by Heather Munn
We walked, and the dust whipped around us; dust and sand on my skin, my eyes stinging and watering. We walked, and in the distance I started to see it.
The camp.
A wide low shape between the hills, gray and red and tangled lines. A few taller shapes rising up from it here and there like trees. We walked, and I saw the trees were watchtowers. We walked, and the long low tangle became a camp, a huge, sprawling grid of long gray, red-roofed barracks, row on row on row; blocks of them, with dusty roads between, each block fenced in with matted barbed wire. And around it all an outer fence, tall, barbed, impassable. A high gate. Behind it, two or three buildings that weren’t barracks. And people moving, there in front of them. Guards.
After another minute I started to see the other people.
Small dark shapes against the gray barrack walls, against the pale dust and gravel on the ground. People standing, walking, sitting on the ground. Standing in line. Hundreds of small figures, moving here and there. Like an anthill. I can’t help it, that’s what it looked like. What the camp made them look like. I stopped for a moment, swallowing. Paquerette gave me a searching look. I started walking again.
I saw something move in one of the towers. I saw the small silhouette of a man up there, and the shape of his rifle against the sky. A chill went down my spine.
I looked at the people moving between their barracks. At the tangled fence that kept them in. I looked up at the man looking down on them with a gun. I felt a pulling deep in my guts, a sick feeling I’d never felt in my life.
The flatness of those long buildings filled the horizon as we got closer; they were all there was, they were the world. I could see the people in the nearest blocks clearly now, their clothes and skin pale with dust. Straight ahead, I could see the buildings at the entrance, and guards standing behind the gate, men in khaki uniforms with rifles. I swallowed again. Paquerette stopped and pulled her handkerchief off her mouth, so I took mine off too; then she turned to me quickly and took my wrist in her hand.
“You do exactly as I say while we’re in here, you hear? Don’t speak to a guard except to answer a question. Be very polite. And quiet. Understand?” Her eyes were steel again now.
I tried to speak, but no words came out. I nodded. Paquerette gave me one nod, and began to walk again.
We were very close to the gate now. Paquerette’s back grew straighter with every step, her black skirt swishing around her calves as her walk turned to a stride, her head held high.
One guard stood right behind the gate, his rifle held against his chest. He looked at us. His eyes were red and watering. “Authorization papers,” he snapped.
Paquerette handed them to him without a word. He looked through them, and gave a sharp nod, stepped back, and swung the high gate open just wide enough for us to pass. I looked up at the nearest guard tower. The guard up there was looking at me. A cold whisper ran down my spine. Paquerette was striding in already, through that narrow opening, into that place ringed with barbed wire. That place that should not exist.
I followed her, and tried to keep my knees from trembling.
THE GUARD shut the gate behind us.
Square gray buildings; gravel underfoot. A sign on the building we were headed for: poste de commande. A guard walking past; a woman in a dusty nurse’s uniform; a young woman in a faded dress with ragged cuffs, staring at us with wide, dust-reddened eyes, a green card held before her in one hand like a shield. Paquerette motioned her to go in the door before us, but she shook her head.
Inside, a clerk at a metal desk checked our cartes d’identité, issued us green cards like the one the woman had. Passes. Ours said Entire camp; others on his desk said, Block F, Block J. As we walked out the door we heard the young woman speak to the clerk, her voice uncertain, a note of pleading.
I followed Paquerette down the dusty road between the blocks of barracks. An automobile came the other way, kicking up dust in our faces. Between barracks in the block to my left I caught a glimpse of a black-haired woman stirring a small cookfire, two small children by her side; she lifted her head and I caught alert, suspicious eyes, Gypsy features. In the block to my right they were standing in line, women and children and teenagers—no men—all with tin cups or bowls gripped tightly in their hands. Most of the kids had no shoes; their clothes were stiff with grime, the color of dust. At the head of the line was a building with what looked like a serving window.
