What She Lost

by Melissa W Hunter

  When I returned to Gutcha’s side, I was relieved to see her eyes were open and staring up at the roof of the tent. “Gutcha!” I cried. “You’re awake!”

  She turned her head weakly to look at me. “Where am I?” she whispered.

  “In the hospital.”

  “Hospital?”

  “They set up an infirmary. A doctor arrived last night. You were sick. I was so worried.”

  Gutcha closed her eyes wearily. I pulled back the blanket that covered her body and crawled onto the cot beside her, wrapping her in my arms. Her body was so thin. I rested my head on her chest, feeling her rib cage against my cheek. I was relieved to hear her steady heartbeat.

  “How do you feel?” I whispered.

  “Exhausted,” she breathed.

  “Me too,” I said. She rolled onto her side so we were face-to-face. I saw with dismay her hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, trying to remember her face from before. Fleeting memories of our childhood intruded on my thoughts—Gutcha and I whispering behind our teacher’s back in class, or hiding behind the trees that bordered the field as we spied on the boys who played ball after school, or sneaking into her room to look at the movie magazines we borrowed from our classmates. I had always envied that she only lived with her mother, father, and brother in the apartment above ours and had a room all her own, while I had to share my home with my sister and five brothers. What I wouldn’t give to be back in that crowded, loud, loving home. I blinked back tears. Gutcha noticed and reached up to wipe them from my cheek.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  I shook my head, struggling to speak. “I was so worried about you,” I choked. “I can’t lose you, Gutcha.” She was my lifeline, my anchor to the past, and I feared she was slipping out of my grasp.

  “I’m here,” she reassured me. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  We drifted in and out of sleep, lying head to head on the cot. Sometime later, I heard her murmur, “I’m so hungry.” I sat up, fighting the exhaustion that weighed on me like gravity. “Let me try to find something to eat,” I said, slipping out from beneath the blanket. Noticing her teeth chattering, I tucked it around her then walked down the aisle, looking for someone to ask about food. My own stomach was aching with hunger pains. A medic stood over an empty cot at the end of the row, stripping a sheet from its corner. I noticed a stain on the crumpled blanket at his feet, and the strong stench of vomit assaulted my nose.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I approached him. He looked up, and I saw the look of disgust on his face. I swallowed and said, “I was just wondering, is it possible to have something to eat?”

  He glowered. His nose crinkled, and he lifted a hand to his mouth as though afraid to breathe the air between us. I blinked when he remained unresponsive. “Would it be possible to get some food?” I asked again. “My cousin is over there, and she’s very hungry.”

  The soldier shook his head and said something in Russian. I realized he didn’t understand my Yiddish. “Food,” I said, bringing my hands to my lips. “Esnvarg.” Then I said in German, “Essen.” As I tried in vain to make him understand, a firm hand closed on my shoulder, and I jumped.

  “You are hungry,” a deep voice stated matter-of-factly. I turned to see the lieutenant standing behind me and took a step backward. He regarded me silently for a moment, then asked, “How are you feeling this morning? How is your cousin?”

  I looked at the lieutenant in surprise. He was speaking Yiddish.

  “She’s awake,” I said.

  “That’s good,” he said. “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  “You speak Yiddish?” I asked. He nodded and said, “Quite fluently, actually.”

  As I continued to gape at him, he turned his attention to the medic and snapped something in Russian. The medic saluted and marched out of the tent. I stood awkwardly in front of the lieutenant. He was not wearing his ushanka, and his gray curls were a disheveled mop on the crown of his head. He glanced around at the sick in their beds. “I had no idea,” he murmured more to himself than to me. “How could we have known? My men aren’t prepared for this.”

  After a few moments, the medic returned with a bowl in his hands. He avoided my eyes as he passed me the bowl then quickly snatched his hand back to his side. I tried not to notice how he wiped his palm on his pant leg. The lieutenant barked something again in Russian. I saw him scowl as he ordered the medic back to work. When he returned his attention to me, his eyes softened.

