by Honor Gable
A place we can laugh and dance together forever.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
AUDREY
We're not sent from the camp to work for Seimans today. Maybe there was some bomb damage. Maybe they really need help inside the camp. Lore and I are sent to work digging vegetables. Mostly potatoes. I thought it'd be easier work, but bending over or kneeling on the rocky soil is anything but comfortable. My stomach rolls with hunger, a sharp pang stabbing me with each piece of food I unearth and can't shove in my mouth, dirt and all. But they stand over us with eagle eyes, whips clenched and ready to rain strikes down on our bent backs if we so much as twitch in a way they don't like.
I try to hurry my hands, adding to Lore's pile so she doesn't come up short. My fingernails break, ripping bits of my skin with them. The dull tools they give us to dig are completely useless. The bun beats down on us, pulling up sweat to bead on my skin. My mouth is dry and my lips crack from thirst, but we won't get water until our noon meal.
My mind stays busy, buzzing over possibilities. I can heal others. I may be a little more exhausted and starving today, and it hurt like hell, but I can heal others. I just have to learn how to be better at it. I need more food if I'm going to make any kind of difference here.
Could I help the Rabbits?
I wish Viola and the other Nightingales were here to talk through this with me. Are their powers growing too? Are they still free? I've been dreaming of the traitor, whoever it is lately. Have they been caught or killed because of him?
At noon, we stumble over and try to make the thin soup last, but in three gulps, it's gone, our water in one. An older man is the one handing out the food. I don't recognize him. He stations himself near Lore and myself when we get back to work. I keep my head down, not wanting to draw his attention, and when he isn't looking, continue adding to Lore's pile. Weariness and sadness yanks so strongly at me, I forget to keep checking and I notice him staring right at me as I throw two more potatoes on her pile.
My mouth dries even more and I work my throat, desperate for some saliva. His gaze is steely and blank as our eyes meet. He inclines his head and points to the potatoes and to me, mouthing, "Take some."
I'm stunned to stone for a moment, before I shove a couple potatoes in my knickers and add half my pile to hers. Hopefully my knickers will hold the potato better than the pencil. I have to save up food if I want to heal people. I'll need the strength.
He nods and gives nothing away in his expression, but his eyes burn hotter than the sun. Why did he do that? It's not like I'm some great beauty with my cropped off hair and inverted skin. I cut my eyes towards Lore. Maybe it's her. Maybe seeing a child starving and worked to death actually moves him. Maybe he isn't a psychopath like the rest of his brethren. Or maybe he has some other agenda. I add him to the growing list of things to keep an eye out for.
If only I had Lois's shadow walking powers. I could have spirited so many away from here.
WITH EYES DARTING EVERYWHERE, I skulk through the darkening dusk, waiting for the inevitable women looking to exchange goods. The two potatoes scorch my skin with guilt and fear. Maybe I shouldn't be giving one of these away, but I want to find something, anything to raise Henri's spirits. And to make up for the beating she suffered because of me. She may be healed physically, but the mental toll isn't small. Damn these vicious people, serving out lashes and beatings over the slightest thing: hair not pinned back even if you have no pins, no shoes on even if you have no shoes, a grumpy expression, a happy expression, anything. There's no rhyme or reason or way to predict or escape them.
The face of the guard who gave me the chance to nick the potatoes pops in my mind. Why did he do it? Is he going to expect something in return? My body shudders and I fight to keep the little food I've had today down. I can't afford to lose it. Maybe I should do whatever he wants. If it'll help keep us alive it might be worth it. What's one more awful terror? One more nightmare to survive. My body has already been tortured in every other way.
And I'm still alive.
The smell hits me first. Boiled cabbage and old rotten onions. Nasty.
I swallow hard. "I'm looking to trade." I hope she speaks French.
She steps from the shadows so I can finally see her. "What do you have to sell?"
"A potato."
"What're you looking to get?" Another waft of her stench accompanies her question.
"Depends. What can I get for a potato?"
"Well, I don't know. You definitely aren't going to get any food or tobacco for just a little potato."
I figured, but I'm afraid if I tell her what I'm looking for, she'll raise the price. "Do you any paper?" I start big, hoping I can haggle her down to a book. Fresh paper is a luxury hard to come by around here.
Her laugh is rough and strangely beautiful. "Oh, my dear. You will need much more than a potato for something like that."
"All right. What about a small book?"
Her face turns pensive, the lines in her face deepening. "I might have something that could work. You sure that's what you're after?"
I hide the smile trying to break over my face. It's perfect for Henri. Maybe I'm being stupid, but knowing her, she'll appreciate this more than potatoes. "I'm sure. I really wanted paper, but I can write in the margins I guess."
She nods. "Let me see what kind of potato you have to offer first. We're done here if it's some shriveled pathetic thing."
I reach under my dress and pull out the smaller one. It's still a nice size, something the cooks back home would have baked until fluffy and bursting. She doesn't even flinch when she sees where I unearth it from and takes it from me, turning it over in her gnarled hands.
