Making Bombs For Hitler

by Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch

None of the items needed mending, as far as I could tell.

  “They’re beautiful.” I placed a fingertip on the lace.

  “Aren’t they, though?” said Inge. “My husband is fighting in France, and he sends me the most wonderful things.”

  I knew all about the Nazi soldiers and how they stole. In my hometown of Verenchanka, we had no fur coats worthy of stealing, or chiffon blouses or other high-class ladies’ items. We were poor people, but our places of worship had fine old things in them — the very same reason that soldiers had bashed down the doors to Sarah’s synagogue. I’d seen one soldier grab the ornate silver menorah that must have been over a century old. Sarah was nearly hysterical when he tossed the menorah onto the top of a wheelbarrow full of plundered antique samovars and oil paintings. When they were finished robbing the synagogue, they ransacked our blue wooden church, taking the icon of the Madonna, blackened with age. It wasn’t made of anything fancy, but our church had been built in 1798. Mama said the icon was older than the church. Even now, the memory of that awful time made my chest tight with despair. I breathed in deeply and tried to set aside my thoughts. For Inge’s benefit, I pasted on a smile. “How generous of your husband,” I said. “He must love you very much.”

  She smiled at that. “He’s always been such a good provider.”

  I picked up the blouse and examined all of the stitch work carefully. The lace was handmade. The entire blouse was in perfect condition. A faint scent of rosewater tickled my nostrils. Was that the preferred perfume of the lady who used to own this blouse?

  “What would you like me to do with this?”

  “The name,” she said, turning the blouse inside out and showing me a satin label that had been securely stitched below the piping at the nape. Delicate embroidered letters in a fancy script spelled out Mme V. Fortier. Inge’s stubby finger rested on the label. “Can you remove that and embroider my name in its place?”

  Who was Mme Fortier and how willingly had she given up this beautiful blouse to Inge’s husband? I held the label close to my face to get a good look at the stitchery. The attention to detail for the stitch work on an invisible label was astounding. If I removed these stitches, the label itself would likely be left riddled with holes. “Why don’t I remove this altogether?”

  Inge’s eyebrows raised. “Why, because that’s easiest for you? I want the label, and I want my name on it.”

  She took one of the handkerchiefs from the stack and unfolded it. The same faint scent of rosewater was released. A delicate pattern of butterflies and flowers was rendered in silken French knots. In one corner were the initials VM.

  I had no silk thread, and even if I did, I would never be able to match the colours. I would have to untie the knot work in the initials and carefully pry out the stitches one by one, making sure not to break the thread because I would have to reuse it. Was it possible? I prayed that it was.

  Inge dropped the fur coat onto my lap and I was enveloped in its warm rose-scented silkiness. How I longed to fold myself into it and fall asleep for a million years. She folded the front placket open to show me the black silk lining and the inner left pocket: the same initials were embroidered there as well, in blood-red silk thread.

  “These are mine now.” Her bottom lip jutted out like a spoiled child. “I want my initials on all of them.”

  It wouldn’t be easy to change the monograms, but from the look on Inge’s face, I knew she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I can do it, ma’am, but it will take time.”

  Her broad face broke out into a smile. “I knew you could,” she said. “My initials are IP. On the blouse, you can put Frau I. Pfizer.”

  Chapter Ten

  A New Dress

  I don’t know how I could have managed to complete my task if it hadn’t been for the electric lamp Inge brought to me, and a special magnifying glass that she borrowed from somewhere. The magnifier looked like the kind that Mr. Apramian — our town jeweller — used to use when he was doing repairs. It was like a one-lens eyeglass. With it fitted over my right eye, I could see every twist and bend in each silken knot. With painstaking care, I used two sewing needles to untangle the VF from the first handkerchief. As I feared, where the stitches had been, holes remained. When I restitched IP, I tried to incorporate the old holes as best I could.

