Zenia was in front of me as we walked single file behind the supervisor. “Was that your job before?” I asked, pointing at the grinding machines.
“That’s what I was doing, but in the outbuilding we were working with different-shaped metal,” she said.
Other machines produced cylindrical pieces of metal, some as long as my arm. The labourers looked almost like machines themselves, except for their gaunt appearance and their exhaustion.
When we had walked the length of the factory, we followed the German supervisor through another door and into a low-ceilinged white room. It had a wooden table and attached benches at one end and an open tiled area with a long metal trough for washing at the other. A small pail of bleaching powder was hooked onto one of the taps. There was a single flush toilet off to one side.
“Put your eating utensils on the table,” she said. “You will wash your arms and hands carefully and then I will inspect you.”
We did as we were told. I used the dreaded bleaching powder sparingly, but the water was gloriously hot. Zenia washed her scrapes gingerly with the stinging powder. Her left hand was slightly swollen, but she seemed to have good control over her fingers. I hoped that the supervisor would deem her useful.
When we were finished, we lined up in a row, our hands dripping water as we stood at the edge of the tiled area.
“Hold them out,” she ordered. She inspected the palms of our hands first, then turned each one, examining our fingernails closely. “You pass … you pass … you pass …”
My hands were clean enough, so I stood to one side. Bibi was wearing a wedding ring. “This must come off,” said the woman.
The ring was loose on Bibi’s finger and I was surprised that she had managed to keep it for so long. “Madame Manager,” she said, blinking back tears, “I have never removed this ring. It is all that I have left of my husband.”
“I don’t want your ring,” said the woman. “For your own protection, there can be no metal in the room you’ll be working in. Leave the ring on the table with your eating utensils.”
“Might someone steal it, just sitting there?” asked Bibi.
“The other workers do not come into this area,” said the woman.
When she got to Zenia, she made a clicking noise with her tongue. “How do you expect to work with swollen fingers?”
Zenia opened and closed the fingers on her left hand. “My hand works just fine,” she said.
The woman shook her head in disgust. “Why did they even send you to me? Couldn’t they find anyone better than a half cripple?”
“I am one of the bomb survivors,” said Zenia. “If you ask Foreman Lichstaedler, he will tell you what a good worker I am.”
“Lichstaedler did not survive the attack,” said the supervisor. “I’ll give you a try.” Her eyes landed on Zenia’s neck. “That cross — it’s metal. Take it off.”
Zenia drew the leather strap over her neck and placed my precious cross on the table.
The woman led us through the next door into yet another white room, this one empty, save for a table stacked with clean grey smocks.
“You will notice that these smocks have no metal snaps or clips and no dangling belts. They’re washed daily and they wrap around you and tie at the back. It is important that they are worn snugly, but your labourer badges must still be visible. Do any of you have metal on your clothing?” She examined each girl’s dress, looking for snaps, zippers or metal clips, but none of us had any.
She gave us each a square of grey cloth. “You wear this over your hair.” She took out an extra one and said to Zenia, “Hold out your arm,” then expertly covered Zenia’s injury.
Where was it that we were working? We were in a factory, yet we were being prepared as if for a hospital.
The supervisor checked her pocket and pulled out a pen with a metal tip and set it on the table. “One last chance,” she said. “If you have any metal, take it off now.” She looked at us with one eyebrow arched. None of us had anything else to give her.
She ushered us into the next room.
Chapter Twelve
Making Bombs
One entire wall was draped off. On a wooden table were the metal bowls like those I had seen being made in the factory. There were long metal tubes, wires and other pieces as well, all organized neatly on that same table. Hadn’t she told us that there was supposed to be no metal in the room? All of those pieces were made of metal. A wooden barrel rested on the floor beside a second table, its wooden cover was stamped Schießpulver.
Gunpowder?
A low shelf that was nearly the length of the room was positioned in front of the curtained wall. Lined up neatly on its surface were bundles of what looked like a kind of metal straw.
What were we making in this room?
A second table held a weigh scale and an array of porcelain measuring spoons. A separate table was mounted with a mechanical device that looked like a smaller version of the automatic sledgehammer in the factory. A wide wooden rack that reached almost as high as the ceiling took up most of the wall beside the entrance.
“In this room, you will be making bombs,” said the supervisor. “The reason for no metal is because you could create a spark and that could cause an explosion.”
Making bombs? I suddenly felt weak at the knees. I had been so afraid of Allied bombs hitting us, yet our fate here was even worse. They expected us to make bombs for the Nazis, our enemies? Here I thought I had been so smart, staying alive by pretending I was older, and demonstrating my value in the hopes of getting a good job. Marika was the luckiest. At least she had died innocent.
My eyes locked onto the metal components arranged on the table. They had looked so harmless in the factory down below. But now as I looked at them, I could see how they all fitted together like the pattern pieces of a dress.
The woman walked over to the table of metal parts and, with both hands, positioned one of the cylindrical pieces so it stood upright. “This is the body of the bomb.” She turned it so we could see the hollow inside. “You will seal the bottom with this —” she held up a different metal part “ — then fill the hollow part with Kordit.” She set the cylindrical piece back down on the table and walked over to the array of straw-like bundles. “You must be very careful when you insert this metal straw. It is an explosive.”
