What She Lost

by Melissa W Hunter

  He lowered the megaphone and looked around the now-still yard. No one reacted. I glanced at Gutcha, breathless. While his words were clear as a bell, I couldn’t wrap my mind around their meaning. How was it possible, after all this time? The war was over? What war? In the struggle to survive each day, the warfront, the actual fighting, had become meaningless. A few of the girls surrounding me looked at each other with similarly confused expressions. A low hum filled the camp yard.

  The lieutenant frowned at us. “Did you hear what I said?” he asked. “You are free to go.”

  “Free?” someone yelled in a hoarse voice. An older woman in the back of the crowd limped forward. A young girl, no older than ten or eleven, supported her as she shuffled toward the lieutenant. “What do you mean, free? We have nowhere to go.”

  The lieutenant’s eyes moved over us as we stared back at him. Many of the women around me were coughing and shaking in the cold morning air. In contrast, the soldiers wore uniforms of long wool coats cinched at the waist with black belts and trousers of coarse fabric that the wind couldn’t penetrate. The lieutenant’s uniform was different from those of the other soldiers. His lapels were lined with fur, and a half-dozen medals were pinned to his chest, glinting in the pale sun. I realized suddenly how cold and wet I was and began to shiver. Another woman started to step forward but began to fall. The soldier closest to her reached out and caught her, holding her up by her arms. “Please,” I heard her whisper. “We are hungry.”

  Abruptly, the women surged forward once more, voices rising as one. I was pushed by the crowd, still grasping Gutcha’s hand for dear life. The emptiness in my own stomach, while now familiar, was no less painful. My vision swam and I blinked many times, praying I wouldn’t fall and be trampled by the crowd. The soldiers formed a wall with their bodies as we pleaded with them. I watched as the lieutenant waved a few of his men to the corner of our barracks. Heads bent, he consulted with them and pointed to the trucks. They saluted and returned to the vehicles, speaking into radio transmitters. I kept my eyes on the lieutenant as he walked back to the wall of soldiers, placing his hand on two of their shoulders so that they parted for him. He held up his hand and addressed us in a firm voice.

  “We must have order! Form two groups. Those of you who need medical assistance, over here. Those who don’t, over here. We have called for provisions.”

  Despite feeling weak and cold and tired and starved, my cousin and I were better off than many of those around us. We followed the group of women who moved to the far end of the yard near the barbwire fence, huddling together for warmth. The sun was now higher in the sky, but the weak rays did little to dispel the early spring cold. I watched as the lieutenant moved between the soldiers, barking orders and gesturing with animated hands. Half of his men began setting up cots near the trucks for those too weak to stand or sit in the yard. I noticed a few of the Russian soldiers were medics, passing between the weak and sick, carrying black cases and listening to the girls’ chests with stethoscopes.

  By midday, the rest of us were sitting in groups, blankets thrown over our shoulders and heads, holding tin mugs of warm tea and nibbling small, dry biscuits. The tea was the best thing I had tasted in such a long time. The heat spread through my body, warming my aching limbs, but the food did little to alleviate my hunger. The dry, crumbling bread felt like a lead weight in my stomach. I watched a group of women crowd around the trucks, begging for more food. The soldiers shook their heads and pointed for them to return to the yard. A partition was set up so we could no longer see the patients lying on the cots.

  “What does all this mean?” I whispered to Gutcha as she nibbled her small biscuit. She shrugged, head lowered, eyes on the ground. “Can it really be over?” I asked, looking around the yard where just the day before we had witnessed a girl whipped to death. “Yes,” Gutcha nodded weakly. “When the marches began, they must have known.”

  I thought silently about the roundups that had been taking place almost daily. Large numbers of women had been marched out of the camp gates to some unknown location. We had whispered and speculated about their departure, wondering where they were sent, fearing it couldn’t be a good sign. Somehow, Gutcha and I hadn’t been separated. We had been put to work until the day before.

