Swim Until You Can't See Land

by Catriona Child

  What the fuck?

  I reread the sentence.

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  My own fingernails, slightly too long, could do with a trim.

  I grip the nail of my index finger, tug on it.

  I put it between my teeth, bite down, pull, pull, pull at it, scrape the red polish. Try to imagine the force, the violence required to wrench it off completely.

  And then to keep going.

  On to the next one.

  And the next one.

  Ten fingernails.

  My eyes are drawn back to that sentence. I can’t look away. I’m ashamed at myself for the thrill I get when I read something so horrible.

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  I held her hand in the hospital. I didn’t notice anything strange about her fingernails.

  She definitely had them. I would have noticed otherwise.

  How long did it take for them to grow back? It’s painful just to cut your nails too short, down to the quick.

  To have them forcibly removed. Pulled out.

  What did they use to do it?

  I’m disgusted at myself for wanting to know more. All the gory details, more gruesome description than James L. Phillips felt was necessary to include.

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  Come on, Hannah. Move on. Away from that sentence.

  Marièle was transported by cattle train to a labour camp in Germany and had her head shaved upon arrival due to an infestation of lice. There she was reunited with Eliza Buchanan, her friend and roommate from basic training.

  ‘We were so happy to see each other but we wished it was under different circumstances. Eliza had been caught sending a sked, picked up by one of the detection vans. She looked after me, made sure I made it to roll call, got my food. She kept me alive.’

  As political prisoners, Marièle and Eliza wore red triangles on their clothing to distinguish them. The women were kept in cramped barracks and forced to work long days on meagre rations. Disease and dysentery spread quickly throughout the camp and the majority of inmates were exhausted and emaciated.

  Towards the end of the war, when the German guards realised that defeat was inevitable, they embarked upon a policy of extermination and destruction of the camp records. All prisoners well enough to walk were led out of the camp on one of the now infamous death marches.

  Marièle and Eliza were among those ordered to march. Most of the women were too weak to make it very far, and collapsed and perished at the side of the road or were shot by guards en-route.

  ‘Eliza’s death was my lowest point. To get so close to the end and still not make it… I felt like I’d failed her. She was a mother, a wife, she had so much to live for, but even with all that she couldn’t hold on. I thought what hope do I have of surviving? The guards had deserted by then, too cowardly to be found with us.’

  Marièle and the other survivors were picked up by American troops who transported them to a nearby Red Cross unit. They in turn were able to get word back to London and Marièle was transported back to the UK.

  Marièle was awarded an MBE after the war as well as the Croix de Guerre and the Médaille de la Résistance.

  ‘It was all a long time ago. I wasn’t a hero. I just did what I thought was the right thing to do.’

  That’s it?

  I flick through the book. There must be more. It’s all so formal, so matter of fact. What did she do afterwards?

  Did she fall in love?

  Did she get married, have children?

  Where’s the rest of her story?

  Fingernails ripped out, hair shaved off, death march, Eliza, home… collapses in shop? What about the missing part? The middle section?

  A happy time.

  I turn back to her photo. The head and shoulders shot of her in uniform. Unsmiling. Serious. Eliza on the opposite page. Smiling, beautiful. Before she died at the side of the road.

  MARIÈLE DOWNIE, SHORTLY BEFORE LEAVING FOR FRANCE, JANUARY 1944.

  Before…

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  I can’t believe she did all that and still nobody cares enough to come and visit her in hospital. Nobody cares enough to even notice that she’s in hospital.

  But she’s in a book. Someone knows who she is.

  James L. Phillips knows who she is.

  I thought if you were in a book, it meant you’d be remembered forever. Everyone should know about her, what she did, what she went through.

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  her fingernails forcibly removed

  Dad has my swimming medals out on display so anyone who comes to the front door can see them. My achievements. Gold, silver and bronze collecting dust. Proof that at one time in my life I could swim fast, faster than anyone else.

  Marièle’s medals were given to her because she almost died for her beliefs, almost died to help others. To help future generations, to help me, a complete stranger. So that I could have a future, so that I could swim fast.

  And where are her medals?

  Not out on display.

  If that had been me, if I’d been in her place, would I have survived?

  Gran used to call me a tough cookie. Greg said I had the mental strength in me that made the difference between two swimmers of the same ability. Turned a good swimmer into a great swimmer.

  But it’s easy to be tough when you’re the one controlling the pain. When it’s a pain barrier you know you’re going to come out on the other side of. It’s easy to be tough when you have your family with you, when you have enough food, a warm bed.

  My shoulder gave up and I fell to pieces.

  Could I have gone through what she did?

  And what is the life of a survivor? Was she haunted by what happened to her? Did she suffer from depression, flashbacks, bad dreams? I had all those from the death of a swimming career. They gave me a sports psychologist to speak to and all I’d done was hurt my shoulder and give up racing.

  What happened to her after the war?

  Just because she made it home doesn’t mean she made it.