  “Take this to your cousin. Tell her to rest. You both must regain your strength.”

  I nodded and backed away. When I returned to Gutcha’s side, her shaking was noticeably stronger. I sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand to her forehead. “You’re warm,” I said in alarm. “You must have a fever.” Her eyes stared at the bowl in my lap, but her hands were too weak to reach for it. I held the bowl to her lips and told her to drink slowly. She took small, eager sips, her eyes closed, as I encouraged her. My stomach growled, and she looked up at me. “Drink some,” she said in a hoarse voice, but I shook my head.

  “You need to get better,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

  I sat by Gutcha’s side all day, wiping sweat from her forehead and brushing back damp wisps of newly grown hair. I knew that beneath my own kerchief, my hair was growing back as well. My head often itched so much that I drew blood as I scratched at scabs that never healed.

  As night fell, Gutcha’s fever broke. Her shaking ceased, and her eyes lost their glossy, faraway look. I cried with relief as she smiled up at me.

  “You’re cool,” I said, placing my hand on her forehead.

  “I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

  I crawled into the bed beside her, wrapping her in my arms. “We have to stick together, no matter what happens, no matter where we go from here.”

  “No matter what,” she agreed.

  Twenty-Six

  News of the rape spread through the camp. Gutcha spent the next few days in the infirmary, a few beds away from Chana. As I nursed my cousin back to health, I watched as some of the women occasionally entered the tent to check on Chana. Every morning and evening when I lined up with the other women to receive the rations the soldiers passed out to us, I heard their whispers. “She’s gone mad,” some said. Or, “She refuses to be touched. She’s a breath away from death.”

  On Gutcha’s third night in the infirmary, I returned to find her sitting up in bed, holding a tin bowl and wooden spoon in her lap. “How are you feeling?” I asked, relieved to see some color had returned to her cheeks.

  “Better,” she said in a hoarse voice. “They won’t give me anything but this soup. The doctor came earlier and said I should be discharged by tomorrow.”

  “That’s good news,” I said, sitting beside her. We heard a commotion a few beds over and turned to see Chana lashing out at the army doctor as he tried to examine her. Throwing up his hands in exasperation, he stormed away, shaking his head and cursing under his breath. Chana turned onto her side and cowered beneath the blanket.

  “She won’t talk to anyone,” Gutcha said.

  “Did you hear what happened to her?” I asked.

  Gutcha nodded. “She’s not eating either. She just lies there in bed, or rocks back and forth, or thrashes like a wild animal.”

  “It’s horrible,” I muttered, shaking my head.

  I saw the lieutenant walking along the row of beds behind Gutcha’s. He consulted with the doctor, his forehead furrowed.

  “He seems decent, though,” I said, nodding in his direction. “Good.”

  “Do you think so?” Gutcha asked skeptically. Her lack of trust, cultivated by years in the camps, was apparent in her expression. She crossed her arms over her chest as she regarded him.

  “I do,” I said. I remembered his kindness and concern when Gutcha fell ill. There was something in his demeanor tha
t I trusted, something familiar in the way he stroked his chin as he spoke softly to the doctor. An image rushed into my mind, a memory that hurt too much to hold on to for long—my father at the dinner table, smiling as he stroked his beard and watched me set the table and chat idly about my day. The scene unfolded, and I was helpless to stop it. My father laughed and lifted me onto his lap. I lay my head on his broad chest. He pulled a pączek from his pocket and placed it in my palm. I squealed in delight at the small Polish donut. He put a finger to his lips and said, “Shhh, our little secret. Don’t tell your mama or she’ll have my head.” His face came into focus in my mind for one glorious moment—kind brown eyes, wizened forehead, thick beard—then faded into shadow. I swallowed hard and locked the memory away, a practice I had perfected over the years. I stared down at my hands, at my dirtied, broken nails, and forced my mind back to the present.