I heard a yell. Two skinny boys shot out from between the barracks, the first one coming so fast he ran up against the barbed wire. I saw a barb sink right into him and he didn’t make a sound. He took a big bite of the chunk of bread he was clutching, and then the other boy was on him, silent as well; a flurry of movement, and then the first boy’s face was bleeding, and the other had the bread. He stuffed it all in his mouth, gave us a glance with wide angry eyes, and was gone between the barracks.
The first boy stood up, wiped the blood off his face with his sleeve, and walked away.
They both looked about nine years old.
I realized I was trembling.
Paquerette kept walking.
WE PRESENTED our passes at the guardhouse of Block J. Almost before we were through the gate an ash-blonde woman in a blue dress came out of the next building over, her eyes growing eager when she saw us.
“Marylise!” And then she and Paquerette were embracing, giving each other the bise on both cheeks, hard, four times. “Marylise. How are you?” Paquerette gave her a long, searching look, as if she really wanted to know.
“I’m holding up,” said Marylise. “Some stories to tell you, certainly.” What looked like a flash of anger in her eyes. “But the children first.”
“Yes,” said Paquerette. We followed Marylise into her building: a bare concrete floor, a wooden table in the center, benches around the table and around the walls. A doorway with a curtain in it hid what might be her bedroom. She stepped into a tiny kitchen and brought us glasses of water. I drank mine in two long gulps, sweet and cool against my dusty throat.
“How’s Zvi?” Paquerette said.
“Worse. But he’s released. Can you take him?”
“Of course.” Paquerette spread her hand out toward me, as if I was proof. Marylise glanced at me. I sat up straighter. Paquerette hesitated. “Just him?”
Marylise nodded. “The doctor wouldn’t sign off on her. I don’t know what these people are thinking, Paquerette.” She shook her head, the anger growing in her blue eyes again. “The doctors, the nurses, they act as if they’re not treating people. I put diapers on the babies in the infirmary and within two days they were all naked again and no one knew why. The nurses stole them. There’s no other explanation.”
Paquerette looked at her for a moment. “You’re braver than me, staying here,” she said quietly. “So who do you have for us today?”
I SAT and watched quietly while Marylise and Paquerette worked over several sheaves of forms, signing some, exchanging others, consulting. Paquerette asked about someone named Léon and Marylise sighed and shook her head. “All that’s left is the commandant‘s signature, and he’s got the form but his secretary made it very clear that if I ask one more time I won’t get anything at all. I hoped you could take him today, but …” She shrugged helplessly.
They went back to their forms for a minute and then Marylise stood up and went outside. “Back in five minutes.” I heard her calling to someone out there, saying to go get Kurt and Hania Steinhaus and Eva Grosch. Paquerette turned to me. “Feeling all right?”
I nodded.
“Think you can handle a baby? He’s very sick. He’ll likely be rather passive, but he’ll need to be handled gently.”
I nodded. It didn’t sound too hard.
Marylise came back with a tall, thin woman who wore a skirt made of patches—faded red, faded green, faded pink—and had red, watering eyes. She held a baby with skinny arms and a swollen belly like Grigory used to have, and eyes half-lidded like a cat’s, looking at not
hing. He was eerily still in her arms; it made my skin crawl in a way I didn’t understand. She coughed, the rough, useless cough of someone whose chest is blocked up but who can’t get anything out. Her eyes fastened on Paquerette. “Mademoiselle,” she said, her accent so thick I could barely understand her. “You will take my Zvi?”
“Yes, Madame,” said Paquerette, looking into her eyes. “My helper and I. He will be very well cared for where we’re taking him. I can promise you that.”
The woman coughed again. “I thank you,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She turned to me. “I thank you also, Mademoiselle.”
My throat tightened at being called Mademoiselle by this woman. I could hardly look into her red grateful eyes. “You’re … welcome. Madame. We’ll take good care of him.”
Marylise gestured to the bench by the table. “So, Madame, there is the form to sign …”
I sat on a bench against the wall, watching. A thin girl my age with limp, tangled brown hair came in and stood in the doorway, looking around, her eyes wide. Paquerette and Marylise had their heads together. The girl looked at me, kind of desperately.
