’m Petrus.’
I smiled, said by way of introduction: ‘Gretal; Gretal Schroder.’
Suddenly, as if acting upon a passion-fuelled inclination, he began fondling my lice-ridden waves. His fingers weaved lustfully. I understood why he possessed such impulse; he had probably not experienced sexual intimacy with a woman for several years. However, I would not succumb to his touch, no matter how my heart urged me embrace it. My breast throbbed as a sudden reminder, and I recoiled. He immediately stole his hands to his lap.
Silence came, settled. A few moments later, he muttered a solemn apology. He was ashamed.
I nodded sympathetically toward him, a wispy curl of smoke escaping from my lips.
‘How long have you been here?’ I asked, breaking the sombre atmosphere.
He chuckled bitterly. ‘Five years. Welcome to Hell on earth, Gretal Schroder.’
‘Thanks,’ I replied sarcastically. I threw my shrivelled cigar to the dirt and grinded it in with my heel, adding tentatively: ‘What’ll happen to us now?’
Petrus replied in a curt, matter-of-fact voice, said: ‘You’ll all be bleached clean and then set to work.’
He groaned as he stood, his joints clearly aching. I stared up at him.
‘But what ‘work’ will we do?’
‘In about half an hour, all will be revealed.’
Frustration rose inside of me. ‘But how are we to understand any instructions? None of us speak Russian!’
Petrus began to walk away. He had regained the chilled, nonchalant attitude he possessed when we first met. I tried to stop myself smiling, but couldn’t.
He turned his head, shouted out a word I didn’t recognise, and dimpled cheekily.
‘Wait! What does that mean?’
He put his fingers to his lips, repeated it in a hushed voice, and smirked. His was the kind of leer which boasted arrogantly: ‘I know something you don’t!’
To this day I have no idea what that word means.
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