Touching the Wire (4 page)

He forced
himself upright, tiredness and despair dragging every limb; he understood too
well the desire to touch the wire, for it all to end, but he had no right when
these women fought to survive with every breath in their frail bodies.

Back in the
infirmary, diarrhoea was rife and the stench of excrement seeped from soiled
garments and bedding. Rain dripped through the holes in the roof and plinked
into bowls set to catch the precious drops. A young nurse used it to sluice
away blood, pus and fouling.

He
straightened a blanket, automatically counting as he went: no matter the state
of the patients, rules decreed the infirmary must be clean and tidy, the
numbers tally. The blanket’s rough weave was wet, and his touch dislodged a
shower of lice.

A girl
grasped his coat, her eyes wide. ‘Are we to die, today, doctor?’

He held her
thin hand. ‘Not if I can help it.’ He beckoned the nurse. ‘There’s going to be
a selection. We have until two o’clock. Fetch the records.’ The nurse returned
with the records. He took them, scratching his head absently. ‘These four have
been here three weeks. They’re still not fit to leave. Change their admission
dates. I’ll discharge any who can put one foot in front of another. See if you
can find a drier blanket.’

‘Vis…
Wasser…’ Weak pleas followed him. These faces and voices would haunt him to his
death.

‘There is no
clean water. I’m sorry.’

Already
women formed into weary rows outside the infirmary doors, shoes in hand, inured
to the humiliation of nakedness that showed protruding ribs and hip bones,
sores, raw feet and sagging, fleshless breasts: inured to endless waiting in
all weathers. They needed treatment, though what with… no bandages, ten aspirin
for more than a thousand patients… and today he couldn’t admit them: they were
safer in their barracks.

The
inspection began half an hour before midday.

The portable radio in Walt’s workshop played a
jaunty tune: fiddles set his feet tapping. He could almost see the colours,
whirling with the joy of life. Violins and accordions chased lilting melodies
through death-laden air. Tumblers bounded and leapt, women and men in bright
costumes danced with wild abandon, children laughed and shouted. 

The Roma and Sinti had begun
arriving in the early months of 1943 and many had perished from cold,
exhaustion and starvation before winter loosened its grip on the land. Now
another consignment had arrived, unaware of the fate of their predecessors. At
least this year they’d arrived in May.

The sight of children was
like sun at midwinter, and made his blood run as cold. Most children survived
only hours, but the Roma and Sinti, being gypsies rather than Jews, had a
family camp.

He addressed the guard at
the guard post. ‘Orders to inspect the Roma sick.’

The guard laughed. ‘To make
sure they’re well enough to go up the chimney?’

His heart fell. ‘They’re to
be gassed?’

‘So they say.’

‘When?

‘Don’t know. The fit are
being transported to Buchenwald and Ravensbrück, I heard. Hard labour.’

He shrugged as casually as
he could. ‘I have my orders. I work where I’m sent.’

The guard opened the gate,
escorted him inside and locked it behind them.

As if by telepathy, hands on
bowstrings stilled. The dancers stopped, and the pyramid of tumblers
disintegrated as its members somersaulted gracefully to the ground. Women in
bright rags that sported black triangles, brown faces wrinkled like store apples
kept too long, stared at him with suspicion. Men followed his progress with
defensive eyes. A small, pinched face peeped from behind a full skirt. His
mother pushed the child from view.

Ahead of him the sick stood
silent, waiting. The infirmary was like others in the camp, a low wooden
barrack crammed with bunks, three-high. Here, the low brick flue that ran the
length of the floor from the stove, acted as beds, seats, stage, treatment
table, food preparation area, office and general thoroughfare: a stepping stone
across the open sewer that was the floor. One prisoner-doctor, a Jewish woman
from Berlin, had contracted typhus here.

The morning’s sick presented
the usual array of problems: lice, sores, wounds, and the rare water-cancer,
the noma of the mouth, particular to this group of people. He treated them with
what he had. No fresh supplies had been sent. Could it be the guard was right?
He sighed beneath his breath. He couldn’t save these people.

Next he visited the
children’s block, closing his ears to the sounds from Block 32, opposite. A
woman pushed forward a child of about five years from behind her skirt.
‘Diarrhoea, doctor.’

The thin but defiant face
looked up at him: the child’s eyes were different colours.

He smiled. ‘Do you have a
name?’

The boy shook his head and
held out a tattooed forearm.

‘Has he been drinking
contaminated water?’