  Marièle was transported back to the UK

  Marièle was transported back to the UK

  Her story ends there. Back to the UK. Nothing further to say. Real life, the getting on with it, just isn’t as interesting.

  22

  ONE FOOT IN front of the other. One foot in front of the other. One step, One step. One step. One step. One step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Sabine looked at her feet as she walked. Concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  She didn’t look up, didn’t want to see how far they had to go, to see the other women in front of her, struggling, dragging themselves forward. They all concentrated on the same thing. Putting one foot in front of the other.

  If anyone tries something you’re not happy with, hit him between the legs.

  That wasn’t going to work, not here.

  Sabine could still feel the sensation of the train, the ground moving underneath her. In the dark for most of the journey, the only light coming from chinks in the walls of the wagon, as trees, houses, stations, German signposts flickered past.

  She thought she was blind when they finally let her off the train. All she could see were shapes, shadows, her eyes adjusting to the light.

  ‘Out! Raus!’

  ‘Du bist mir zum kotzen, disgusting!’ A female officer shouted at them after they’d been stripped and given different clothes to p
ut on. The shoes were too small, pinched her toes and cut into the heels of her feet, while the skirt and blouse were covered in stains. They all had coloured triangles on their clothes. She’d been given a red one, sewn on the sleeve of her blouse.

  Communist?

  Resistor?

  Political prisoner?

  It didn’t really matter, they were all enemies of the Reich.

  They sat her in a seat and she let them cut off her hair, hacking at it with scissors first before taking a razor to her head, shaving right down until her scalp buzzed and tingled. She could still feel her hair on her ears, the back of her neck, even after it was gone. Swept up from the floor by a woman with a broom.

  She ran a hand across her head, felt it bristle and prickle.

  ‘Quarantäne, new arrivals to quarantine.’

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Breaking the miles down into one step at a time. There were guards on either side, forcing them to keep going, keep moving forward. To keep putting one foot in front of the other. All Sabine wanted to do was stop, collapse to the ground, to never move again.

  But no, she couldn’t. If she stopped, if she faltered, they would stop too. They’d beat her, kick her.

  Shoot her.

  Leave her lying in the ditch. As much as she wanted to lie still, she didn’t want to die. She had a stubborn streak which forced her to keep going. To stumble onwards. To. Put. One. Foot. In. Front. Of. The. Other. Foot.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  ‘Marièle, Marièle is that you?’

  Sabine ignored the woman, carried on walking.

  ‘Marièle, it is you.’

  The woman grabbed her arm, held onto her. Sabine recognised the voice but not the person speaking to her.

  ‘That’s not my name. Je suis Sabine.’

  ‘Sabine, I’m sorry,’ the woman gripped her forearms, kissed her. ‘Although it doesn’t matter what name you go by in here.’

  - .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

  Sabine flinched as the woman’s lips touched her, as the smell caught in her nose. The woman let go, took a step back. She was like the others, the ones who had been there for a while. Thin, bony. Her hair had grown back but not fully, she had bald patches all over her scalp.

  Sabine looked at the woman’s face, her eyes. She wore the same red triangle on her sleeve. The same category as Sabine.

  ‘It’s me, Eliza.’

  ‘Eliza, I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise…’

  As soon as she said the words, she regretted it. It didn’t help to draw attention to how bad Eliza looked, how much she’d changed. The ample bosom flat under a shapeless blouse, darkness shadowing her eyes

  ‘Don’t be silly, I know I’ve changed since I last saw you. You’ve obviously just arrived, you’ve still got some meat on your bones,’ Eliza patted Sabine on the bottom and smiled.

  ‘I’ve just left quarantine, I’m a bit disorientated.’

  Sabine’s mouth was waxy, she needed a drink.

  ‘Come with me.’

  Eliza took Sabine’s hand, squeezed it. Sabine winced, pulled away.

  ‘What is it?’ Eliza said, ‘Oh darling, what have they done to you? They’re cruel bastards.’

  She gripped Sabine by the wrist.

  ‘Come on, we’re roommates again.’

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Eliza stumbled and Sabine tried to hold her upright. They walked with linked arms, helped each other to keep going.

  One foot in front of the other.

  ‘Schnell, schnell.’

  Where were they being taken? Sabine doubted if she’d ever get to find out. They’d lost so many since they’d left the camp. When was that? Days? Weeks?

  Maybe this was the plan. Just keep walking them until they all eventually dropped. For all she knew, they were going round and round in circles.

  Sabine and Eliza had been deemed ‘fit to walk.’ That was a joke. Nobody was fit here. They were all marching skeletons. Simply putting one foot in front of the other in the hope of surviving.

  They were told they were being moved to another camp, but who believed a word they said? As usual the rumours hissed up and down the line of women.

  They’re taking us to be shot.

  The Russians will find us then we’ll all be raped and murdered.

  Everyone left behind is dead, they killed them all.

  Sabine was tired and disorientated. In training they’d showed her how to use the position of the sun, the moon, the stars. She couldn’t remember any of it. Couldn’t find the energy to lift her head to look up at the sky, let alone use it to work out which direction she was going in. She didn’t even know what country she was in anymore.

  Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.

  .-

  -...

  -.-.

  -..

  She ran through her memory exercises, tried to keep her brain active and alert. Tried not to think of the weeping abscess on her leg, of how weak Eliza was, of her hunger.

  .

  ..-.

  --.

  --.

  --.

  .-

  Everything she’d learnt slipped away from her, she couldn’t retain it. It took all the concentration she had to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  Madame.

  Alex.

  Madame.

  Alex.

  Madame. Alex. Madame. Alex. Madame. Alex. Madame. Alex. Madame.

  JC JD TM CA DY JC JD TM CA DY JC JD TM CA DY

  Sabine woke, sweating. Her hair stuck to her forehead. She felt Eliza next to her, squeezing her, they were both shaking. They lay side by side in the bunk, the thin blanket pulled up over their chins, damp and woolly and covered in lice. It scratched Sabine’s skin, made it break out in a rash. It didn’t keep them all that warm, but they huddled under it all the same. Sabine had an abscess on her leg and the blanket tugged at the open wound, the wool sticking to the raw skin.

  ‘Ssshhh, are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry, it was a bad dream.’

  Eliza’s hand reached up, brushed across the chain Sabine still wore around her neck.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My cross,’ Sabine answered.

  ‘How did you get that in here?’

  ‘I hid it on me when I was on the train. I was scared someone would steal it. They didn’t search me all that thoroughly.’

  ‘That training came in handy then?’

  ‘I was lucky, if you can call it luck. They’d have found it if they’d looked properly.’

  ‘They’ve given up doing things properly round here. It’s too crowded, they’ve lost control.’

  Sabine didn’t think she could bear it if she lost the cross now. She felt as if she spoke to George when she held it.

  George rather than God.

  Eliza pulled Sabine in close to her, her legs curled around Sabine’s back and bottom. Sabine felt Eliza’s bare feet, cold against her thighs. Rough skin, brittle toenails, so different from those soft feet she’d massaged back in training.

  ‘Remember that story your dad told us? About his kilt during the war?’ Sabine said.

  ‘You’ve never met my dad, darling, he died before we even met.’

  ‘Oh, of course, sorry. I’m half asleep, thinking of someone else.’

  - .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

  ‘Tell me the story.’

  ‘They wore kilts in the trenches, he would slide a fingernail up each pleat of the kilt and it would come away covered in lice.’

  ‘Oh, that’s horrible.’ Eliza whispered. Her breath was hot and sticky on the back of Sabine’s neck. It smelt musky and fetid. Neith
er of them had brushed their teeth in weeks.

  And to think she’d thought the men had smelt bad, cooped up in Alex’s hut.

  That was nothing compared to here. Hundreds of them to one tap. The water brown and putrid. Their toilet a hole in the ground, you had to wade through excrement to even get close. They were all ill. Most of them never even made it to the hole in the ground. Didn’t even try.

  Sabine’s sense of smell had adapted, her nose had got used to the stench. The odours she’d found so offensive when she first arrived. The odours that caught in the back of her throat, made her gag, made her want to step away from people, not get too close, not have them touch her. All that had changed. She was one of them now. She saw the new arrivals grimace and shy away from her.

  There was something different about lying here in the dark though, huddled in bunks together, their breath visible in the cold air. She could smell the sweet rot of Eliza’s breath when she spoke, felt it coat the back of her neck.

  - .... . / -.- .. ... ... / -... ..- .-. -. - / .- --. .- .. -. ... - / .... . .-. / -.-. --- .-.. -.. / ... -.- .. -.

  ‘I think you have a story to outdo his now.’ Eliza said.

  ‘Do you think they’re still sending our letters?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe they’ll tell them the truth now?’

  ‘I hope not. Mama couldn’t cope with another telegram. You know, I found those notes so hard to write. I ran out of things to say.’

  ‘There’s only so many times you can say you drove an officer around.’

  ‘Ssshhhhh, I’m trying to sleep here.’ The woman lying next to Sabine and Eliza spoke up.

  Did anyone actually sleep here? It wasn’t possible. Collapse with exhaustion, yes, but sleep?

  Mama would always say ‘I’m having a physical collapse,’ whenever she was tired or had a busy day.

  Un effondrement physique.

  Father would shake his head, physical collapse, good God woman, stop exaggerating. Sabine barely dozed in here. Kept awake by snoring, moans of pain, other women sobbing in the dark, the movement and creaks of the wooden bunks, the scuttling of rats. It wasn’t sleep. It was the same unconscious feeling she’d had in the cell back in Paris.

  ‘Your turn,’ Sabine whispered.

  They rolled over, Sabine put an arm over Eliza, pulled her close, heard the woman next to them tut.

  ‘Will you tell your wee boy?’ Sabine whispered in Eliza’s ear. Her lips were crusty, stuck together when she spoke. She tried to lick them but she had no saliva.