by Anna Patrick
When the doctor left the room, I confronted her.
‘You were glad when my baby died?’
‘Yes.’ Her manner was not the least bit ashamed or sympathetic.
‘But why?’ Her attitude seemed so strange.
‘We don’t need children like that in Hitler’s Germany.’ She almost spat out the words ‘children like that.’
‘How dare you? She was my daughter, and she was beautiful and I loved her as much as any of our other children and so did my husband. She was special from the moment she came into this world to the moment she left.’
The nurse snorted.
‘Special? Yes, she was special and there is only one thing to do with special babies, special children and special adults and that’s get rid of them the way Hitler commands us to.’ And with that she drew her hand across her throat.
I felt sick and a terrible thought struck me.
‘Is that what you did to Lisle? Murder her?’
She laughed, can you believe it, laughed and her face took on that triumphant look again.
‘Well, did you?’
She hesitated a moment, her eyes narrowed, and then she tossed her head back and said:
‘She had heart problems, Mrs Bauer, just like the doctor told you.’
And with that she walked out of the room.
I had to sit down. What did she mean ‘The way Hitler commands us to’?
When did we start killing disabled people?
Papa drove me straight to my own doctor who’s known me from a child. I trust him and he explained the Hippocratic Oath and said the doctors at the hospital would have done everything they could for Lisle which reassured me.
Then I spoke to the Pastor but he kept talking about God’s mysterious ways and how one day we would be reunited with Lisle in heaven. When I tried to pin him down about Hitler’s policies he kept looking away and quoting the Bible. In the end I was glad to get away.
Mama wrote to Albrecht to let him know what happened but I warned her not to say anything about Lisle’s condition. This time, he responded straightaway and wrote a lovely letter sympathising with my loss and promising to help.
***
Dear Diary,
We’ll be leaving soon and I shall have to hide you away. Writing all this down has done me so much good. There is so much that is wrong with all our lives, but there is nothing I can do about it. Somehow, I have to keep going, living my two lives, bringing up the children as best I can, and hoping, hoping that all this madness ends soon.
15
Time dragged in Cell 14 as surely as it had in Marta’s brief solitary confinement, but without the psychological damage, the desolation and despair. Sometimes she felt alone, and she was sure the same was true of all the prisoners, but this stemmed from their individual circumstances, their stories, which they could only share up to a point and then had to deal with in their own way.
As the days passed, the friendship between Marta and Danuta deepened. They made a strange pair physically: Danuta tall and blond; Marta short and dark. The other prisoners called them Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
‘Don’t you mind?’ said Danuta, when they heard the nicknames.
‘Not at all. At least I’m not the donkey. Besides you’re the one tilting at windmills.’
‘If only it was windmills.’
Marta squeezed her hand. Danuta had told of her arrest for distributing underground leaflets and the interrogations which followed when they had beaten her repeatedly. Although by nature a friendly, outgoing individual, the experience had marked her soul as much as her body and there were long episodes when her grey, almond-shaped eyes darkened and glazed over and nobody could reach her.
The day the parcels came was the highlight of Marta’s imprisonment. She smiled at the excitement the other women showed like children at Christmas or at a party. Almost as soon as the parcels came through the door, they rushed forward, searched for their names on the packets and carried off their prize.
‘Aren’t you going to get yours?’
‘I have a parcel?’ She whooped and picked up the remaining packet.
The handwriting was Ludek’s; nobody else she knew used the Greek alpha for the letter A. She held the parcel and stared at her name; then hugged it to herself and danced around the room.
Helena watched and hissed, ‘Stupid cow.’
Marta heard but nothing dampened her elation. All that mattered was that he was safe.
Inside she found food, including an onion, which she threw in the air and caught with a squeal; there were cigarettes, matches, a pencil and one blank sheet of paper lining the bottom of the cardboard box. Neatly folded was a pretty scarf in vibrant colours which she recognised as one of Wanda’s she had always admired. She could not have been more thrilled with the humble contents of her little parcel than Aladdin opening his cave of treasures.
She had half-hoped to find a letter inside, but that was being silly; Ludek would risk nothing personal which might lead them to him. Yet how she longed to read something from him: words of encouragement, words of courage, words of love. She lit a cigarette and stared at the beautiful scarf, absorbing its colours and thanking both Wanda and Ludek.
After the initial excitement died down, the women offered to exchange cigarettes for food and vice versa. One of Zofia’s friends admired the scarf and asked if Marta would swap it for a small jar of blueberry jam.
‘The colours would give Zofia so much pleasure.’
Marta understood. Captivity deprived the women of pretty things and vibrant colours; in the greyness of prison life a scarf like this could boost their mood.
‘Please don’t think I’m being selfish, but I need that scarf for my next interrogation.’
The woman looked puzzled.
‘Oh dear, it’s a long story but I’ll happily lend the scarf to Zofia in the meantime.’
She knelt next to the sick woman.