She digs around in a makeshift bag and pulls out a slim volume. I can't read what it is in the dark, but hopefully it's not in a language Henri can't read. Or Nazi propaganda. Without another word, we part ways and I hurry back to our block.
Nina and Lore are already there with Henri. Nina is fashioning some sort of blanket or shawl. She's on the detail for sewing German uniforms, so she's often able to nick scraps of fabric and bring it back to us. I haven't had my monthly bleeding since the experiment, but some of the few women who still get theirs are grateful for what she brings back.
"Henri, I brought you something." I'm unable to hide my guilt.
She lifts her head and smiles at me. "You didn't have to do that."
"Of course I did." I hand over the goods and warmth trickles over me at the delight on her face.
"Oh, Just. How did you get these?"
"I have my ways."
She flips through the pages of the book with reverent fingers, all but ignoring the potato beside it. I knew I picked correctly.
Her simple pleasure and shining eyes over a blasted book stiffen me with frustration. How excited we get over these little things. Why are we taking this?
We just sit here in this camp, doing what they tell us, building their weapons, gardening their food, spinning their clothes. All so they can focus on being the biggest wankers on the planet. Maybe we're the wankers. Too scared of dying to keep fighting. I always thought I'd go down in a blaze of glory. Not worked and starved to death here.
Maybe I should stop being so careful.
My thoughts turn into words. "Do you ever think we're too careful here?"
"What do you mean?" Henri's brow wrinkles in confusion, her attention diverted from her book.
"I mean, do you think we've been too scared and careful here? Instead of fighting back?"
She blows out a loud breath. "No. We find small ways to resist and sabotage, but to me, it's important we survive this. As many of us as possible need to survive this because if we don't, no one will know. They won't know how horrible it is. It's unbelievable so there needs to be many of us to tell of it. We've done our part in resisting. It's why we're here."
I make a noncommittal noise. It's not that I think she's wrong, but I'm not sure I'm wrong either. Or maybe it's my own pride. I don't want
to die in a puddle of my own stink. I want to die protecting someone, saving someone, or taking out dozens of Nazis.
"You aren't thinking of doing something foolish are you?" She nudges me when I don't respond. "Because you need to remember what happens here when people resist in the open. They aren't the only ones who suffer. That's another reason. Anything we do will fall on everyone else."
I deflate. She's right. The block next to us was made to stand at attention for two days with no food after the guards discovered someone hiding in the barracks, trying to escape from being sent to a sub-camp.
Look at what my actions have already done to her
I won't do anything to put her, Lore, or Nina in danger. Or any of the others here. No matter how much it smothers me being stuck, unable to put a stop to this madness.
Henri puts her hand over mine and her voice rings out through the block. "Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise."
"That's beautiful."
"It's Victor Hugo."
I roll my eyes. I cannot escape that wretched book no matter where I go.
More voices rise throughout the room, everyone calling out quotes. Henri and Nina translate for me. "The most painful state of being is remembering the future, particularly the one you'll never have. Kierkegaard."
"Maybe this planet is another planet's hell. Aldous Huxley."
"A man is as free as he chooses to make himself, never an atom freer. George MacDonald."
"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself. Leo Tolstoy."
Maybe I should start reading once I get out of here. I never have anything to add. But their words make me stronger. A line pops into my head. The one on the wall in Fresnes.
I shout it out. "Pity is lost in rage and fear." I still don't know who it is.
"You know Thomas Carlyle?" Henri interrupts her translating to ask.
"No. It was on our wall at Fresnes, remember?"
Her eyes cloud and she nods.
One stands out the most to me and makes me ache with sadness. I miss my nightingales. "Even death himself listened to the song and said, Go on little nightingale, go on. Hans Christian Anderson." And that one spurs on a poem.
"I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain. Christina Rossetti."
And on and on it goes.
Voices raised in defiance ringing through the night.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
VIOLA
The forest creatures are quiet this morning. The birds aren't singing their usual songs and nothing else chatters at us. The almost silence unnerves me, my spine racing with heat and ice.
I take my position between Theo and Rivka as we hunker down and wait for Axel's team to arrive. I swallow the unease over beating them here. We came on foot and they drove. Stopping to grab supplies shouldn't have taken them this long. Axel's paranoia is starting to rival Xavier's. He refused to let us see where they've stored the supplies.
The rumble of an engine soothes and terrifies me at the same time. The terror changes to relief when Axel's trolley barrels into sight.
We rush over to help unload.
Within minutes, we've gotten everything prepared, moving about like we can read each other's minds. It reminds me of how I was with the girl partisan. Our bodies and movements perfectly synchronized like dancers in a ballet.
One of Axel's men, I forget his name, takes the trolley away to hide it while the rest of us spread out and hide along the road to wait. It'll be an awful lot of effort for nothing if Axel's intel is wrong. Xavier trusts it and him, so that's enough for me.
My mouth quirks at how we used to view him. As our jailer or guard. Another government lackey like the ones in London. But he's proved himself to be completely on our side. Ignoring London's orders for us. It's probably because of his brother who died in the experiment.
Maybe London counting on the utter loyalty of a man whose brother they killed wasn't their best idea.
