Entry VIII – February 25th 1949
It was later that morning when thoughts of conspiracy first designed themselves in my brain. Despite being mentally and physically exhausted, I was unable to sleep. My encounter with the boy replayed constantly in my mind. Questions fluttered uncontrollably around my brain. My stomach was rife with anxiety, twisting and writhing as I lay, staring up at the ceiling. A mixture of emotions churned through my veins. On the one hand, I felt positively sick with dread. On the other, my heart had surged high with relief; gratitude.
Those few minutes in the presence of the young man had proved a critical turning-point. Seeing him – so disgustingly thin and frail and weak – had pained me into a sudden realisation. It was one of those moments when your stomach dives, plummets for what seems like an eternity.
During my years of service to my country, I witnessed the atrocities that went on Hitler’s Camps. I knew the difference between dire malnutrition and sheer starvation. I am not at all proud of those years spent loyal to the Führer and his regimes. In fact, I am deeply ashamed. But I was naive. I did not know any other way of life than submission.
Now, I know. I possess my own mind; common sense. I perceived from that very day onward the real purpose of the Camp. We were not sentenced to twenty-five years imprisonment; nor were we brought here solely to labour.
We were to slave until we starved.
My suspicions were only confirmed the next day. I had risen early in the morning; padded down to the NKVD’s barracks to collect what I had been promised: a small loaf to share between the four of us, an egg and four potatoes.
I cautiously approached a solid, brick building from where thick, slurred Russian voices were drifting. Although I was unable to understand their conversation, it seemed light and humorous, and so I hoped that they would be in good moods; ideally still hung-over from the night before.
I could smell their food. Oh my! The incredible aroma nearly made me swoon. The tantalising scent of freshly baked bread tingled at my taste-buds. Saliva escaped my mouth, trickling blissfully – desperately - down my chin. I licked my lips and composed myself.
Taking a breath and mustering up confidence, I knocked softly on the door, which was slightly ajar. Thick, clanging footsteps throbbed through the floor, sent echoes ricocheting off the walls.
The door was flung open to its full width. My stomach lurched as a butch officer loomed dauntingly in the doorway. I didn’t recognise him, which was somehow a relief.
I inhaled deeply, unwilling to let any sort of fear show in my eyes. I would not prove myself vulnerable. I decided to speak in German, if perhaps to intimidate him a little.
‘I’m here to collect our food. We’re in the second shack going down on the left. Nikola, Hannah, myself – Gretal, and Michaela. Have I come to the right place?’
His face taut and with eyes as cold as stone, he replied slovenly, and, to my disappointment, in perfect German: ‘if you don’t work, you don’t get food. Simple.’
Rage stirred within my blood, and indignation fired my tongue. ‘What are you talking about? We did work! We slaved for a full eleven hours yesterday and haven’t eaten a thing since we arrived! I demand food!’
The burly guard regarded me for just a split second. Then, in the blink of an eye, his hand had met my cheek with a brutal blow. Immediately, hotness engulfed the skin of my face. Oh – the pain! My icy fingers sprung to the patch of flesh which had already begun to swell.
My gums throbbed and I could taste fresh, tangy blood. Wincing with agony, I staggered backwards, still acutely aware of the Soviet guard, a scornful smirk twitching at his lips.
Just to add insult to injury, he spat at me and cursed in Russian. He slammed the door. Slowly, I backed away, my limbs shaking uncontrollably. I felt so low; so humiliated. Although somewhat humbled, the fury, the desperation clinging to my bones would not be thwarted. In fact, the experience had only spurred me on; gave me incentive to scheme and conspire and escape before we were dead in our own pits.
I found an inner balance, and began to run, the seriousness of the situation forcing me on. A fine, misty rain had been floating down from the skies through the night, and was yet to clear. By this point, my hair was damp and stuck to my neck in damp tendrils. I glanced down as I sprinted, noticed ashamedly that my sodden jumper was clinging to my breasts. I grabbed it and pulled it off my chest. The clothes chilled though my skin, freezing even to the core of my bones.