  I expected to feel relief, hope, or joy at the idea that it was over—anything but the emptiness that filled me. When I tried to think ahead to the future, it was like stumbling into a brick wall. There was nothing there but the unknowable, a barrier stretching as tall and as far as my inner eye could see. Everything I had once thought or wished for was gone.

  The gray-haired lieutenant moved among the groups of women, drawing closer to where we sat. He continued to hand out blankets that had arrived with two other trucks, bringing additional supplies. I noticed up close that the skin of his face was red and weathered like old leather and that white hair sprouted in tufts from his ears. He knelt beside each group, talking quietly to the female prisoners. His face reflected genuine concern.

  He stopped before us and tipped his hat. “Hello,” he said in German with a strong Russian accent. “Are you comfortable? Do you need another blanket?”

  I shook my head, but Gutcha shivered and the lieutenant wrapped a second blanket around her shoulders. “Can you tell me your names?” he asked.

  “I’m Sarah,” I said, my voice hoarse. “This is my cousin Gutcha,” I said when Gutcha didn’t answer.

  “Can you tell me where you are from?” he asked kindly, kneeling so he was level with our eyes.

  “Olkusz,” I answered obediently.

  “I have not heard of Olkusz,” he said, frowning. “It is German?”

  “It’s in Poland,” I told him. He nodded and bit his lip. “And how long have you been here?” he asked. Gutcha and I exchanged a look. I had no idea how long we had been in the camp. Time meant nothing to me anymore.

  He sighed and shook his head. “Poor girls,” he murmured under his breath. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.” His bright blue eyes regarded us sympathetically before he stood again and wiped his hands on his trousers. “You will be all right,” he reassured us before moving to the next group. “We will take care of you.”

  At nightfall, more food was distributed. This time we received a hot plate of stew along with our tea and bread. My mouth watered as I took my first bite. The flavors that met my tongue were so unexpected and delicious that I devoured the meal in seconds. Gutcha sopped up the gravy with the last of her bread and raised the bowl to her lips to lick up whatever remained. My stomach finally felt full after what had seemed a lifetime of starvation. We were sitting near the fence, and I closed my eyes and leaned back against the rusty links, exhausted, my limbs suddenly heavy. I heard drunken laughter from the soldiers who patrolled the camp grounds as they passed around canteens and sang songs in deep Russian baritones. Bonfires were lit throughout the camp. No one was barking orders at us to line up for roll call or report to our jobs. For the briefest moment, I allowed myself to relax.

  Then, the full, satisfied feeling in my stomach turned into something uncomfortable, twisting painfully. I gasped and leaned forward, pressing my hands to my stomach. “What’s wrong?” Gutcha asked, looking at me. Before I could answer, my stomach cramped painfully, and I gagged and turned away, vomiting everything I had eaten onto the ground beside me. I fell back against the fence, wiping my face with the back of my hand, clammy and trembling. Gutcha crawled to my side and put her arm around me. “Are you all right?” she asked faintly. A sheen of sweat glistened on her own face. I looked at her and said, “I’m better now, but you don’t look well.” She moaned and murmured, “I don’t feel so well.”

  Around us, many of the women were stirring and groaning. Several girls doubled over, sick to their stomachs as well. Alerted by the sound, the lieutenant moved into the yard, followed by the army medics. One of them knelt at my side and shone a light into m
y face. I blinked against the brightness and tried to shoo him away. “I’m fine,” I murmured. “Just so tired. Let me sleep.” Then he turned to Gutcha. When I looked at my cousin, I saw her body convulsing on the ground. “Gutcha!” I screamed, crawling to her. The medic pushed me back as he knelt over her, pulling back her eyelids and rolling her onto her side. He waved for another soldier to come hold her down as her spasms subsided and she fell unconscious. As the two medics lifted her onto a gurney, I panicked. “Where are you taking her?” I cried, grabbing the hem of the soldier’s pants. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “It’s all right.” The lieutenant was suddenly there, kneeling at my side and putting an arm around me reassuringly. “She needs medical help. We are going to take her to see the camp doctor.”

