Rena's Promise (16 page)

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Authors: Rena Kornreich Gelissen,Heather Dune Macadam

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Historical, #test

BOOK: Rena's Promise
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at the bunk above me for a few minutes, wondering what I have sensed about myself; then it comes. The slow moistness on the wool against my legs. The cramp in my stomach. I sit up with a start and pull down my trousers to check. The stains on my thigh are unmistakable. I have my period.
Slipping downstairs to the toilet, I look for something to use, but there are no rags or sanitary napkins, only small squares of newspaper. The flow has increased since I stood up. As I check the searchlights before stepping outside, blood trickles down my leg. I remember
Mama handing me a soft piece of cloth and saying, "Go put this on and bring me the other one. Don't look at it!" "Yes, Mama." I obeyed her words. She didn't want me to be frightened by my own blood
.
I scour the ground looking for anything that might help me hinder the flow. There is nothing. The kettles are being brought to our door; I know Danka is up by now, wondering where I am.
I return to the block toilet and take a few squares of newsprint. Wiping them against my trousers to make sure they're clean, I shudder. Then, without thinking any further about it, I crumble them up and place the newspaper between my legs. I spend the day completely self-conscious, afraid of what getting my period means in this place. I cannot speak to Danka about it. Dealing with this curse means praying that it will go away quickly and never return.
There are more girls in our ranks today; a transport must have come in. Emma collects us for work and we march out to a large, open field. I am grateful that there are no lorries and sand for us to cart today. My back is still sore though the bruises on my leg are almost gone.
There is a large pile of bricks. "You will carry these to the other side of the field. You must carry ten bricks apiece!" Emma tells us. We pick them up one by one, balancing them in our arms until we have a full load.
Arms throbbing, pulled almost out of their sockets by the

 

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weight, we walk carefully so as not to trip. The shoes impede us, slipping side-to-side underneath our feet. It's hard enough to keep the shoes on in the mud, now we cannot even see where we are going with so many bricks in our arms. The rocks and brambles grab at our feet as if we are making our way through a maze. We cannot drop one brick and pick it up without losing the whole load. Emma follows behind us, whipping us to work harder.
"Halt!" Emma stands by the kettle serving our noontime snack. We sip the broth hungrily. It is hard to slow the gulping tendency because the stomach craves more. We march back to the field, carrying bricks the rest of the day until we hear "Halt!"
We take our bread at the door. Am I imagining it or have the portions gotten smaller for Danka and me? The block elder's sister has arrived in camp and Elza has seen to it that she is in our block. I believe she's eating our bread.
"I'm going to go to the window to see what I can organize," I tell Danka, walking to the front of the block. It is a newly born bartering system, and what I trade with the men on the other side of the fence is simply being Polish. They long to speak with their countrywomen and Danka and I are two of just a few Poles in the women's camp; we have this one advantage over the Slovakian girls, who do not speak Polish.
"What's your name?" I hear a man's voice from the other window. He sounds sympathetic.
"Rena. My sister and I are here and we are both very hungry."
"Go downstairs. I'll throw you something."
I wait and wait by the door; nothing falls by the steps, though. Elza's door is a crack open. I worry that she will punish me for being downstairs after yelling at her the other morning. Something falls in the dirt. I check the guard tower. He is looking the other way. I dash out the door, grabbing my parcel. Inside I lean against the wall, breathless. It is hard to comprehend that such a mundane task means risking my lifeI could die for something as insignificant as a piece of bread the size of my hand.

 

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Four
A.M
.
"
Raus! Raus!
"
We roll off our bunk, slipping the sandals onto our feet. We divide the extra portion of bread and quickly eat.
"March!" Even though we are tired we try to march proudly, just as we are instructed to. "March!" Heads forward, we step in unison, playing the part of dutiful servants to the Third Reich, but there is nothing to be proud of. We organized an extra piece of bread; it means a lot to us, it is nothing to them.
"Line up across the field!" The pile of bricks has not gotten any smaller overnight. We line up wondering what this chore will mean.
"You go on the right side of me," I tell Danka.
"Face me!" We shuffle into position. We stand about ten feet apart and wait. Orders are barked in German. The girl in front of the line picks up a brick and throws it to the girl next to her, who throws it to the next girl. The whip cracks as the girl in the front shakes the cobwebs from her brain and grabs another brick. The girl to the left of me tosses the first brick into my hands. I toss it easily to Danka, turning back just in time to receive the next brick. At the front of the line we can hear the SS yelling, "
Schnell! Schnell!
" The tempo increases so that there is barely a moment between tossing the brick to our neighbor and receiving the next brick. Within twenty passes, blood begins to ooze from cuts on my hands. The rough edges of the baked clay slice into our palms, repeating the injuries over and over. Danka is slow at this chore and doesn't always turn in time for me to throw my bricks, but the girl by my side is not waiting for anything. She throws them anyway.
I want to scream at the pain in my foot when the bricks land on my arches or toes, but I do not. I do not do anything to call attention to myself. I throw the bricks as I have been instructed, but I do not throw them at my sister's feet, I do not inflict the torture on her that is being inflicted on me. I grab these bricks quickly from