‘He’s always thirsty… ’

‘He must only drink the tea
or coffee.’

‘There is never enough.’
Another child, the image of the first, was thrust forward.  ‘Arturas has
diarrhoea, too.’

His pulse quickened:
zwillinge
.
‘They’re twins?’ Had they been missed at selection? They were mere yards from
the man who would take them apart, piece by piece. He pointed towards Block 32.
‘Does the doctor know you have twins?’

‘No… I don’t think so.’

‘Keep them hidden. Keep them
apart.’ They were safer here for now, drinking filthy water from the wash
bucket, even with gassing rumoured, than sent to live with the other twins. He
dispensed a little kaolin and patted Arturas on his shaved head.

‘Doctor?’ The mother’s voice
shook, barely a whisper. ‘Is it true we’re to be gassed?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘My children… I’ve heard
twins…’

He leaned closer, checking
the other twin’s temperature and throat. ‘It would be better they go to the gas
with you.’

‘How can you say that?
Please
,
I’ve heard…’

‘You heard wrong.’

‘Forgive me, doctor.’ The
woman turned away, ushering her sons before her.

The one with no name turned
back and smiled a gappy smile. ‘I’m Peti.’

Next morning, he was at the
Gypsy camp with no time to spare. The younger men hadn’t been sent out to work
and there was an air of expectancy in the compound. He sought out the woman
with the twins. ‘The rumours were right. The SS will be here any moment. If
they order block-confinement… I can’t promise to keep your sons safe but, if I
can get them out of the compound, I can at least give them a chance.’

‘Take them.’ She hugged her
boys close and kissed each of them. ‘Arturas, Peti, you must go with the
doctor. Do as he tells you. Trust him.’

‘Mama…’

‘Go. Do as I say.’

He took hold of the
children’s hands and glanced behind him. Their mother’s lips moved in silent
prayer: tears streamed from her eyes. Around him, a murmur rose as the men of
the camp mustered. One held a length of iron pipe, another a shovel, a third a
club of wood and a crudely-fashioned knife. Children filled their hands with
stones. Outside the wire, SS guards with machine guns took position. The gates
were flung open and Nazi guards flooded into the compound.

He tightened his grip on the
children. A man on his left hurled a rock with unnerving accuracy, hitting a
guard on the temple. The one on his right brandished his iron pipe and yelled
obscenities. Shouted orders were drowned by machine-gun fire strafing the
compound: men, women and children scythed like wheat.

A rush of gypsies hurled
forward over the bodies, driving back the armed guards, who struggled to use
their weapons at close quarters. Guards fell and were trampled beneath shoes and
clogs, hacked with knives, beaten with shovels, and kicked and scratched by
women and children. They were backed towards the gates by the press of bodies,
clubbing women and children with the butts of their rifles, firing into the air
and dragging their injured comrades to safety. The gates clanged shut behind
the last one and the gypsies hurled stones and rocks at the retreating men.

He returned the children to
their mother. ‘This won’t end here.’

‘They’ll kill us all. You
must take the boys.’

‘If you can keep them
hidden, they have more chance with you for now. I’ll do my best for them, I
promise, when it’s time.’

He treated the injured and
listed the tattooed numbers of the dead. The count tallied: always the count
must tally. Enemies of the Reich? Hitler wouldn’t be satisfied until every
non-Arian race in Europe was extinct. There was little more he could hope to
do, as he could hope to do little for Miriam, the Jewish girl whose kneeling
image haunted his dreams and his waking hours.

***

‘I itch, Grandpa.’ Charlotte raised her pyjama
top to show a speckle of spots.

Walt examined them
carefully. ‘Looks like chickenpox, Jennie.’

‘That’s what Mum thinks,
too.’ Jennie sighed. ‘I’ll call the doctor. I’ll have to take time off work.’

‘Your mum and I can look
after her. Is Lucy complaining of itching?’

‘She says she feels poorly.’

‘Let’s have a look. Mmmm.
Think those might be spots. I think the doctor will say quarantine for you
two.’

‘Back into bed, girls. And
be good for Granny and Grandpa.’

‘They’ll be right as rain.
Speak to the doctor and then get off to work.’

Charlotte and Lucy snuggled
down in bed. They must be feeling poorly. He left them to it. He’d read them a
story later.