  “Take me with you,” I sobbed, terrified of being separated from my cousin. I reached up to clutch her limp, cold hand in my own.

  “We only have so many beds,” one of the soldiers started to protest, but I interrupted. “I don’t need to sleep. I’ll sleep on the ground. Please, I can’t leave her!”

  The lieutenant nodded and helped me to my feet. I leaned against him as we followed the men carrying Gutcha behind the partition. A makeshift hospital had been set up on the other side under a massive tent. Cots were lined up in rows. The girls who lay on them were mostly unmoving in varying stages of consciousness. The trucks that had entered the camp throughout the day had brought medical equipment—medicine and bandages and bedpans—as well as an official doctor. He looked harried as he leaned over his patients with a variety of instruments. The medics helped transport and clean up the sick, changing bedding and emptying bedpans behind the barracks. I noticed as we moved down a row that some of the bodies lying on nearby cots were completely covered, faces hidden beneath a white sheet. I swallowed, not allowing myself to think what that meant.

  Gutcha was placed on a cot at the end of a row. The lieutenant looked at me and said, “I wish I could give you a bed or even a chair to sit on. I’m sorry we aren’t more prepared.” I wanted to cry from his kindness. No one had spoken to me with such compassion in a long time, caring for my comfort. I shook my head, collapsing to my knees on the ground beside Gutcha, watching her chest, willing it to continue to rise and fall.

  “Will she be OK?” I asked.

  “We will do everything we can for her,” the lieutenant answered. I felt my eyes closing. “Thank you,” I whispered. My stomach now felt hollow and sore, but I didn’t think I would be sick anymore. In fact, I was hungry again. But I also felt weaker than before and just wanted to sleep. And I couldn’t stop shaking. I rested my head on the edge of Gutcha’s cot. Blackness surrounded me, and I fell into fitful dreams.

  Twenty-Five

  I was standing in a large, cold room. The concrete walls were streaked with grime, the windows barred. Bare light bulbs flickered from the ceiling overhead. I glanced at my feet on the dirty floor and realized I was naked. I tried to cover my exposed breasts and private parts with my hands and arms, but a loud voice was shouting at us to stand up straight, arms at our sides. I blinked back tears as I looked around. Gutcha was beside me, trembling, and when her eyes met mine, they mirrored my own fear. Everywhere I looked were women of all ages and sizes, standing in the nude, trying desperately to cover themselves. We were lined up in rows, facing a wall where a large, masculine-looking woman was pacing back and forth, holding a clipboard.

  A man in a white coat entered from a side door and began to walk between the rows of women. I blushed fiercely at his presence, feeling at once violated and vulnerable. As he approached me, I tried to step back, but he reached out and grabbed me roughly. He lifted my chin, examining my face; he squeezed my cheeks, forcing my lips open so he could inspect the inside of my mouth. He began to pat down my bare arms and legs, his hands moving up to my exposed chest. I started to cry, but he ignored my tears. He gave a nod to the woman with the clipboard, and she barked an order for me to move through a door in the opposite wall. Her large palms pushed against my back, and I stumbled forward on legs so weak I was afraid I would fall.

  In the next room, I was forced onto a hard bench. Unseen hands grabbed at my long tresses, pulling ruthlessly. Locks of hair fell at my feet, a dull razor painfully shearing my head. Tears fell with the curls, mingling onto a floor littered with blonde, brunette, and auburn tendrils. I heard sobbing all around me.

  I heard a scream.

  I bolted upright, suddenly awake. At first, I was confused. There was a dull ache in my stomach, and I clutched my middle as I looked around. My vision swam, and I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. I was sitting level with a metal bed frame; all around me were thin, cold steel legs supporting army-issued cots. My cheek felt cold, and when I touched it, my hand came away muddy. I realized I had been lying on the hard ground, and my joints ached as I stretched. My feet were covered in dirt; pebbles stuck to my arms, and I wiped them away irritably. Blinking in the dim light, I saw the roof of the tent overhead. Despite being dirty, at least I was dry. Then I remembered the night before and scrambled to my knees to lean over Gutcha’s frail body. To my relief, she was breathing, her head supported by a small, rolled pillow. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept with a pillow.