 

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my feet and hold them until Danka can catch up; sometimes I am holding two or three bricks at once, sometimes I have four. Danka sees that I am in trouble and speeds up, but she is like me, unwilling to throw bricks at her neighbor's feet. We are lucky in one thing only, the SS do not see the bricks falling on our feet; others are beaten for the same offense. Last week our backs hurt from the strain of pushing and shoveling; today our sides hurt as we twist and sway with the weight of the bricks. Every muscle throbs.
Lunch comes hours after the sun has risen, hours after the first welt raised its angry head on our hands. Each a mass of rough cuts and torn skin, our hands hurt just carrying our red bowls full of gray-white soup. We sit for about twenty minutes before marching back to the line, to the bricks. Our stomachs and the pain in our hands gnaw like persistent rats at the last vestige of our humanity.
The afternoon drags on.
At sundown we march back to camp. We stand at roll call. We are counted. There are several bodies piled next to us. They look so alive, as if you could reach out and wake them. If they don't look dead, I speculate, could we all be dead? Maybe this is all there is, maybe there is no world beyond us. One can't think like this without going insane. I stop pondering any thoughts which might lead to insanity. I focus again on the present. The girl-women who carry bodies into camp at the end of the day are in work details under the kapos with the green triangles that signify they are convicted murderers. At least our kapo is not one of those.
Four
A.M
.
"
Raus! Raus!
"
We stand for inspection. We can barely keep our eyelids open except for the crisp German orders cracking around us in the night that is really morning. We line up behind Emma. There are a few missing and a few added to our kommando.
My heart sinks as we near the field where we worked the day be-

 

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fore. The SS orders are derisive; if they could laugh at us they would. ''Move this pile of bricks back to the other side of the field." We stand unable to move, unable to comprehend these orders. "
Schnell!
" The whip snaps, their slaves scatter.
Danka stands next to me, away from the pile we must move. I pray that the girl next to me doesn't throw bricks on my feet. The first brick slices into my hand as the sun breaks through the clouds. Pain and light. I toss it to Danka, willing it to land gently in her hand, pleading with the brick not to hurt my sister. This is useless! It hurts a lot more knowing that this work is futile, knowing that they see our labor as worthless. How long will this go on? Our hands will be stumps if it continues. This is not work. It is meant to destroy us. Like a thunderhead obscuring the sun, I blot out this thought.
After evening roll call, for some reason I linger outside, unwilling to run into the block for the night. Maybe it is the faint smell of spring in the air, maybe I am too tired to run behind the others and wait in line. Danka has gone ahead.
"Rena? Rena!" I look through the wire of the men's camp at a skeleton who seems to know who I am. I cannot move. Squinting my eyes, I stare and stare.
"It's me. Tolek." The bones of his skull seem to stand up out of his skin. His eyes bug out above his cheekbones. He checks the guard tower to make sure no one sees him.
"Tolek! What are you doing here? How long have you been here?"
"I was arrested a few days ago for smuggling people across the border."
"Did they hurt you?" His mouth does not speak but his eyes answer my question. "You look hungry," I say. "Wait here. I'll get you my bread. Lucky for you I haven't eaten yet!"
"I can't eat your bread, Rena!" He turns slightly so no one can tell we are having a conversation.

 

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I turn away from him. "You and Andrzej saved our lives, Tolek. Danka and I would be dead or worse if you hadn't taken us to Slovakia. You have been arrested for saving people like us!"
"And look where it got you."
"We are alive and that is enough. You never took money for that trip, now you must at least accept my miserable bread." I start to walk away against his protests. "I won't take no."
My feet have hope in them again as I run to find Danka. I have seen someone from our past; we are not dead. I can help someone. I no longer feel helpless or at the whim of a fate governed by German SS. I run breathless and tired up the stairs to the bunk Danka and I share. "Danka! Tolek is in the men's camp!"
"Tolek?" Life flickers in her eyes. "Where?"
"Outside. Come on. He's very hungry. We will have to share your bread tonight." I stop, looking directly into her eyes. "He looks terrible, like he might drop of starvation. We must help him."
"Yes, of course." Her eyes are full of tears. We run downstairs and out to the camp road, throwing our meager meal high over the barbed wire. There are no second tries tonight; it lands at his feet.
"
Bóg zaplac

*." Tears get caught in his throat.

"May God reward
you
, Tolek," we answer, moving away from the fence, unable to risk speaking further.
Danka squeezes my hand. "He'll be okay, won't he?"
"I hope so."
The next few days we hoard our bread jealously so that whenever we see Tolek we can throw him an extra portion. Then he stops coming to the fence.
On our fourth Sunday in camp they shave us again. We had secretly hoped they would let us grow our hair back, but after the weeks of itching stubble it is shaved off again. Between the lice, the bedbugs, and the hair, there is always a nagging prickle some-

 

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