The woman’s mouth formed the words and I tried to pay attention to her demonstration, but I was so horrified that the room swirled. How could she ask us to do this? Didn’t she know that we all were hoping and praying that the Allies would win? If Hitler won, even if we somehow managed to survive, the rest of our lives would be as slaves. If the Allies conquered Hitler, then they could fight Stalin for us and we might live. How could they force us to make these weapons?
I took gulping breaths to keep from fainting as she explained what we had to do. I looked over at Zenia. Her face was ashen. Natalia’s eyes were wide and her jaw was slack. We were all thinking the same thing.
“Each of you was chosen for your deft fingers,” said the supervisor. “And in case you’re thinking of sabotaging these bombs, don’t bother. You’re being watched.”
She walked over to the drape and pulled it open. A man in a white smock sat at a wooden table. He waved to her, then looked back down at the papers he had been working on. Behind him was a giant wall clock, showing that it was 6:45 a.m.
“That is thick laminated glass,” she said, tapping the partition with her fingernail. “And the rest of the factory is separated from you by several rooms. If you have an explosion, the only people to die will be yourselves and this is the only room that will be damaged.”
The woman stayed all morning, supervising us as we learned how to assemble the bombs. My job was to precisely measure out the exact amount of powdered explosive needed for the nose of each bomb — those bowl-like pieces of metal. Too much could cause an immediate explosion and too little would make the bomb unstable. Bibi delicately inserted the long wire-like fuse, mak
ing sure that not a single grain of explosive came in contact with it. Zenia inserted the long straw-like Kordit into the body of the bomb and Kataryna tightened all the components together with a special metal-free hand tool. It was a delicate procedure. There were bits of explosive dust in the air. One spark and we would all be finished.
The worst job fell to Mary. She was selected to operate the hammering machine. Unlike the automatic one we had seen in the factory, this machine had a hand lever. Once all of the components were assembled into a bomb, all of us would help her mount each one onto the front plate of her machine. These bombs weighed more than I did and they were smooth and cold and hard to grip. It was terrifying for us to carry them. I would look into each of my friends’ eyes and try not to breathe as we gingerly moved each bomb from the assembly table to Mary’s machine. Once the bomb was in place, Mary would lower the hammer slowly, gently increasing the pressure until the various edges and ridges snapped into place. To keep the bomb cool while she did this, the outside of it was washed with a milky substance that stayed liquid even though it was colder than ice.
Natalia’s task was to keep that liquid flowing. It wasn’t as precise a job as some of the others, but it was very uncomfortable, as she had to hold the icy container with her bare hands. We were indoors, yet her fingers looked frostbitten.
The supervisor watched us like an eagle all morning, making sure that all of us could handle our jobs with accuracy and speed. When the clock in the room showed noon, she said, “Finish what you are doing, then follow me.”
She led us back out to the white room and we removed our smocks. “You don’t eat your meal with the other factory workers,” she said as we followed her out the next door. “You will eat in this room at the table, but first you must wash off the explosive powder.”
For the second time that day, we scrubbed with the dreaded bleaching powder. As she was inspecting our hands, a man came in, carrying two sloshing pails, one large and one small. The woman left the room for her own lunch. We lined up and he ladled us each a bowl of our usual turnip and water soup from the larger pail, then filled our drinking tins with something hot that he called coffee. When it was Natalia’s turn, he served her from the smaller pail. I looked longingly at the potatoes floating in her Polish soup but I tried to put it out of my mind. Letting her eat more in front of us was a torture for her as well.
“Will you look at that,” said the man, tilting the larger bucket for us to see. “There’s still some Russian soup left.”
My heart soared. “Sir,” I said, “perhaps you could give us each a small bit more soup and then you wouldn’t have such a heavy load to carry back down to the Kantine.”
“I could never do that,” he said. “If I were caught giving extra food to Ostarbeiters, I would be punished.”
He picked up the pail and carried it over to our washing area. He poured that precious soup into the toilet and flushed. “There,” he said. “Now I don’t have to carry any of it back.”
I felt like pummelling him with my fists. How cruel could a person be, to throw out food in front of starving people? And who would have known if he had given us the soup instead? We certainly would not have told anyone. I didn’t want him to see how much his action affected me, so I kept my face emotionless until he stepped out the door. As soon as he was gone, I lay my head down on my arms and wept.
The supervisor didn’t come back in the afternoon, but the man behind the partition stood at the glass and watched our every movement, writing things down in a notebook from time to time.
It scared me to think of how many bombs we were assembling. As each one was finished, we would stop what we were doing and carry it like a baby to the wooden rack by the door. By the end of the day, the rack was full. How many people would be killed because of our work? It made me shudder to think of it.
The man from behind the glass met us in the outer room when the whistle blew, to watch us wash away any stray flecks of gunpowder. I was thankful — and also a bit surprised — to see that Bibi’s wedding ring was where she had left it, and so was my crucifix.
