Papa's parents were among the first to board the trains to the east. Word reached us after we had moved out of the four-storey house and into the small apartment. I was ashamed, for my first thought was of my grandparents' house, and how nobody would want a place in which there was no running water, and where the toilets were outside and did not flush. I tried to imagine Papa's parents nervously packing their bags with essentials, and then I looked across at Papa. The news of his parents' departure to the east seemed to have struck him a physical blow. Despite the fact that his whole life appeared to have been lived with a furious desire to heal the wound of his 'low' upbringing I could see now that he clearly loved his parents. He knew only too well that his background would always be counted against him, especially by his wife. But now that a huge piece of it had fallen off and disappeared out of sight, Papa was lost and, for a moment, I feared he might cry. Mama was mixing flour and water, so that she might either boil it into a thin soup or fry it into pancakes. As yet, she had not decided which. Then she looked at her husband, and, realizing the full extent of his misery, she sat beside him at the tiny kitchen table and felt his brow with the back of her hand. Some years earlier, Mama's elderly parents had died in the comfort of their own beds, their world fortunately untouched by this present sorrow, convinced that their daughter had married in the manner that she had always lived her life: without patience. Their death had cast a temporary shadow across Mama's life, but it seemed that the news of his parents' deportation to the east had ushered Papa into a dark region from where it appeared unlikely that he would ever fully emerge. I stood up and left the table. Alone in my room, I hugged a childhood doll close to my chest, as though trying to smother the life out of her.
I lay on my cot, surrounded by sounds of moaning and sickness. Through the window I can see that the red flecks in the sky have disappeared, and the night is now black. It must be the middle of the month, for the slender moon is cut into an unimposing shape. It is our first evening of freedom, but we continue to die. We are too weak to digest tinned meat or chocolate. The food that I pushed into my mouth now punches my stomach. The woman who took Mama's place has long since died, and tonight the new woman will die. She is burning with fever. I recognize the smell of death. I recognize the look of helplessness that marks a person's face as they prepare to pass over to the other side. And now the food rushes down the back of my legs towards my ankles. I roll on to my side and steer my thoughts towards Margot. She is all I have left. If I can find Margot, then perhaps together we might rebuild a life.
Four months in this place. Before this place, I worked. I struggled to keep death at bay. There were small ways of trying to stay alive. Cunning was a skill worth acquiring. As was endurance. Community formed the basis of our lives, but then came the long march, and yet another train, and then this place, which offered no community, no planning, no hope for survival. No work. Merely death. And waiting. I have spent most of the past four months on my cot trying to sleep. No work. And here, without community, without routine, only the strongest can survive. Every day I have stared death in the face. To become weak is to disappear. And eventually I felt myself becoming indifferent. Nothing bothered me any more. Those of us who have lasted until the arrival of these Englishmen, we have forgotten how to think of tomorrow. On this first night, I try to channel a course in my mind which might lead to the future. But it is not easy. I simply cling to the image of my sister.
The sun rises, gloriously ignorant of the fact that a new day is not necessarily a good day. But perhaps today it will be warm. I now try to imagine ways in which I might prolong my life. In future, I must not gorge myself. I must drink only clean water. I must get in line to wash. I am acting as though I have already discovered a routine. As though I want to survive. I remind myself that this sunrise has already happened in some other place. And later, our sunset will be somebody else's sunrise. I look to the sky, where fully rigged clouds are already steering themselves towards some other destination.
He is approaching me from the side. I cannot see him, for I am sitting outside the hut and resting my back up against the wall. I can, however, hear him. My head is tilted slightly into the sun and my eyes are closed against the glare. I do not wish to see anything or anybody. I hear bulldozers. Too many bodies for bare hands. These Englishmen are learning to recognize the moment of death. When the lice crawl out of the hair and walk boldly about the forehead. That is death.
'Feeling any better today?'
I recognize the voice, but I do not open my eyes.
'Thank you,' I say.
There is a long silence, which I imagine will be resolved only if I turn to look at this man. But I decide to linger a while and choose not to turn. I do not hear him move off, so I assume that he is still here. And now, again, he speaks.
'More chocolate? I can get you some. Or something else?'
I open my eyes and turn to look at him. I cannot speak without exposing my ugly teeth.
'No chocolate.'
'Yes, I know,' he says. 'Some of the lads feel bad, but they gave it to you only because you asked. They didn't mean any harm.'
I wonder why he hasn't yet commented on my English. It's not too bad. Not everybody speaks English.
'Mind if I sit for a minute? I've got a break.'
He squats awkwardly next to me, then he lowers himself more purposefully to the earth.
'Where are you from?'
I lower my head, for now I'm anxious. I want this conversation to be over.
'Do you not want to talk? I can leave you by yourself, you know.'
'No,' I say. I have spoken too quickly, so I try to make up for my haste. 'My English is not very good.'
He laughs now.
'Your English is fine. I'm Gerry. From London.'
'Hello, Gerry.'
Already I have progressed too far.
'Hello,' he laughs. 'What's your name?'
This is enough. Gerry does not understand. I cannot possibly travel at the speed of this Gerry.
I stand under an open-air shower, naked in front of these men's eyes. But I do not feel like a woman, and I am sure that they do not regard me as one. The water is ice-cold, but no matter. It occurs to me that it will be years before I once more know what it means to feel clean. This first shower could last a week and still it would not suffice. I step clear of the water and a nurse empties powder all over my body. I am handed a fresh blanket which I drape around my shoulders. A doctor inspects my tufts of hair. A nurse cuts them off. Again, a factory line. Again, we are being processed. But this time for life. (Apparently, I weigh sixty pounds.) They give me women's clothing. I look around, but I cannot see Gerry. For some reason, I am sure that he can see me. I am sure that, somewhere in this vast camp, Gerry is looking on with thoughts circling in his mind. He should show himself. Surely, I am no more hideous to look at than any of the others.
If Mama had been a more patient woman, it is possible that we might have gone to America. She could have talked quietly to Papa, instead of forever raising her voice and driving Papa into himself. Papa was the brightest of her father's medical students and, upon his graduation, he became a junior partner in her father's practice. It was then that Papa noticed Mama, for Papa was a frequent guest at their dinner table, and her father clearly enjoyed the knowledge and wit of this young man. But having secretly wooed the daughter, Papa was informed that not only would there be stern opposition to a marriage, but his services as a junior partner were no longer required. Papa was devastated, but Mama stood by him and they were married in a quiet ceremony to which neither set of parents were invited. Shortly before Mama's parents died, Mama and Papa were able to move from the small house they were renting into their own four-storey house, with their two daughters and the few pieces of furniture they had managed to buy.