Quarantine: the word had a
different meaning for him. The quarantine camp hadn’t been much better than the
rest of the camp, but in May 1944 part of it had been cleared, sanitised, ready
for a visit from the International Red Cross…

The shrill whistle of a
train announced the arrival of another transport. He was on his way from the
quarantine camp now, hoping to visit the Roma infirmary and see how Peti and
Arturas were, if the guard was allowed to admit him. The planned massacre of
the Roma and Sinti hadn’t gone the way the SS expected and no-one seemed to
know what would happen to them, or when.

He hoped to catch a glimpse
of Miriam, though which of the compounds she was in, if she was still alive, he
didn’t know. People were constantly moved from place to place, keeping the camp
in a state of flux. Along the road from the railway tracks, guards drove tired
men, women and children: a new transport of Jews. Along the wire, women
gathered, shouting in Hungarian to the new arrivals, hoping for news of family.
He searched their faces, but couldn’t see Miriam.

He waited, ever eager for
tidings from outside. ‘Where are you from?’

An old man paused and stared
at him blankly. He tried other languages.

The man nodded in
understanding. ‘The ghetto at Theresienstadt. Others came here from there.
Family…’

A guard kicked the man in
the kidneys making him stagger forward. They were Czech Jews. He shook his
head. The survivors of the last two transports from Theresienstadt had gone to
the gas in March. The guards at the junction waved the straggle of people to
the right. No selection? The gates to the freshly-sanitised compound were flung
open and the flock of humanity herded inside like sheep. A truck stopped behind
them and guards distributed Red Cross parcels. A woman took one and hugged it
close.

He tried to prise hope from
the lack of a selection, the cleaned compound and the Red Cross parcels. Had
news of conditions in the camp leaked out? Was something finally being done? He
hurried towards the Roma camp: this probably wouldn’t be the only transport
from Theresienstadt, and the half-built barracks in Mexico camp were already
full.

The Roma and Sinti stood in
watchful groups behind the wire. Arturas clung to his mother. He gestured to
them. ‘Not too close. Don’t touch the wire. Where’s Peti?’

‘He’s with my sister. I’m
keeping them apart, as you said.’ She gripped her son’s hand. ‘Is it today?
Have you come for them?’

‘If I hear anything… tell
your men-folk to stay alert.’ He pushed half a loaf of grey bread between the electrified
barbed strands. The Roma hadn’t been punished. Dare he hope things were
improving and that maybe, just maybe, some of them would survive this place?

***

Walt stood at Charlotte and Lucy’s open bedroom
door. Jennie had come home from work early.

‘They’ve been as good as
gold. A bit quiet, but I think they’re feeling better, and the calamine is
easing the itching.’

She squeezed between the
beds to put feel their foreheads. ‘Not so clammy as they were earlier.’ She reversed
out. ‘What this room needs is bunk beds.’

‘I hate bunk beds. They have
perfectly good single beds and they’d only argue over who has the top one.’

‘I don’t know what you’ve
got against them, Dad. Bunk beds would take up far less space and if I buy them
now the room will be sorted for Christmas.’

‘Suppose one of them falls
out and hurts themselves?’

‘They have rails. They need
room to play. Dobbin isn’t small and if you’re going to make those dolls’
houses you were talking about for their next birthday…’

He rubbed his chin. There
was no persuading Jennie when she knew she was right. ‘They won’t be cheap.’

‘Second-hand won’t cost a
lot. We’ll get our money back when they outgrow them.’

‘I give in. It makes sense.’

She gave him a hug. Happy
she’d won her argument, Jennie thumped down the stairs and out of the front
door.

He tried to imagine bunk
beds with comfortable mattresses and pretty bedding. He picked up a teddy bear
from the floor and sat on the edge of Charlotte’s bed seeing only row after row
of hard wooden bunks, three tiers high, stretching into darkness along the
length of the infirmary building. The cries and the stench wound around him and
engulfed him.

Eyes, large in emaciated
faces, followed his every move, pleading with him. Hands brushed his as he
walked past: some burned with fever, others were cold as death.

It was raining again. For
two weeks he’d waited for the punishment that would surely be visited upon the
Roma and Sinti in the gypsy camp: each day the tension grew. He hadn’t been
ordered back there and, though he’d occasionally had the opportunity to throw a
crust of bread over the wire to waiting hands, he didn’t know if the young
twins had succumbed to typhus.

Water dripped from the
ceiling, soaking the women on the top bunks, and falling with a steady plink
into a handful of metal bowls, their holes stopped with hard-packed bread.
Tongues moistened cracked lips, waiting for precious drops to collect. There
was never enough.
Water
… The cry was on every lip.