  “Gutcha?” I whispered, but she didn’t respond. I grasped her hand and felt her pulse, faint but steady, through the parchment skin of her palm. I frowned as I heard a commotion outside the tent flaps. Something had jolted me from sleep—and then I remembered the scream.

  Gently placing Gutcha’s hand at her side, I stood on unsteady legs and stepped outside. The sky above me was the dull, nondescript shade that comes before dawn. Glancing around, I saw a young woman run into the yard from behind one of the bunks. She was crying and gasping, holding torn shreds of her dirtied gown to her body. In the waning moonlight, she appeared almost feral. A few of the women prisoners reached out to her, but she backed away from them, shaking her head, hissing like a cornered animal. At that moment, a shot rang out, and I jumped. Everyone froze, immobilized. The girl yelped and fell to the ground, curling into a fetal position. My heart thundered in my chest. Had she been shot, like a sick animal put down to rest? To my relief, she wrapped her arms over her head, her shoulders shaking, still very much alive.

  The lieutenant marched into the center of the camp, dragging a soldier behind him. The soldier was half dressed, his shirt unbuttoned, the zipper of his pants unfastened. He struggled to free himself from the lieutenant’s grasp, twisting and kicking out with his feet, but the lieutenant was larger and stronger. He forced the soldier to the center of the yard and threw him to his knees, standing over him with a formidable expression. It seemed the whole camp was awake now, watching and waiting.

  The lieutenant raised his gun and aimed it at the soldier. In a loud, commanding voice, he spoke so everyone could hear. “I discovered this man performing a criminal act that cannot go unpunished. He was molesting one of these poor girls who has neither the strength nor the energy to fight back.” He paused, his gray eyes sweeping the camp, finally landing on the other soldiers, his face livid. “Let this be known here and now. I do not tolerate such behavior in my company. These girls need our protection. If you choose to act like animals, I suggest you leave, because you are no better than a coward and deserter. This is not what we trained for. If any one of you harms one of these girls again, there will be no warning. It is in my power to execute you on the spot.” He then turned to the offending soldier and kicked him in the side. The soldier grunted and fell forward. “You are under arrest and will be detained until further notice,” the lieutenant said, grabbing the soldier by the collar and dragging him to his feet. The soldier hung his head indignantly, hiding his eyes behind a fringe of greasy bangs as the lieutenant marched him away by gunpoint. The moment they were out of sight, I ran to the few women who had rushed to the girl’s side.

  She was shaking and bruised but no longer fought aga
inst the hands that reached out to her. One of the older women knelt beside her and gently tried to pry her arms from her head. “Shhh, there now,” she said in a soothing voice. “You don’t have to be frightened.” The girl looked up, and I recognized her immediately. Her name was Chana. She was a quiet young woman from Hungary who had come to the camp alone and kept to herself. Despite the fact that her hair was growing from her head in short clumps and her cheeks were hollow, it was easy to see she had once been beautiful. Her large green eyes were framed by long black lashes, and her skin hadn’t lost its olive tone. But as we helped her to stand, her eyes darted wildly, and she clutched her arms to her chest. I noticed blood running down her legs.

  “She should see a doctor,” I said. “There’s one in the tent.”

  Another woman wrapped her in a blanket and said, “Yes, let’s get you cleaned up and taken to the doctor.” As she guided Chana toward the tent, the blanket slipped from Chana’s hunched shoulders. I saw angry marks on her shoulders and neck from hands that had held her down. My stomach clenched. Beside me, a woman muttered, “How could they? Vile brute! I thought they were here to help us.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the soldiers still gathered around the fence. The butts of their cigarettes glowed and sputtered like dying fireflies. A few spit on the ground or took swigs from their canteens. Most had their backs turned to us. “Will we ever be safe?” I whispered. Although they wore different uniforms and spoke with a different accent, I suddenly felt the Russians were no better than the Germans.