  “Give me that,” said Inge, snatching the jewellers’ loupe from my brow. I held my breath as she examined the stitch work on my first altered handkerchief. “This is magnificent,” she declared, handing the loupe back to me. “Honestly? I didn’t think you could do that.”

  I exhaled in relief, oh so thankful that she approved. I knew that there were still some damaged fibres that showed through, but if she didn’t notice them, I wasn’t going to point them out. The rest of the handkerchiefs were easier, now that I had done one, but it still took me the entire morning to complete them.

  My head was pounding by the time the whistle blew for lunch. “Come back early if you can,” said Inge. “There is so much work for you to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. I felt like slapping her.

  I stood in line for my turnip soup and coloured water, craning my neck, looking for Juli. I found her at a table in the back, sitting with a pale-faced Zenia.

  “Luka,” I said to her urgently as soon as I sat down. “How is he?”

  Juli met my eyes and smiled. “He is going to be fine,” she said. “Once they washed away the blood, it turned out to be not such a bad wound. They stitched his leg. No broken bones.”

  I was so overwhelmed with relief that I thought I was going to cry. “Is he still in the hospital?”

  Juli put a spoonful of her meat soup in her mouth and swallowed. “They’re giving him injections to make sure he doesn’t get an infection. He should be out in a couple of days.”

  My heart sank. “Injections?”

  Juli shook her head. “Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s in one of the good rooms. They are treating him.”

  But I did worry.

  I took a spoonful of my turnip soup and swallowed down a vile lump, then turned to Zenia. Her skin was papery white and her eyes looked huge. The repair I had done on her dress was not holding up very well. One shoulder was covered by mere threads. She picked up her tin cup and sipped some of the coloured water.

  “What job do they have you doing in the kitchen?” I asked.

  “Peeling potatoes,” she said.

  My stomach grumbled at the thought of all the potatoes she must have seen. “Were you able to sneak any extra bites?

  She shook her head. “The cook was watching me like a hawk. But it’s better in the kitchen than in the factory.” She smiled.

  I smiled back at her, then caught Juli’s eye.

  “I need to see Luka.”

  Juli looked at me with alarm. “He will be out in a few days. You can see him then.”

  I stared down at my bowl of soup. Juli was right. It would be easiest to wait, but I had an ache in the pit of my stomach every time I thought about him. Until I saw with my own two eyes that he was fine, the ache would stay there.

  “Is the medical staff at lunch?”

  Juli nodded, tipping her head slightly in the direction of the far corner. “They’re mostly here now.”

  I picked up my bowl and gulped down the rest of my soup, then stood. “See you later, Juli and Zenia.” I touched my lips with my index finger and they were both silent. I could feel two pairs of eyes on my back as I walked out.

  There wasn’t much time left before lunch would be over, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by hurrying. I took my bowl, cup and spoon to Barracks 7 without washing them first, then walked with what I hoped looked like nonchalance, towards the hospital. The only person I passed along the way was the warden of one of the other barracks. She hurried past me as if I didn’t exist.

  When I got to the hospital I pushed open the door and stepped into the main hallway. The cool medicinal air enveloped me and I was struck by the eeri
e quiet. I was relieved to see that the receptionist was not there. I poked my head into the first room. Each bed was filled with a sleeping Ostarbeiter. They all looked clean and bandaged. Odd that they were all asleep at the same time. Is this what the injections were for? I was about to step back into the hallway when I heard footsteps. I hid behind the door and watched as a nurse walked into the room and took the pulse of a patient, marking something down on her clipboard as she finished. My own pulse raced and I held my breath.

  She checked on a few more patients, then walked out the door. I waited until she was in the next room, then darted out to the hallway and into the third room. Luka was there and like the others, he was fast asleep. I stood at his bedside, my heart pounding. Should I wake him or leave him alone? His face was too pale but he looked well cared for. I brushed my fingertips gently through his short black hair.

  His eyes opened. “Lida!” he whispered, clasping my wrist with a strong grip. “What are you doing here?”

  “Checking on you.”