We were subdued on the train ride back to the work camp. I could hear the incessant whizz-boom of the Americans bombing, and it was so close to us that the rail car shook. Who made the bombs in Britain and America? Surely they had no slaves? But whoever was doing it must have been feeling as bad as we were.
One good thing about making bombs is that we six were able to wash in an uncrowded bathroom before getting on the train. That meant that we didn’t have to wait in line to use the wash house at the camp. When I got off the train, Juli was there, an anxious look in her eyes. She fell in step beside me and walked me back to Barracks 7. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to realize that she had something to tell me.
Juli followed me in and sat beside me on my bunk. She had never done that before. I could see her eyes taking in the room with curiosity. “This is just like my own barracks,” she said, then her eyes locked onto mine. “What job do they have you doing?”
“Making bombs.”
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Where is that?”
“In the same complex as that bombed metalworks factory. Our room is in a separate area.”
“Oh, Lida. How awful.”
“It’s my punishment for being good with my hands.”
Juli looked at her lap. Tears splattered down her cheeks.
“It could be worse …”
“It’s not that,” said Juli, looking at me with tear-filled eyes. “It’s Luka,” she sobbed. “He is gone.”
Is that what my dream had meant? This I could not take. Anything but Luka dying. I took her by the shoulders. “But I saw him with my own eyes yesterday. He was healthy.”
She looked at me then, her eyes shining with tears. “You don’t understand,” she said. “He didn’t die. He has somehow disappeared.”
“Escaped?”
Juli nodded. “The medical staff is in a frenzy. They’ve marked him as dead to save face, but I know he didn’t die.”
I didn’t want to ask her exactly how she knew that. And it didn’t really matter. He had escaped! My heart soared. The fact of his escape was the best news I had heard in a long time.
“Do you think he will make it?” I asked.
“Hard to say. A farmer might take him in.”
I wrapped my arms around Juli and hugged her tight. “Thank you, Juli! You have given me hope.”
Zenia, Natalia and Kataryna came into the barracks while Juli was there. When I told them the good news, Zenia said, “I wonder if we could escape.”
“And go where?” asked Juli.
None of us had an answer.
After she left we were all wrapped in our own thoughts. How long could I bear to make bombs? The idea that escape might be possible gave me something positive to think about.
Chapter Thirteen
Like Rats
All night I listened to Allied bombers blast the countryside. As sirens shrilled, I prayed that Luka would be safe. When I finally got to sleep I dreamed that bombs were everywhere. They lined up for soup in the Kantine with me and they lay down in the bunk beside me. There were so many bombs in the air that the sky looked grey. I dreamed of Larissa, her arms holding a bomb like it was a baby. I woke up weeping.
When we got to our work area the next day, our wooden rack of bombs had been emptied. I figured that removing them must be a job for someone on the night shift. I watched my own hands measure out explosives and carefully fill the nose of each bomb, making sure there wasn’t a grain too much gunpowder or too little, acutely aware of that man behind the glass. It was almost as if those hands didn’t belong to me.
The third day was the same as the first and the second, but the monotony of building bombs did not relieve the terror. Each night I tossed and turned, wondering about who would be dead because of me.
I didn’t think it would ever happen, but after a few weeks we all somehow did get used to making bombs. And we breathed eas
ier as time passed and our building was not hit. The aerial camouflage seemed to be working.
We six did not talk about our work at lunchtime or on the train ride back. We looked forward to our moments of privacy, like those few minutes in our barracks while the others were washing up. Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon or on Sunday we were able to gather together as well, but during those times Natalia was gone, working for hire. But since she would come back with tidbits of information as well as food for us, it became a Sunday night ritual for the six of us to gather together inside the wash house just before curfew.
On the last Sunday in October, Natalia looked especially pleased with herself as she stepped into the wash house. She sat down on the edge of the trough and we gathered around her in anticipation.
“You will never believe what I managed to get this time,” she said, her eyes shining. She reached into an inconspicuous pocket in the depths of her threadbare dress, pulled out a small flat package and folded back the paper. Brown sugar!
Curling the paper into a cone, she said, “Hold out your hand.”
She shook out a small pyramid of brown sugar on my palm. I licked it up, revelling in the burst of sweetness. When was the last time I had eaten anything so good? Not in the years of Soviet rule, and certainly not since the Nazis had come.
All at once I remembered my last bit of sweetness. That Nazi woman dressed in brown who gave Larissa and me candies in exchange for information …
I swallowed down the sugar that coated my tongue, but the memory hung there. Had I not taken those candies, maybe Larissa and I would still be safe. And my own grandmother — was she dead because of me? My eyes filled with tears. I blinked hard, trying to erase the disturbing images. I looked over to Zenia. She held her hand in front of her face, palm up.
“This reminds me of the gunpowder we use in the bombs,” she said.
Kataryna had licked every last speck of sugar from her own palm. She stared at Zenia’s grains.
“This … this brown sugar is the wrong texture … and it’s not dark enough,” she said. “I think the dirt outside this wash house looks more like the gunpowder …”
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