“Are you …” I groped. “Are you Eva?”
She brightened. “Yes, Mademoiselle.”
The pit of my stomach dropped out.
I’d called her tu. I mean she was my age. And she’d called me … called me …
When one person’s called vous and the other’s called tu, it’s because they’re an adult and a kid. Always. Because if not, it means one person matters and the other one doesn’t. And it never happens. Never. We don’t have lords and serfs anymore. We don’t have slaves.
Until now, apparently.
“Don’t call me that!”
She pulled back, her eyes afraid. “I … I am sorry … Ma—”
“Magali.” My voice sounded strange. “I’m Magali. I’m not a Mademoiselle. I’m not anything special!” My voice was raw. I was shaking again.
Eva stood looking at me, motionless for a second. Her watering eyes made tear-tracks down her dusty cheeks. The sleeves of her dust-colored blouse were rolled up around her thin wrists; the collar was ragged.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I mean … I mean please call me Magali.”
She looked at me, her face very serious. I felt horribly self-conscious. My year-old blue blouse looked new compared to hers, there was flesh on my bones. You’re not special? her eyes said. I couldn’t tell.
She finally opened her mouth. “It’s okay,” she said very quietly. And then, “You help Mademoiselle Paquerette?” Calling me tu. I relaxed.
“Yes.” I offered her my cheek for the bise. She only hesitated a moment before putting her dusty cheek against mine.
KURT AND Hania came—a skinny guy my age and his sister, who was pale and sweating and walked slowly. Kurt said she was sick but the block nurse had told him she wasn’t contagious. There was a quick debate. They had decided they agreed, and Paquerette had gone back to talking about some kind of food distribution Marylise was doing for the kids, when a woman walked in—thin like a refugee but breathless and not at all hesitant.
“Marylise,” she said, “he signed it. Just now.”
“Léon?”
“Yes.” She took a breath. “And there’s a transport coming in. If you want a ride, I’d say—”
Paquerette and Marylise looked at each other for about one second and sprang into motion.
“Magali, change of plans. I’ll take Zvi, you’ll have another baby. If his mother chooses to send him on such short notice. Marylise? The parental release?”
Marylise, wildly scribbling on some form, paused to hand Paquerette a paper. Paquerette turned back to me. “They’re in this block—I’ll take you there and leave you with her and she will have five minutes to decide. This paper here is what she’s got to sign if so. Do not lose it. I’ll need to go to another block and get our other kids. You’ll meet me at the main gate—show the block gate guard your pass and this form. Do not lose it.” Her eyes bored into mine and I nodded jerkily. I could feel my heart speeding up.
“All right.” She beckoned me to follow and strode out the door. The sunlight was blinding, and the dust hit my face again. I blinked. She led me through the block, past the dark doors of barracks, past red-eyed women standing and talking in the narrow shade of a building, children sitting in the dust. I could feel people’s eyes on me.
Paquerette stepped into a barrack, and I followed her.
It was dark, and it stank. Sweat and urine and things I couldn’t recognize and didn’t want to. The windows were slits—wooden shutters just barely opened, no glass—making little islands of light among the shadows, among the bedrolls and piles of ragged belongings, the people sitting or lying on the ground. Here the corner of a dirty blanket was lit up, and there a little girl’s feet in broken sandals. A child was crying, and it echoed harshly against the bare walls. Paquerette picked her way between the people. Heads turned.
“Suzanne,” I heard someone whisper. “Suzanne. Must be for you.”
A young woman stood up from her bedroll, a sleeping baby in her arms. A long brown braid lay like a rope over her shoulder. “Madame Blocher,” said Paquerette, and gave her the bise. “We’ve just learned the release forms for your son are complete. If you will sign for him now, we can take him to Tanieux today. Only, our transport leaves within ten minutes. This is my assistant Magali; if you choose to send him today, she will take charge of him during the trip, under my supervision. You can give his papers to her. I am sorry to hurry such a thing, but I must go.” She looked at me. “You have five minutes. Meet me at the gate. It’s Madame Blocher’s choice whether you bring the baby with you or not.”