Or trusting criminals with powers.
The adrenaline in my body is torture, thrumming and begging for release. My powers only heighten it, burning like fire ants racing right under my skin. Lois meets my eyes on the other side of the bush we hide behind. Large pupils and desperation shine back at me. She grimaces at my nod of understanding. Hysteria bubbles up in me, but I seal my mouth, refusing to let it out.
More rumbling engines shatter the quiet.
My grip on my weapon tightens and I focus my eyes on the road, praying we're far enough back.
A convoy of large trolleys turns the corner. The lead one drives right over the fallen log, the limbs reaching up and snagging in the undercarriage, slowing it down.
And then it explodes.
I don't see what happens next because Lois and I are too busy clutching each other and covering our heads. Thankfully, our skin doesn't touch so I don't lose my vision. Because she's disappeared in her anxiety. I dart my eyes around, checking to make sure no one has noticed, breathing in relief at the sight of ducked heads. I hiss at her and she comes back into sight. Just in time for Theo to glance over and nod at us.
We rise and fire.
My stomach rolls when I crouch down to reload. Instead of extra ammo, my fingers wrap around an arm. One no longer attached to a body. My eyes close briefly as I force the horror back.
I harden my heart, remembering the piles of dead the Nazis have left behind in their wake. These are no different. I remind myself of Lois's wisdom and believe it with everything in me. My gun rises back up almost of its own accord and I continue firing, wincing at the bruises rising on the inside of my arm.
On my last magazine, it appears we've beaten them back. Victory yanks at my lips, trying to pull them into a smile. Xavier signals for us to move in. I haven't finished my first step before scores of Germans flow from the back of a covered trolley.
I hit the ground, taking cover behind the same blasted bushes. Lois smacks down on the left side of me at the same time, and we end up in a tangle of limbs scrambling for our fallen weapons and freedom from each other.
This wasn't part of the intel. How were they prepared for us?
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
AUDREY
It's darker than usual when the siren goes off. Autumn approaches on swift feet, and the bodies will start piling up a lot faster once it's here. Coats aren't handed out to everyone. We'll keep going about half naked in the same scraps of filthy dresses.
It's a mad dash for the latrines, ten for a thousand women. Our little group has run out of soap, and no one's had an opportunity to find more. At least we still have our toothbrushes assembled out of rubber, cloth, and wire.
Outside the air is chilly enough, I shiver. With cold and fear. We line up in our rows and fight back exhaustion and roaring stomachs and yawns. The dogs are particularly vicious this morning, snarling and straining at their leashes, desperate to rip someone to shreds.
I used to love dogs.
A few women tried to escape last night.
Their bodies hang, bloated and bruised, coated with blood.
Once I notice them it's hard to look away, the horror drawing my eyes against my will.
Lore chokes a cry and I reach out a hand to her. I want to shield her from the sight, but it's pointless. Everywhere we look there's horror after horror. The little slices of beauty and goodness are so rare, it's easy to miss them completely.
I shake myself and refuse to look at the bodies anymore. I'm not giving them what they want. I find the strength to turn Lore away too. I'm not ready to give in yet. I'm close, but I'm not there yet. I think of the one nice Nazi who hasn't asked me for a thing, letting me pocket potatoes every time. I think of Lore's rare laugh, surprisingly loud and honking. I think of Henri's selfless bravery. Of Nina's fierceness. Or Gisele's strength. I remember Viola and Lois and Rivka. My two families which mirror each other almost perfectl
y. I remember the Fournier sisters and Jade and Theo. His beautiful face wreathed in smoke.
What I wouldn't give for a cigarette.
Hours later, we're released and fed the thin coffee and our piece of bread. We accept our bowls of slop, fear thick around us. More deaths will be coming. Anyone even suspected of helping. I shove the bread in my dress for later, sipping the coffee slowly, trying to trick my stomach into thinking it's full. This meal is easier to skip, the work keeping my mind off of it. I used to skip breakfast all the time back home. Though mainly because I didn't get up till past noon. I never thought I'd miss anything about my home before this. But I miss the bed. Soft and thick with piles of blankets and pillows.
Henri pulls me aside once we have our food, her face set and determined. "I've tried to accept everything as some miracle or fluke, but I can't." She lifts her shirt. "There's nothing. I should have scars from that beating."
My lips refuse to move. To offer an excuse. Anything.
She grabs my shirt, reveals my scarred back, and gasps. "What are you?"
I rip from her with a snarl, looking around to be sure no one saw. "I'm the one who saved you from days of pain and possible death because you wouldn't have been able to work."
She holds her hands up in surrender. "I'm sorry. It came out wrong. But seriously. Explain."
"I can't. It's better if you don't know. For you and me."
She growls and presses her fist to her forehead. "Why do I still have my other scars?"
I shrug. It's a good question. I guess I can't heal old wounds, just fresh which means, I can do nothing for the Rabbits. Bloody hell.
She huffs. "So, you aren't going to give me anything?"
"No. Sorry." I smirk, trying to soften the words,
A reluctant grin tip the edges of her lips. "This isn't over."