The Rabbit Girls

by Anna Ellory

  ‘I will stand in front of you both.’

  I let go of her arm as a wave channelled all thought to the baby, the baby alive, moving through my pelvis, so close to this world.

  To survive meant days or weeks only, then death from malnutrition or disease. Mothers cradling skeletal babies, no energy to suckle from an empty breast. No relief from the hunger, but never from an empty heart. The row upon row of dying babies. Block 22. The atrocities; the innocence; the anguish. Please. No, I thought.

  ‘Beg doctor to take it and raise it. It lives this way, please, sister, allow me to go to the revier to ask for you. Otherwise is death.’ Hani’s tears fell so large that they touched me in their path and I cried with her. The same question running around and around. ‘What are we going to do?’

  An almighty contraction, different from the others, came over me. So strong I cried out, not in pain, but shock. It kept coming, stronger and deeper, then a heaviness. My baby was emerging. Another low noise from me was masked as the speakers blasted out, vibrating through the block.

  The hunt had started. I vaguely heard numbers, the drum of death.

  Each number an end. The speakers woke and the rats deserted. Everyone suddenly changed from the sleep of the almost dead, to the howl of the living.

  The rhythm of the numbers, drowned out by shouts, wails and movement.

  Hani screamed.

  ‘Frieda!’ She grabbed my wrist, yanking it over. My number 72829, black on white. She screamed again and rose to join what was becoming mass panic in the block. The numbers kept coming. Guards shouting, women shrieking, like a seesaw: one then the other.

  It all seemed to happen so far away. I knew my baby was coming, it wouldn’t be long now.

  ‘They’ve called you,’ Hani said, bending nose to nose with me.

  I roared with the power of my body, my body was pushing, pushing my baby into this chaos.

  A small group of women from our block gathered. Familiar faces. The speakers stopped reeling numbers, the screams seeming distant.

  I put my hand down past my bump; hairs, soft and curled, and my opening. The sacred beautiful place that accepted the love of a good man.

  Another wave grew and I could feel the top of the head, hair, wet and hot. My baby.

  Hani was the epitome of despair. She spun circles, hands on her head.

  ‘Matka,’ Hani said, and she left the bunk. Once she left, the others grew closer. A consciousness of being a woman, when all aspects of femininity were erased, united us. Cool hands, skin to skin, a small snatch of bread shared. Words, beautiful words in the language of love, sheltered me from the horror of the hunt.

  Hushed excitement as a small figure arrived. Matka’s calm peace descended over me. She gave instructions and knelt by my side. Her hands were warm. My child would be born into these hands.

  ‘Can I look?’ she asked.

  I nodded as a contraction built, I felt hair and moved my hand so she could see.

  ‘Baby has hair – dark hair,’ she said. The words soothed me. Like its father.

  A deep fire grew. Another contraction so quick and the baby slid into Matka’s waiting hands. Matka moved under me and as I turned she placed a wet, hot, sticky, and surprisingly heavy lump under my shirt on to my bare chest.

  ‘A girl,’ she said as she placed another shirt over us both; the top of baby’s head poked out. The cloth and Matka’s warm hand around her too. Relief. She was beautiful. So small, but perfect. An overwhelming urge to lick came over me, she smelled of life, of the depths of me, warmth and blood. She squirmed on my chest, head rocking back to open her eyes up at me.

  Matka took out some scissors. I stayed the silver with my hand. No. We were one, I would not sever us anytime soon. I felt the thick, hot cord pulsing on my stomach, her heart was beating from my heart too.

  For us to be parted was to die. I knew it now. I looked up as Hani returned. I pulled her close so she sat next to me on a soggy mattress now full of birth, the water that nourished and protected my child.

  ‘Look.’

  I lifted the top of the shirt and baby opened her eyes, poked a small, pink tongue from red lips and dropped her head back down on to the swell of my breast. We both watched and absorbed her. She nuzzled to my breast and took my nipple in her mouth, placing her hand on my heart.

  The feeling of wholeness. It was there, in that moment.