‘Your friend offered to swap her jam for this scarf as a present for you. Unfortunately, the scarf is the one I described in my interrogation. I don’t suppose it’ll make any difference, but I’d like to have it with me. Until they send for me again, please enjoy its colours.’
Zofia smiled and thanked her quietly, taking the scarf and laying it across her body, where it delighted everyone who passed by.
The very next morning guards escorted Zofia to hospital and Marta, retrieving the scarf, saw it as a talisman for all of them. That night the prisoners gathered to pray for Zofia’s recovery and an air of hopeful expectation pervaded the cell.
Marta’s turn for interrogation came the next morning. She winked at Danuta and sauntered out the room with her chin up; this time she had something concrete to show Inspector Bauer, instead of all the lies and dead people she kept summoning up, like a conjuror trying to win over a sceptical audience. It never occurred to her that she would be endangering Wanda and possibly Ludek as well. At Pomorska Street she headed up to his office, but the guard pulled her away and marched her to the interrogation room, her legs growing more feeble by the step.
Assistant Inspector Friedman walked in alone and her stomach turned to lead. She looked all around her as he sat down and crossed his arms, spreading his legs out wide. Where was Inspector Bauer? He had no paperwork and stared at her with ill-concealed contempt; no, it was worse than that; it was hatred, all-consuming, merciless. She smelt it as surely as a rotten egg suffocating her throat.
‘Sit down. You make me sick standing there.
‘Tell me once again about your work for the resistance. And don’t bother with any of your stupid lies.’
She couldn’t catch her breath and stuttered her first words. The crack of his knuckles made her flinch. Any display of what he would term arrogance would send him over the edge. She lowered her voice and repeated her story slowly, avoiding eye contac
t.
As he towered over her, he screamed into her ear:
‘LIAR. LIAR. LIAR.’
Instinctively she cowered from the noise and knew she’d made a mistake. Questions shot around her brain like a bagatelle ball. Why had she shown weakness? Would she survive the interrogation? Where did that pain come from? Had he burst her eardrum?
Now he laid into her slapping, punching, karate chopping, until both she and the chair went flying. Rolled into a foetal position, she covered her head. He kicked her and picked up the chair to beat her. His fury seemed to increase with every blow.
Then he flung the chair away and grabbed her by the hair raising her up from the ground and thrusting her head against the wall with a sickening thud. And now a smouldering anger rose inside her and she glared at him through narrowed eyes, even as every fibre of her body ached and her brain throbbed.
‘Would your mother be proud of you now?’
‘My mother? My mother’s a whore like you, pleasuring a man while my father fights for us at the front.’
His face shrivelled into a gargoyle of hatred.
‘Only her German blood stays my hand… for the moment. But you, you’re a filthy whore, a disgusting Slav prostitute, with nothing, nothing at all to save you.’
Envenomed with propaganda, he shouted and screamed obscenities at her and thrust his forearm against her throat, choking her; he punched her repeatedly in the stomach, his face contorted with rage. Then, in a change of mood that was as quick as it was unexpected, he brought his face close to hers and whispered.
‘Mark my words, bitch, your time will come. When we’ve killed off every Jew in Europe, then we’ll come for you, you and every other worthless Pole.’
He spat in her face and dropped her to the ground. Marta wiped away the spit and swallowed hard to keep the nausea from reaching her mouth, but despite her efforts she vomited again and again, shaking uncontrollably.
‘Stand up.’
He spoke in a normal tone of voice, his anger apparently spent, but wary of him she edged herself upright until she was leaning against the wall. He seemed to wait for something from her and she didn’t know what it was. Then the words came to her.
‘What a fool I was. A man I care nothing for duped me and now I’ve lost my freedom and maybe even my life.’
‘Ha. Well, we don’t expect any intelligent thinking from Poles. Not now, not ever.’
He took several deep breaths, savouring his victory over her.
‘Guard… take her back to Montelupich.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Marta was turning when Friedman grabbed her elbow, spun her round and punched her in the face with such force she hit the edge of the open door before blacking out.
She had no recollection of the journey back to prison and did not regain consciousness until the early evening. The women were kindness itself. One prisoner who always complained of cold hands placed them on her throbbing forehead and her swollen eyes; Danuta held her hand and spoke soothingly to her; one woman, who was a nurse, checked her over.
At mealtime she didn’t want to eat, but swallowed a few sips of the brown liquid and dunked her bread to soften it. When evening roll call came, they tried to persuade her to stay lying down, but Marta didn’t want to cause trouble and thought only Zofia had earned that privilege. She stood and stared at the floor, glad the inspection passed quickly.
She lay back down on her mattress and closed her eyes, tears of pain and humiliation seeping from them. There were no bones broken, but she felt broken inside; her spirit crushed; her self-respect battered with every blow remembered. To beat people senseless, people who had no means of defending themselves, seemed at that moment more reprehensible than killing them outright.