I burst in through our front door, hiding the imprint upon my cheek behind my dewy hair. Michaela was sat on her mattress, cleaning dirt from her nails. Hannah and Nikola were chatting in low tones over the stove boiling rain-water. The warmth of the steam hit me, and I shivered with pleasure. Stripping off my outer layers of clothing, I kneeled beside the girls, and began massaging my toes, trying to boost circulation. It was only when Hannah clutched at my wrist when I realised how violently I had been kneading my skin, taking my frustrations out on my poor feet.
‘Gretal,’ said Nikola, her voice stern, as though I was a dog and she was my master. ‘Calm down.’
I scowled at her.
Hannah moved closer. ‘What’s wrong, Sweet? Where’s our food?’
My voice heavy with sarcasm, I retorted: ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong: I was told that apparently, because we didn’t work, we don’t get any food.’
Hannah and Nikola’s faces were plastered with disbelief. Even Michaela, who never usually make an effort to get involved in conversation, rose from her spot, and marched over.
‘What are you talking about?’ She demanded coarsely.
Panic raged in my eyes, and I shrugged limply.
‘That’s disgusting!’ cried Nikola.
‘So when do we get our food?’ urged my sister, a note of desperation in her voice.
‘I don’t think we ever will,’ I said emptily.
Hannah stifled a gasp. ‘What are you talking about?’
Nikola began to wail, and Michaela cursed.
Something inside of me snapped. Those who knew me were aware of how impetuous and short-fused I could be. On that day, my temper exploded like a flame on gasoline.
I scrambled to my feet, and thrashed at the little wooden table, kicking the rotten wood into shards. ‘They’re selfish, degraded, revolting clumps of manure!’ I screamed. I felt as though my throat had been scrubbed once-over with sandpaper. ‘Repulsive, perverted little men!’
‘GRETAL!’ Hannah shrieked, rushing to my side, dodging my flailing limbs. She grabbed me by the shoulders, and cupped a hand over my mouth.
I cried out with pain, continuing to thrash about.
‘STOP IT!’ Michaela screeched at the top of her lungs. ‘You’ll get us shot, you bloody fool!’
Suddenly, I plummeted back down to reality. My wails subsided into sobs, and I fell, limp and exhausted, into my sisters’ arms, my fists feebly pummelling the air. I sank into her warm, motherly breasts, hushed tears flooding down my face.
Hannah pulled my close. ‘Shush, now.’ She patted my back, rocked me like a child. ‘Now, hold still.’
Hannah pushed my away, and gently rotated my chin, sweeping my hair away. My cheek was pulsating, and I could only imagine just how disgusting it looked.
I heard Nikola gasp.
‘Oh, Gretal!’
A long, solemn pause followed.
Hannah’s voice was tentative. ‘Did...Did he...?’ She trailed off.
‘No!’ I shuddered.
Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. She began twirling a strand of my hair. I pulled away, annoyed at the expression of calm - of serenity - upon my siblings’ face.
‘We’re here to die, Hannah,’ I snapped, the words sounding harsher than they had in my head.
Hannah snatched back her hands, seemingly mulling over my words. ‘Go on, Gretal: tell us.’ Her voice possessed an air of impatience.
My mind immediately flashed-backed; I was once again staring into the eyes of the boy. I clenched my lids shut, shaking the images from my head.
‘I can just see him, so young and vulnerable.’ The words rolled off my tongue in whispers, melting into the air. I found myself wondering into an anecdote.
‘I’d always said that I’m not afraid of dying. I don’t know why, it’d just never frightened me. Of course, I would fight to live, but the prospect of death wasn’t intimidating.
‘Then I looked into his eyes and, oh! I felt something inside of me shatter. A veil had been whipped off my eyes. Suddenly I realised...everything. I didn’t want to die. I was scared to end up like him; on the brink of death. I-’
‘She’s gone mad!’
Michaela’s words grated at my bones. She stomped back to her mattress, at once resuming her finger-nail picking.
A silence slumped onto our shoulders.
I heard a sharp intake of breath from Nikola, as if she were about to say something but then had stopped herself. My heart sank with indignation: was nobody going to stand up for me? I stared from my sister to Nikola, peering exasperatedly at their faces for any hint something that would betray what they were both clearly thinking.
I swallowed hard. ‘Look,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘Just forget it.’
In reality I wanted to anything but.
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