  He smiled. “I’ll be fine.” His eyebrows knitted into a frown. “I’m glad you came. There is something I need to tell you.”

  He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around at the other hospital beds, making sure that everyone else was still asleep. He crooked his finger and I stepped in more closely.

  “If we are separated,” he whispered. “I will find you after the war.”

  I looked at him in alarm. “Do you know something?”

  “Go. You cannot get caught in here.”

  Before he could stop me, I planted a light kiss on his forehead. “I want you out of this place.”

  Luka smiled. “Me too.”

  I stepped behind the door just as the nurse walked into the room. I waited until she was busy with a patient, then slipped out. I hurried down the hallway, but when I opened the front door, Juli was waiting there.

  “Hide around the corner,” she said. “Two of the nurses are on their way.”

  I slipped around the side of the building, waited a few minutes, then scurried back to the laundry. My heart was still pounding by the time I got there, but I couldn’t stop grinning. I had seen with my own eyes that Luka was fine and I hadn’t got caught doing it.

  Altering the monogram on Inge’s fur coat was relatively easy. The black satiny material that lined the coat seemed to smoothe back into its original weave as soon as the red stitches were removed. It was like embroidering on completely fresh cloth. It took me less than an hour. I had left the blouse until last. The label was narrow and the material itself was slippery, so it was difficult to hold onto, let alone to remove stitches from. Before I started, I sketched the ornate letters onto a piece of paper so I would remember what they looked like. Inge wanted her name to be embroidered in a similar fashion. I sketched out Inge’s name in a few different styles on the paper and let Inge choose, because it was better to make mistakes on paper than on that delicate fabric.

  Inge was so pleased with my work that she took the blouse from me as soon as I was finished and put it on over top her of work smock. The blouse was tight on her and I was horrified at the thought of her ripping it to shreds and then expecting me to fix it, but what could I say?

  “You look beautiful,” is what I decided on.

  Inge grinned. She ran into her office at the back and grabbed the fur coat, slipping that over top of the blouse. She twirled around and the coat flared out, swirling in soft lushness, the scent of rosewater wisping to my nostrils.

  “You are such a divine little worker,” said Inge. “I would like to reward you.”

  She hurried back to her office. When she came back, she was no longer wearing the fur or the blouse, but in her hand was a waxed-paper package tied with a string.

  “Here,” she said. “As your reward, I saved you half my lunch.”

  My mouth filled with saliva at the thought of the delights in that package. Each day she ate two sandwiches — always thick slabs of meat between generous slices of freshly baked bread. Even through the paper, I could smell garlic, onion, caraway, beef. Against my will, my hand stretched out and caressed the paper.

  “Take it. You deserve it.”

  I held the wrapped sandwich in both of my hands. This was the most precious gift I had ever received. How I longed to tear the package open and gobble down the sandwich.

  But a sandwich would be gone in an instant. And after eating that and enjoying it, how could I go back to the turnip soup and the coloured water?

  I pulled my hand away and clutched it on my lap, willing it to be still.

  “Please, ma’am,” I said, looking into her eyes. “This is very generous of you, but what I would really like is a new dress.”

  Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “A new dress? But you get to wear a clean smock every day.” She looked down at my bare feet. “Maybe a pair of woollen socks instead?”

  How wonderful it would be to have a thick pair of socks, especially with winter approaching, but how long would they last? My feet still ached constantly, especially at night. It was tempting to say yes to the socks, but if I wore socks, how would that make Zenia feel, who was nearly naked in her ripped dress? And Ivanka and Natalia and the others in my barracks? Me wearing socks was sure to make them feel worse about their own situation.

  “My friend Zenia,” I told her. “She was injured yesterday in the bombing. But aside from that, her dress was ruined. That’s why I’d like a new dress.”

  Inge’s eyebrows rose and a look of astonishment transformed her face. “You would give a well-earned gift away to someone else?”

  I bowed my head and stared at her shoes. “Yes, ma’am, if that’s allowed.”