And then she turned and walked out of the barrack.
I stood there, feeling all the eyes on me, trying not to shake, trying to see the expression of the woman’s face, in the gloom. She hadn’t moved.
“The … the paper?” she said, and reached out a hand.
I held it out to her. She took it and crouched down to sign it on the floor, while I stood awkwardly above her. When she stood my eyes had adjusted a little more; she was looking me over.
“You will care for him on the journey?” Vous again.
“Yes, Madame.”
“And have you seen this place? This place where they take care of babies?”
“Oh yes. Yes. I help them feed the babies and so does my friend. It’s … they’re very good people, Madame, they treat them as if they were their own, they’ll take good care of—of—”
“His name is Léon,” she whispered. I looked at him. Her arms were tight around him. He nuzzled against her in his sleep. I felt a pricking behind my eyes and a tightening in my throat. Her baby. She was about to give me her baby.
If she could.
She lifted her head. “Mademoiselle?”
“Yes?” I whispered. Mademoiselle. They kept calling me Mademoiselle …
“You will take good care of my Léon?”
“I promise you.” I meant it from the bottom of me, from that place in my guts where the pulling feeling was beginning again.
She bent her face down and kissed him on the forehead, and whispered to him. I didn’t hear what she said. When she lifted her face it was streaming with tears.
Then she handed him to me.
For a moment we looked at each other, me clutching her baby, and neither of us spoke. Then in a flash she was crouching on her bedroll, stuffing things into a ragged pillowcase. Rags, a bottle, a little box of something. She hesitated, then reached into her pocket, and slipped a small flat thing into the bag. It looked like a folded photograph. My guts turned over inside me. A photograph. To remember her by.
She stood up and gave me the bundle. There was an urgent light now in her eyes. “You must go, now. You must not miss your ride. Here are his papers. I am glad you can take him. I am so glad. Babies … babies don’t live, here.” She looked at him in my arms and I saw a faint shimmer of tears beginning
again. “Go,” she whispered. “Go.”
I went.
Chapter 5
Not Glorious
I STEPPED out of the barrack and blinked in the blinding sun and the dust, and the baby in my arms screwed up his little face and began to cry. I turned my body to shade him—too late. My heart was beating hard. I’d made him cry already—she could hear me—I’m sorry—I had five minutes to get to the gate. Paquerette was waiting. I walked away fast and jerkily, trying not to see the women staring at me, trying not to look like I was stealing someone’s child. The pillowcase bag banged against my legs. Sudden panic stabbed through me, and I checked through my own bag for the papers—the two releases and my pass—yes. I gasped with relief.
I was alone here. No one knew me. No one to say, Oh, Magali, you’re so forgetful, bring it next time.
I approached the block guard, my heart hammering. I handed him the releases and my pass, trying to stand straight like Paquerette, feeling the weakness in my knees. He opened the gate. Out, out to the wide, straight road between the blocks, to the far glimpse of freedom beyond the barbed wire—freedom, that wide, scrubby wasteland with its long low hills. I walked fast along the dusty road, crooning under my breath to Léon, then just trying to catch my breath. There was some kind of crowd ahead at the entrance. The gate was open, and people were streaming in. Armed guards were herding them.
Beyond the fence, a small group of kids stood apart, in a little huddle around a tall woman. Paquerette standing at the mouth of the lion’s den, waiting for me.
I almost broke into a run. But there were guard towers behind me, and men in them with guns.
The guard was closing the gate. Someone was shouting.
“Stand still where you are until your name is called!”
The new internees had been herded to the right of the poste de commande; they stood holding their bundles, looking around with scared, tired, wary eyes. Welcome to … Oh, I didn’t want to think about it. What makes people do this? What? Beyond the gate stood two trucks with high wooden sides. A transport. That was what she’d meant.