  “Has anyone left the camp?” Gutcha asked. I blinked and looked up.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head. Aside from the lieutenant, the doctor, and a few higher-ranking officials, most of the soldiers remained outside the camp grounds. They paced and radioed for supplies and sat around smoking, drinking from flasks, or playing cards.

  “Are we prisoners then?” Gutcha wondered bitterly.

  “That’s not it,” I argued. “They don’t know what to do with us.”

  “They could at least give us better food than this,” Gutcha said, lifting the bowl from her lap with a scowl.

  “You’re in a mood,” I said with a small laugh. “That must mean you are feeling more yourself. The doctor explained that we got sick because we ate more than our stomachs could handle at first.”

  Gutcha scoffed and tried to lift the spoon to her mouth, but she was still so weak that most of the broth spilled back into the bowl. I took the spoon from her hand and helped feed her the clear soup. Despite her disdain for her meal, she drank eagerly until her eyes began to close. As she fell back against her pillow; I set the bowl aside and leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Sleep now,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  But the following morning, when I tried to enter the tent, a soldier blocked me. I attempted to move past him, but he pushed me aside, and I stumbled backward. “You cannot enter,” he said forcefully in German, repositioning his rifle across his chest. I stared at him in shock and disbelief.

  “Why?”

  “The infirmary is under quarantine,” he said. “No one is allowed in or out.”

  My legs grew weak, and I was sure I was about to fall. “But why?” I asked again.

  “There has been an outbreak of typhus.”

  “Typhus?” I whispered. I felt a vise close around my chest, and I couldn’t catch my breath. “My cousin,” I said weakly. “She’s in there.”

  The soldier regarded me impassively.

  “Please,” I begged, “I need to see her. I need to know if she’s all right.”

  The soldier only watched me warily.

  “She was going to be released today.”

  Still he said nothing. Before I realized what I was doing, I charged past the soldier toward the tent flap, not caring about the consequences. I knew with conviction that if something happened to Gutcha, I would die as well. I would want to die.

  Strong arms encircled my waist and threw me to the ground. The air rushed from my lungs, but I clambered onto my knees and frantically tried to crawl forward. A black boot planted itself in front of me, blocking my path.

  “Are you crazy?” the soldier spat angrily, and I thought perhaps I was. I looked up and saw his gun trained on me. The adrenaline drained from my body, and I collapsed on the cold ground, sobbing. “Please,” I begged, “I need to see her! Please!”

  “What’s happening here?” a voice shouted. The lieutenant was marching across the grounds toward us. The soldier’s heels came together as he snapped to attention. I remained frozen, kneeling in supplication. “I asked you a question,” the lieutenant demanded as he reached our side.

  “Sir, this, girl, insists on entering the tent.”

  I sat back on my heels, staring up at them as silent tears fell down my cheeks. The lieutenant looked from me to the soldier, then knelt at my side and offered me a hand. I looked at my palms planted in the mud and quickly scrambled to my feet without his assistance.

  “I keep telling her no one is allowed in or out,” the soldier continued, shaking his head. “Is she daft?”

  The lieutenant ignored him and turned to me. Again, I saw nothing but sympathy reflected in his eyes. I wanted more than anything to throw my arms around him and beg him to allow me to see Gutcha, but I no longer had the strength. I began to fall. The lieutenant reached out and caught me as my vision swam. “Gutcha,” I whispered as he carried me away. I wanted to protest, to break out of his arms and run back to the tent, to beat my chest and scream Gutcha’s name until I no longer had a voice, but all I could do was lie weakly in the lieutenant’s embrace.

  He placed me gently on a bench outside one of the barracks and told me not to move. I obeyed, bending forward, head in my hands. The lieutenant sat beside me in silence for a moment before saying in Yiddish, “This is for your own good.”

  I blinked up at him through my tears, once more startled by his use of the language. What was a Russian soldier who also spoke German doing speaking Yiddish?