  Her warm hand brushed my shoulder. “You are just like my husband. He works hard for the luxury goods he acquires, but then he sends them to me.”

  She brought in a huge basket of clothing for mending and sorted through it, a look of concentration in her eyes. “I can’t give you anything too fine because it will only cause problems for you. Not this, not this. Hmm, this is too good.” She looked up at me. “Ideally, I’d like to give you a smock, but they’re not mine to give.” She continued sorting through the basket, then pulled out a flannel shirt, dark blue, with a torn sleeve. Her eyes lit up. “Stand,” she said. “Let’s see how long this is on you.”

  She held it up to my shoulders. The shirt came down practically to my ankles. But it would work for Zenia. She was taller than me.

  “Ah, this is perfect,” she said, handing it to me. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a pair of socks instead?”

  I took the precious shirt and cradled it in my arms. It felt substantial and it smelled clean. My eyes filled with tears. Inge had not beaten me or yelled at me since I had gone to work with her, but this was the first time she had treated me with real human kindness.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “This shirt is perfect.” I was so grateful that I felt like hugging her, but I thought better of it. “Your generosity is appreciated.”

  Inge smiled. “I’ve always prided myself on my generosity.”

  I kept that dark shirt beside me as I started in on the mending that had accumulated in the laundry basket. I could hardly wait until the whistle blew and I could give my gift to Zenia. She would be so surprised! The anticipation of her pleasure lifted the cloud of sadness that had hovered over me since Larissa and I had been captured by the Nazis. Most of the time I felt so powerless, and that is the worst feeling of all. But the joy of seeing Luka and being able to help Zenia made the difference between hope and despair.

  When the six o’clock whistle blew, I changed into my own rags and burst out of the laundry-house door, the shirt clutched to my chest. My face and arms smashed into something solid. I fell into the dirt, landing on my hands and knees. The shirt flew out of my grip and landed in a cloud of dust.

  In front of my face was a pair of black boots, shiny through a light veneer of dust. I looked up. It was the roll-call officer. />
  “So the little seamstress is a thief.”

  I snatched the shirt from the ground and stumbled to my feet. I stood at attention before him, acutely aware of my filthy dress.

  “Officer, I did not steal this shirt.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  He grabbed me by the ear with such force that I thought he would pull it off. He opened up the laundry-house door and hollered, “Inge, get over here.”

  Drawers closed and doors opened out back. Inge walked in to the washing room, wearing her newly personalized fur coat. She looked at me quizzically, then at the officer.

  “What is the problem, Officer Schmidt?”

  “Did you give this girl a shirt?”

  Inge put her hands on her hips and glared at the man. “I did.”

  He let go of my ear. I exhaled.

  “You shouldn’t be giving the Ostarbeiters presents, Inge.”

  “It’s an old shirt of my husband’s, too worn to be mended.”

  “You will spoil her.”

  “Have you seen what she can do?” Inge said.

  “She can sew.”

  “Saying that Lida can sew is like saying Wagner can compose a pretty tune. I’ll show you.” She slipped off the fur coat and showed him her monogram.

  I was astounded that Inge would stand up for me in this way.

  He looked at it dismissively. “It cannot be difficult to sew a few letters in place.”

  Inge’s eyes flashed with anger. She looked over to me. “Go, Lida. I shall see you tomorrow morning.”

  I stepped out and closed the door behind me, but I was curious what she was going to say to Officer Schmidt without me there. I cupped my ear against the door and got wisps of the exchange. She must have shown him my other work. I caught words like, “deft tiny hands … attention to detail … patient.” There was a pause in the conversation and I didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping, so I left.

  When I got to Barracks 7 it was empty, so I folded up the shirt and slipped it under my pillow. I went to the bathhouse and wash house, then back to the barracks. Zenia came in moments later, so exhausted that she collapsed onto her bunk with just a nod in my direction. She pulled her covers up to her chin and groaned in relief.