‘And yet you survive.’
‘And yet we survive.’
The remembered exchange brought her a modicum of comfort and helped her rebuild, however falteringly, her sense of self, her belief in her dignity as a human being.
Her head still throbbed the next morning when the guard called her out for interrogation. The other prisoners gave her sympathetic looks and encouraging words.
‘We will pray for you,’ said Danuta, eyes full of concern.
‘Have courage,’ said another.
Only Helena stayed silent.
Courage, yes she would need that if she had to face another beating. Yet he never sought information from her; she was never in danger of betraying Ludek and for that she thanked God. No, that wasn’t an interrogation: it was an orgy of hatred directed at her because she was Polish. Please God the war would end before they succeeded in destroying her nation.
16
Seated in his office, Inspector Bauer questioned his assistant.
‘I have a list of ten names with the initials SJ or FJ, all officers of the rank of Oberlieutenant or above. I’ve allowed for the possibility of promotion.’
‘Yes, good, that’s sound thinking.’
‘They are all based in Warsaw so we can hand the investigation over to our colleagues there, unless you want me to pursue the matter myself?’
‘No, not unless you are keen to do so. There are plenty of cases to keep us busy here and you have your examination for promotion coming up, so I expect you would prefer to remain here.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘That’s settled then. Let me know of any progress by our colleagues in Warsaw. I’m interested in getting a satisfactory outcome to this enquiry.’
Bauer smiled at Friedman, thinking he would buy the man a drink if this wild goose chase produced anything approaching a result.
‘Now, according to the diary, you interviewed Miss Paciorkowska yesterday while I was at the police conference.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Did anything come of the interview?’
‘No, Sir. I don’t believe she knows anything of interest to us.’
‘No, Friedman, again I applaud your intuition. That is very much the conclusion I have come to. It bodes well for your chances of promotion.’
There was a knock at the door.
A guard stepped into the office followed by Marta. Pain was making her take small, hesitant steps, but she held her head high and her voice was strong as she said ‘Good morning, Inspector Bauer.’
‘Good morning, Miss Paciorkowska. Please sit down.’
The state of her bruised and battered body shocked Bauer. One swollen, blackened eye was closed; the other showed multi-coloured bruising; there was a long bruise down one side of her face; her arms, as she steadied herself against his desk before sitting down, were black and blue.
‘Is this your handiwork, Friedman?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ His eyes bored into his boss and he sported a thin smile.
Bauer could not complain: this was what he had signed up to when joining the Gestapo. How his colleagues could go home to their loved ones after inflicting pain on a fellow human being was beyond him. But was he any better than them, knowing the pain was going on in a different room, a different building? If he did nothing to stop the torture, wherever it was happening, then wasn’t he as guilty as the men striking the blows or worse? After all, he too forgot its existence when he returned home.
He didn’t view himself as a monster, but as a man caught up in a pernicious world. He couldn’t influence or fight against this madness. To do so would be to endanger himself, but more importantly his precious wife and children. Did that make him a coward? No, he didn’t believe so; he had faced danger in the last war and never faltered in an attack on the enemy, not even as bullets whistled close by or his comrades fell alongside him in agony or in silent death. To fight Nazism did not strike him as bravery, but as complete foolhardiness. This was a sickness, a disease that had to run its course and the only thing its victims could do was lie low and wait for the fever to break. How happy he would
be when that day came.
‘In view of our previous conversation I need not detain you any longer, Friedman. Please continue with your other assignments.’
‘Yes, Sir. Heil Hitler.’
‘Heil Hitler.’
Prisoner and interrogator faced each other. He wanted to apologise for the beating she had undergone, but recognised how lame that would sound to his ears, let alone hers. Instead, he offered her some information to buoy her up as her wounds healed.
‘Brutality is always to be regretted, particularly now, when the Allied forces have landed in France and we face more important battles, ones which may yet finish this tiresome war.’
Marta said nothing. Did this signify the beginning of the end? She hardly dared hope for something so wonderful, so miraculous, the answer to all their prayers.
‘In the meantime we have paperwork to complete before you return to Montelupich. My secretary has prepared the following statement for your file. Read it, make any adjustments and sign it.’
Marta examined her confession; her eye troubled her and an aching head made it difficult to concentrate. She baulked at the word prostitute; it looked so much worse typed in black; the thought of signing her name to it, dishonouring her family, nauseated her.
Stop it. Have you forgotten why you are here? Have you forgotten Ludek? You have done what you needed to do to protect him. There is no dishonour in what you have done for love. She reached for the pen.
‘What happens now?’ she asked.
‘That is outside my control. The authorities will make their decision in due course.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘It’s difficult to say.’
Marta nodded slightly in acceptance of her fate.
‘Will there be any more interrogations?’
‘No, I will mark the case closed and I will keep Assistant Inspector Friedman so busy that he won’t have the energy to brush his teeth let alone raise a hand to you.’