  “Those who are healthy have to stay away from the hospital for now,” he explained. “We can’t risk an outbreak of typhus. Do you understand?”

  I understood, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything anymore.

  “I know you’re worried about your cousin,” he continued, “but she’s stronger now. I believe she will make it through.”

  “Do you mean it?” I choked. He nodded solemnly. “If I might say a prayer for her?” he asked gently, reaching for my hands. I didn’t pull away. His rough, calloused fingers closed over my thin knuckles; his skin felt like old, dry leather, but his hands were warm and comforting and familiar. “Mi sheberach,” he began, reciting the Hebrew prayer for healing that I had heard in my youth. I stared at him as he held my hands, his eyes closed, rocking slightly as he prayed.

  “May He hasten to send her from heaven a complete recovery to all her bodily parts and veins, among the other sick people of Israel, a healing of spirit and a healing of body, and let us say, Amen.”

  He opened his eyes and looked into mine. Silent understanding passed between us. I knew.

  “Amen,” I whispered.

  The lieutenant left me with a bowl of mush, but I was too anxious to eat. I paced outside the tent most of the morning, paralyzed with anxiety every time the tent flap moved aside and the army medics walked out. They wore masks over their mouths and carried stretchers between them. I feared Gutcha might be one of the lifeless bodies under the sheets, and that fear held me in place, wide eyed and trembling, watching helplessly as the bodies were disposed of behind the nearest barracks.

  The day grew warm as the sun continued to climb in a cloudless sky, but I didn’t seek out any shade. I didn’t want to leave the tent, knowing Gutcha was just on the other side. A stench of rot and sickness assaulted my nose. When I thought I might faint from heat and thirst, I saw the flap part once more. I held my breath, expecting to see more soldiers carrying away the dead. Instead, a thin hand held back the flap as an emaciated body dressed in soiled rags slipped out into the yard. I gasped, afraid my eyes were playing tricks on me. My cousin stood on unstable feet, blinking in the bright sun. “Gutcha!” I exclaimed, running to her and throwing my arms around her. The relief I felt threatened to drown me. We fell against each other, our knees buckling as we sank to the ground. I held on to her with all my remaining strength.

  “You’re alive,” I sobbed against her. “They let you out.”

  She didn’t answer but clutched me around my waist. The rest of the world faded
away. All that mattered in that moment was that we were together, and only death could separate us.

  Twenty-Seven

  We remained in the camp another week. We were fed slightly larger portions of bland rations and told to exercise in small doses. Most of the time, we slept. I was aware for the first time how sore my body was from years of starvation combined with manual labor. Sleep came easily, and after that first night, my sleep was dreamless and deep. By the end of the first week, I felt some strength, however minimal, return to my limbs. Gutcha was also growing stronger. We began walking the perimeter of the fence twice each day—once in the morning, once at night.

  I started to notice my surroundings as if seeing them for the first time. The camp was bordered in the distance by a thicket of trees. Their leaves were starting to bud in shades of white and palest pink. Beyond those, a vast mountain range rose toward the sky, the gentle rolling foothills blanketed in forest evergreens, while shadows of clouds danced over the higher jagged peaks. In the field closer to the fence, clusters of purple wildflowers and dandelions sprouted among the grass. Beauty had been so foreign to me that I allowed myself to become mesmerized by the simplest acts of nature—bees pollinating flowers, soft, feathery clouds in a cerulean blue sky. I stood at the fence one stormy afternoon with my eyes closed and my head raised to the rain. It soaked my face and drenched my hair, but I didn’t care. I stood like that until a noise startled me from my reverie. and I turned to see the lieutenant standing behind me, rain dripping from the brim of his cap.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, regarding me with a confused expression.

  I nodded. He swam in my eyesight and I wiped the moisture from my eyes. To my surprise, I tasted salt on my lips and realized I had been crying. I ducked my head so he wouldn’t notice.