  Love.

  The speakers continued to scream numbers when a Blockova from another block came in, bat in hand, and pulled a woman hiding under the mattress from the top bunk. The force reverberated through the block and the wails of fear recommenced. The protective circle of women dispersed and I watched the Blockova as she hammered blow after blow. When submission could have been achieved, she continued. One less for the showers, straight to the pile. Human life so worthless. Dragged away by her feet, leaving a trail of thick red, the only evidence she even existed.

  And watching that, I knew what to do.

  I stood and felt the cord pull, strange against my stomach. Hani inhaled, it sounded like a bullet whizzing past. Matka gave us a blessing, many women started to come closer again, touching, holding and guiding us. My body exhausted and shaky. I stumbled, but did not fall. They held Hani, embracing her in bony hands.

  I kissed the top of Hani’s head for the last time, inhaling the smell of friendship. I looked into her loving eyes. I felt her pain. My baby and I would not be separated in death, we would die as one. She would spend eternity with me, in my arms, held and adored.

  I walked past Hani and Matka, my steps slow, and shuffled my feet into clogs. Legs bare, the shirt covering us to my thighs. Following the blood trail.

  ‘Frieda,’ Hani said. All the love for me in one word. I smiled and as I turned away she started to sing. And then they all sang. A chorus of voices joined hers, the words lost in a sea of languages; a lullaby sung, as I walked us to our death.

  Tears fall down Miriam’s cheeks and drip from her nose and chin. She shakes her head and stifles a sob as she reads the final page.

  I didn’t get far. Hani came running after me, and then in front of me. The Blockova with a bat and a clipboard in her hand towered over her. She pulled up her sleeve and the Blockova made a mark on her paper and sent her forward.

  To the showers.

  In my place.

  I moved as fast as I could, but stumbled at the last and landed on my bare knees on the ice at the Blockova’s feet.

  And something strange happened. I felt another contraction, my initial thought was twins. Oh my god, there’s another. The baby was out of sight of the Blockova, but I couldn’t just have a baby in front of her and not get a response. Matka had followed me and kept a distance. She quickly lifted my dress and clamped and cut the cord as the Blockova’s back was turned. When the Blockova turned back to me and saw the blood trickling down my legs and the pool of placenta at my feet, she screamed, ‘Revier!’

  Matka collected the placenta and wrapped it up in some paper. Other women were holding me, lifting me, the baby didn’t make a sound, she lay her head on my breast.

  ‘My friend.’ I said to the Blockova, and as I said it I realised that Hani had been my only friend in the world. I couldn’t see her now through the mass of grey stripes. I kept looking, I stood in front of the Blockova waiting. Then Hani turned and I saw her for the last time.

  I understood why Bunny was silent.

  39

  MIRIAM

  She walks to the police station, her eyes tired and her heart full. She arrives at 9 a.m. and the doors are not open. She waits, stamps her feet and blows into her hands. Thinking of the letters, of Hani and of Frieda.

  An officer arrives and opens the doors from within, the air is warm and Miriam feels her fingers, cheeks and toes tingle back to life.

  ‘I’m here to talk to someone about Eva, Eva Bertrandt, I think.’

  She is shown to a plastic chair in the main waiting area and the officer leaves his desk.

&
nbsp; ‘Is she still here?’

  ‘Yes, she was kept overnight.’

  ‘Has she been arrested?’

  ‘Not that I know of. I’ve just got in, so give me a few minutes to get up to speed. Coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  She watches as the hands of the clock move and imagines Eva curled on to a bunk in a small, grey cell, cold and unspeakably alone. Trapped behind yet another wall. She feels the shiver of cold and dread wash over her, then feeling her fingers pink up, she removes her coat and waits.

  ‘So, you’re a friend of Frau Bertrandt, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you come this way, please?’ He has notes in his hand and opens them, reading as he walks.

  Miriam stands and as she follows the young officer she cannot help but speak.

  ‘I was questioned yesterday and as I was leaving Eva confessed to something that she shouldn’t have done. I think she was doing it to save me, but I didn’t really need saving. Neither of us did anything wrong.’

  ‘I see,’ he says and points to the chair in a similar room to the one she waited in yesterday, only this table is white, shiny plastic.

  ‘From what I can see here,’ he reads from his notes, ‘she was questioned and kept here overnight. She will have to give a statement if needed in due course and to be available to speak with the police as a witness to a crime. The crime against you, I believe.’

  ‘Not against Axel?’

  ‘Herr Voight seems unable to recall what happened to him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think the facts that were presented to him, including the injuries to you, prevented his story from having the impact he had hoped for,’ the officer says with disdain. ‘We also received a supporting letter from a . . .’ He consults his file. ‘A Nurse Hensher, stating that your husband has shown abusive tendencies and that the concerns about your mental health were not relevant now that you had left him.’

  ‘How did Hilda know anything about this?’

  ‘The letter came with Frau Bertrandt,’ the officer says. ‘I think it is hoped that this, although serious, will be classed as a domestic incident and no further action is needed. I would caution you, as I will do your husband, to stay away from each other.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Eva comes out into the reception area creased and small. Her face has seemingly shrunk into itself and she looks very old. Her white-blonde hair grey in the fluorescent lights.

  ‘You came for me?’

  Miriam doesn’t answer but drops her bag and coat on the seat and gives Eva a huge hug.

  ‘You came for me too,’ she says and kisses Eva’s cold cheek.

  Both women stand and cry. The police officer puts a box of tissues on the desk. They wipe their eyes and smile shyly at the other.

  ‘Can I escort you home?’

  Miriam uses the police phone to call a taxi and they travel in an overheated car which smells of leather and smoke.

  Eva rubs her hands to warm them. ‘Would you be very cross with me?’ she whispers.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I saw something in the file at the police station, I may have stolen it,’ Eva confesses quietly, moving closer to Miriam as they are rocked by the travelling car. From her sleeve she pulls out a small stash of papers. ‘I couldn’t let them sit there.’ She hands the paper to Miriam.

  ‘These are the divorce papers,’ Miriam says so loudly her voice breaks into a squeal, and she coughs.

  ‘Shhh,’ Eva says and turns the pages. ‘Look.’ She points to the place on the paper where Axel’s large signature dominates the page.

  Miriam looks at the paper and back at Eva. ‘Do you think . . . ?’ she starts, but turns to the driver instead.

  ‘Excuse me.’ She swallows and says a little louder, ‘Can we make a second stop, please?’ She gives the driver the address and the taxi turns down a narrow street, manoeuvring around the parked cars, before heading back to Neufertstraβe.

  Miriam looks up at the shopfront and pushes the bell to the flat above. Eva waits in the taxi, running on its meter.

  ‘We are closed,’ says David Abbott, wearing a thick, knit jumper and rubbing his eyes. ‘Oh, Frau Voight, is anything the matter?’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I have these’ – she hands over the papers – ‘and I didn’t want to post them.’

  ‘He signed?’ David Abbott asks, opening the fold.

  ‘He signed.’

  Back in the taxi, Miriam smiles. ‘Thank you,’ she says, although the words are not nearly enough.

  ‘I am famished,’ Eva says. ‘Shall we have a celebratory breakfast?’

  Miriam nods, unable to comprehend that Axel signed the divorce papers.

  ‘Can I stop by my home first, so I can clean up? I have something for you, but I left it at home.’

  Eva gives the driver directions to her flat. Miriam waits in the taxi on the meter, with the window down, as Eva disappears behind a red front door in a building like her own. So much has changed in such a short time. A few weeks ago the Wall was still up, she hadn’t met Eva and her father was well. However, she wouldn’t rewind time. She understands her father better, she has a friend, even Hilda stood by her in the end, and she has a chance at freedom and not through death either.

  ‘Why did you take the letters and the dress?’ she asks when Eva is back in the taxi, changed and smelling of toothpaste.

  ‘I was scared.’

  ‘Of the police?’

  ‘Well, yes, but not just that. The last letters, I didn’t want you reading them alone. I thought you might wake up and see them and start reading. I wanted to protect you, I think.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There is one more letter . . . I have translated all of them and feel I have got to know you too, in the process and . . .’ Eva stops talking as the taxi pulls to a stop at traffic lights. She says nothing more until the car has pulled away again. ‘I came back the next day to return the letters, but you weren’t there. When that man said you had been arrested, I left straightaway to see what I could do to help.’

  ‘Lionel told you I had been arrested?’

  ‘Yes, and I knew it was all my fault. I went to the doctors. I had met Hilda when the locksmith was here, so she knew me a little, and I asked for a letter, to prove you were okay, hoping it would be enough. Then I put everything back in your flat and went to the police station.’

  ‘It is enough. You saved my life, you have helped me. You are my friend. That means something to me.’

  ‘Thank you, and it means something to me too. ‘

  Eva says nothing for a while as the taxi jumps through the traffic. The Palace Gardens and the River Spree are silent, the view from the window, grey. The prospect of a different life, unbelievable.

  They pay the taxi and walk slowly up the busy streets. They cross the road along Neufertstraβe and walk a few feet. On the corner of the junction between a bike repair shop and an old Italian restaurant, stands a large, green-fronted building. It has only one small window at the front.

  ‘Here?’ Miriam asks, standing back.

  ‘Yes, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I used to come here with Mum,’ Miriam says.

  Eva holds open the door and the smell of rising dough makes Miriam’s stomach rumble.

  The café is quiet, an older couple sit drinking tea from daintily painted china cups. Pictures of Paris line the wall, with tables and chairs under them in a row along one side of the shop. The heat and the moisture have steamed up the mirror hanging on the facing wall, under which is a counter full of cakes and sandwiches.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ she asks, pointing to the lines of cake, and the waitress behind the counter poised with a pad to take their order.

  Miriam looks at what is on offer, wiping her hand in a napkin, and chooses an inconspicuous Lebkuchen, it smells of Christmas, ginger and warmth.

  Eva chooses a much larger cake with icing sugar dusting the top. They
take their plates and coffees and sit by the window.

  Miriam focuses on her plate, trying not to look around, but aware she is sitting by the window. Able to see the street.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Eva asks.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Eva takes a sip of her coffee. ‘To freedom,’ she says.

  ‘I used to come here with Mum,’ Miriam says, ignoring Eva’s toast and sipping her coffee, the bitter taste dries on her tongue.

  Eva takes a bite of her cake.

  ‘In fact, we had lunch here the last time I saw her, not that we ate anything . . .’

  And the day was a bright one. Mum had worn a black dress with a grey trim; she looked beautiful, her white hair pulled up on her head in its usual style. Both pushing their food around with their forks. Both thinking the same thing.

  ‘Why didn’t Dad come?’

  ‘You know why. We’ve missed you terribly. You live down the road and we see you so infrequently. He doesn’t want you to go any further away.’

  ‘You won’t ask me to stay?’

  ‘I can’t.’ She sighed loudly. ‘Axel is your husband, you must go with him, and it’s only a few hours on the bus, after all.’

  The silence stretched and Miriam, looking at the old spots that had gathered on the back of Mum’s hand, tried not to think of missing her, but she couldn’t think of anything else.

  ‘I miss you,’ she said, tears threatening to fall.

  ‘I’ll miss you too. Miriam, what will I do without you?’ She raised her napkin to her face and dabbed at the corner of her eyes.

  ‘Please don’t cry, Mum. You’ve been without me for years; besides, you have Dad,’ she laughed. ‘I don’t want to go.’

  Her mother took a deep breath. Pushed her food away and took Miriam by the hands.

  ‘Sometimes we must endure things in a marriage to make it work. It will all turn out okay. You will be with Axel, he loves you. You’ll have a fresh start in Wolfsburg – it’s supposed to be beautiful there, and after losing the baby, fresh air is just what you need to find some happiness again.’ She smiled.